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Marco didn't remember how old he was.
He'd lost count a couple of ages ago, between two stages of his life where it felt like everything around him was irrelevant.
He regretted it now. Losing count.
It was here, sitting on a bench in Valencia on a Wednesday, that it hit him.
There wasn't anyone to celebrate with, really. Pecco was somewhere with Ducati, Vale was busy, Luca had disappeared off to somewhere like he usually did, and the rest of the Academy was scattered before media day tomorrow.
It wasn’t the first time he'd spent a birthday alone; far from it. He supposed most of them had been celebrated that way.
It's just…after having company for so long, one could say Marco had gotten used to the chatter. His sudden loneliness made him think.
Thinking wasn't good for anyone involved.
Marco could probably try to approximate his age to a close number, maybe adding or shaving some years, like dusting off an old book. In the end, it didn’t matter. Marco kept on living, kept on breathing, a burning shackle branding his arm like some sort of claim that prohibited him from doing anything but moving forward.
He brushed his finger on his forearm, feeling the soft material of his hoodie.
How long ago had this happened again?
Marco couldn't remember either.
It scared him; how detached he'd become to it all. Decades he'd roamed and roamed, prisoner of someone else's will. Now? He'd settled down. He found people to surround himself with, a passion, a real life without wandering aimlessly.
Marco was happy with what he had and how he'd gotten there. In the end, did the past really matter all that much?
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Marco looked at it curiously, flipping the screen to see the number.
Ah.
“Sava,” he greeted in surprise. He hadn’t expected to get any call today. Marco didn't go around telling people his birthday.
He would have probably forgotten it too, had it not been for—
“Happy birthday, Bez!” Sava yelled from the other end of the call, cheerful in a way only he could be.
“Thank you,” he laughed with a blush, feeling himself reacting to the Italian's good humour.
Sava was strange. He'd found Marco lying in a pool of his own blood, a gun clutched in his trembling hands, and an open gash in his throat oozing red right where his main artery would be. He'd been grazed by a bullet trying to save a friend. A British soldier, or maybe Russian. He could never remember.
“How are you alive?” The man had asked him with wide eyes as he dragged Marco away from the battlefield.
“I can't die,” Marco had foolishly answered at the time, half numb from the paralyzing pain he was under. His mouth worked without his consent, cursing Italy, the Heavens, everything really. Marco was tired. He'd been tired for a while when this happened.
“Neither can I,” Sava had answered conspiratorially, like the sight of Marco's blood didn't faze him at all.
“I planned a gift for you,” The Italian told him through the phone, and Marco had half a mind to tell him that he never cared much for gifts in the first place. But he couldn’t, because it made Sava happy.
“I hope it's not an ugly sweater again,” he muttered, making the man laugh. Sava had gotten into the tradition of gifting him the ugliest sweaters Marco had ever seen in his countless years on this earth. He desperately needed the god to stop.
(He wouldn't tell the man how his heart warmed whenever Sava smiled while giving him the gifts. That was for him and him only to know.)
“It's not this time, I swear!” Sava joked before sobering up. “How is your wrist, Bez?”
“It's fine, you don't need to worry,” he murmured softly, flexing his hand on his lap.
An unfortunate consequence of that crash in Indonesia. A broken wrist, his bone cleanly snapped off in two, a hand hanging like a limp puppet. Most would find it a disturbing sight; Massimo did almost throw up when he first saw the injury.
Sava hadn’t liked it. Pros of having a minor health god as your teammate, he supposed. The Italian had a lot of tricks up his sleeve.
Unlike Marco.
What could a fallen god even do, except breathe and walk in the hope of repenting?
“Somehow, I don't believe you, Bez. You always say that you're fine, even when you're not,” Sava fussed in a worried tone, and Marco gave a small flinch. He thanked the Heavens that the other man couldn't see him right now.
Sava was…right. Unfortunately.
He simply didn't think it mattered much. Marco would always heal from wounds inflicted upon him in this realm. What use was there of worrying?
He flexed his wrist again. He couldn’t feel any pain.
“I swear,” he said, trying his best not to worry his teammate. He still remembered that night, Sava pressing soft kisses to a destroyed hip, doing his best to alleviate the pain with whatever of his powers he could carry with him with so few believers across Italy. He didn’t know how much the prayers helped, but he was still glad for them.
He appreciated it. He appreciated it more than he ever said. Marco would always heal from such injuries, yet Sava was always there trying to make it better.
It felt like being cherished. He didn't understand what exactly he had done to deserve this. Normally, Marco would say he was more undeserving than anything. He had yet to understand why the god wanted to stick around here with him when there was so much better waiting for the man.
“We should go eat tomorrow, just the two of us. Then I can give you your gift, and you can show me your wrist. Sounds good, Amore?” Sava asked eagerly, and Marco blushed at the name. It had started as a joke ages ago, and now it seemed like it had just…stuck.
It made him flustered every damn time.
“Sounds perfect,” he answered with a small smile, relishing in the feeling of the wind on his face. Tomorrow was good. He'd just…
He didn't want to spend the day alone, that's all.
Was that silly?
As Sava blew him a kiss and ended the call, Marco found himself desperately wanting to engulf the man in a hug. The air was cold here, and Sava had warm hands.
Maybe it would help him, keep him distracted from drowning in his thoughts.
But it wasn't enough, and Marco found himself realizing he'd never asked Sava how old he was. He knew the god was older than him, but it could vary from a few decades to a century. It made him curious.
It also made him wonder why Sava never asked him how old he was every year they spent together.
Maybe this was only an issue Marco was dealing with. Why would an immortal being bother counting the years passing? It made no sense whatsoever. Maybe he was becoming too human, after hanging out with so many of them. Maybe it was a result of now turning ‘twenty-seven' after lying about it.
He wished he had Rubik with him. His dog, which he had adopted and loved since then. He knew how old Rubik was.
He knew how old Pecco was, so young and mortal.
He didn't know how old Sava was, so eternal and unbothered.
It meant something to him, these stupid numbers.
(He should stop hanging around mortals.)
He scratched at his forearm with sharp nails.
“You shouldn't do this, you'll hurt yourself,” an accented voice said next to him. Marco yelped, jumping from where he was sitting and turning to look at the person now lazing beside him without a care in the world, like he hadn’t appeared out of thin air.
“Marc,” he breathed out with wide eyes, stunned.
Márquez.
Why was he here?
“That is me,” the Spaniard said with a mischievous smile, not looking at all mad at Marco for being the reason he couldn’t race this weekend.
He'd expected Marc to be livid at first. Hell, Marco had been furious at himself. He did not like being the cause of a person's pain, especially not a mortal’s. He knew about suffering enough not to wish it on anyone else.
Instead, Marc had warded off angry fans and had defended the Italian in multiple interviews. One of them had even aired yesterday.
(Marco listened to it no less than ten times.)
He didn't understand it, but he was grateful. It made his life easier to bear.
“What are you doing here?” He asked eagerly, blinking at the Ducati rider. Had the man announced he'd be attending the GP to watch? Did Marco miss the news?
“Taking some time alone before the weekend,” Marc answered with a shrug. “I am here for Álex.”
Marco nodded in understanding, and they both went back to staring at the water on the horizon.
Marc Márquez was an unexpected this season.
When he'd first joined the Academy—his appearance different to fit in and nothing to his name but a run-down bike—he'd heard a lot about Marc. Mostly from Valentino.
Valentino, who had given him a purpose after all these aimless years. He would forever be grateful for it, no matter what.
He didn't know the full history; he supposed nobody did, but the fallout spoke loudly enough on its own. Marco had hated Marc Márquez because that was what the man who had saved him did. He didn't really question it at the time.
But now? With Marc breathing next to him and after most of a season battling each other?
He didn't mind the man. Quite the opposite, actually.
(He knew better than to get attached to mortals in that way. It brought nothing but pain. Marco knew better than anyone.)
(Brown eyes looked at him.)
“It's my birthday today,” he blurted out without thinking about it, the silence choking him until his throat physically protested. Sava would accuse him of self-sabotage.
Marc turned to look at him with those bright eyes. His arm wasn't in a cast anymore. Marco was glad.
“Happy birthday,” the Spaniard said with a warm grin. The Italian wondered if it radiated heat like the sun.
“I turn twenty-seven,” he stated, unsure of who he was telling this to, who he was trying to convince. It still felt like a lie on his tongue, no matter how often he said it. So many people on social media had congratulated him with that number by now; he should be used to it.
“That's great,” the man next to him answered, seemingly having nothing more to add. He didn’t know why that bothered him, why it rang slightly false.
He scratched his arm again.
A hand caught his wrist, and he hissed in surprise.
“Did no one ever teach you not to touch it?” Marc suddenly said exasperatedly, and Marco froze.
Huh?
“Huh?” He said, his mouth gaping.
Did Marc just…
“It will start burning if you mess with it. Trust me, it is not a pleasant feeling,” the Spaniard observed as if he didn't know what he was implying by saying it.
Marco's world suddenly flipped around. He’d never considered this. Never.
Marc Márquez.
He was…what was he?
“What are you?” He asked in horror, a shiver going down his spine. Marc was meant to be a mortal. Marco was meant to distinguish between mortals and not. He was supposed to be able to do that. What the hell was this guy?
Marc, to his credit, didn't react to his apparent panic. He only stared patiently and waited for Marco to get his breathing back under control. Dumbly, he realized that the Spaniard was still holding his wrist, cradling it like it was important to him. It was so different from the constant aggression on track that it threw him out of the loop.
His heart gave a squeeze.
“What are you?” Marco asked again, settling back down to a comfortable position on the bench. He let Marc hold his wrist on his thigh.
“A bit like you,” Marc said, his eyes trailing down to his right arm.
Marco gulped. Somewhere behind that hoodie was probably a shackle similar to his.
“How old are you?” He asked because he was a dumb idiot, and his first reaction to finally finding another fallen god was to ask about his age.
Marco could hit himself, really.
“I don't know,” Marc immediately answered, his big eyes blinking owlishly. “I don't even know my birthday,” he continued with a careless shrug, and Marco's thoughts screeched to a halt.
“Wait, what?”
How was that possible?
“Is it not the 17th of February?” He wondered in shock.
Was this date just a lie then? Did Marc even have any attachment to it?
Marc shifted at that, an uneasy expression coloring his features. “It was given to me a long time ago. My original one is eh, lost,” he said awkwardly, a thumb brushing Marco's inner wrist in a reassuring manner. Although who he was trying to soothe, the Italian didn't know.
He didn't know what to make of this, either. It felt like there was more to it, and Marco could probably dig deeper into it to find out, but the expression on Marc’s face stopped him.
He looked sad. Marco didn’t want him to look sad.
“You said it would burn,” he asked, going back to that previous statement that had almost escaped him. What did Marc know? How long has he been in this realm?
Why did he choose now to reveal himself to Marco?
“Ah, yes. Over time, it keeps hurting, and it affects you, even if you cannot die,” Marc explained, but it only brought up more questions in his head.
His shackles had started to get uncomfortable, to be honest. Not enough to bother him at all, but enough for him to notice it. Marco messed with the marks a lot, too.
So, how long had Marc had them? For him to know they could hurt like this?
There was something abnormal about all of this.
Valentino would tell him that this was Márquez trying to mess with his head before the race weekend.
Marco didn't think so.
“Does it not stop if you don't mess with them?” He wondered, now a bit more wary of reaching out to touch the brand. No one had really taken the time to explain anything to him. When he'd been cast out of Heaven, it had been a quick and messy affair, not lasting more than an hour.
(Marco didn't even get to defend himself.)
He'd arrived in the mortal realm as clueless as anybody else. Like he'd just been born despite the life he’d spent there before ascending. He had never asked Sava about it, ashamed to talk about it with a gracious god, unlike him.
“Scars do not heal, Marco,” Marc said with a laugh, and the Italian looked down at his own wrist.
“Yes, they do,” he murmured and winced.
Fuck, what the hell was he doing?
“Do you ever wonder how old you are?” He asked to change the subject, afraid Marc would take offence. The man only gave him a stupidly fond look that made him blush like a teenager.
The Spaniard hummed, “Maybe, when I had nothing better to do than think. Or when I was injured. But in the end, why does it matter? I am here, no? No amount of years will change that fact,” he said with a faraway look, and Marco bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from asking another stupid and insensitive question.
Now that he thought about it, why was Marc still injured? If he were a fallen god like him…why was he still suffering from mortal injuries?
(Unless they hadn't been—)
“Why the obsession with age anyway?” Marc asked with a laugh, and the Italian released a sigh.
“Allora, maybe I am spending too much time with mortals,” he offered with a weak shrug of the shoulders. Marc gave him a baffled look.
“You—”
The Spaniard exploded in a fit of cackles.
Marco was pretty sure his blush now covered his entire body.
“What's so funny about this, asshole?!” He tried to hiss but only dissolved in a fit of giggles after seeing Marc bent in half from the force of his laughter.
The man was like a drug. Always had been.
“Ah, nothing, nothing,” Marc waved his hand, letting go of his wrist. Marco tried to tell himself he wasn't disappointed.
His wrist was cold.
“We should celebrate properly then! Like mortals!” The man suddenly declared, jumping to his feet.
Marco gaped at him.
“Don't you have better things to do than celebrate my birthday?” He asked, feeling slightly insane about all of this. Everything was going too fast, and Marco felt like a match that had been lit on fire.
(He ignored the fact that this was the most entertained he had felt in years.)
“I have a free day, and time is not something I am missing,” Marc said with a wink. Marco tried to reply, but it only came out as a squeak as the Spaniard dragged him by the arm.
He noticed how the man avoided touching his sensitive wrist. That shouldn't make him feel the way he did.
Marc, that idiot, bought him a cake with cheap candles that barely lit up. There were twelve of them instead of twenty-seven. It shouldn't mean anything to him.
But it did. Fuck, it really did.
If you'd told him yesterday that he wouldn't spend his birthday alone, but instead with Marc Márquez, sitting in a run-down park trying to light up candles with an old lighter they found on the ground, only for the wind to blow the fire away, he would've laughed.
Yet here he was, plastered to the Ducati rider’s side and huddling for warmth while eating a cake with his fingers that definitely tasted like it was past its expiration date. That was maybe the most fun he had on his birthday. That he could remember.
Marco didn't know how old he was. He'd forgotten a long time ago.
But, as he looked into the ageless eyes of the man next to him, he found out it didn't matter much in the grand scheme of things.