Work Text:
When Sava lets Bez borrow one of his Aprilia shirts for media day, he doesn't give it much thought.
Bez forgot his team kit in a hurry to catch the car to Misano. It's not the first time it happens, nor will it be the last, Sava's pretty sure. Bez ran up to him just as he was leaving his motorhome, something pleading in his eyes, and the taller Italian didn't have it in him to say no. He never does, really. Especially not when it comes to the younger man.
He huffs and closes the door to his motorhome. Sava wonders what his teammate is doing right now. He wonders if he's talking with the team or maybe signing autographs for a fan. He wonders if anyone noticed that Bez is wearing the wrong shirt, the sleeves pulled a little too low, and the wind effortlessly picking up the fabric as it hangs around Bez's body.
It makes Sava go warm. He thinks he wouldn't mind letting Bez borrow his shirt every race weekend, simply bathing in the scent of his shampoo and not minding it.
(Fuck, he hopes Bez doesn't mind it.)
His phone vibrates, and he gets a message from the other Italian saying he dropped the shirt in Sava's motorhome a bit earlier, and that he was sorry about not washing it. It makes him want to laugh.
In truth, Sava doesn't care at all; he's happy to wash it for Bez. He'd like it if the younger man let him do more things for him. Sava likes providing, and the small smiles that grace Bez's face every time he does are just enough to make his heart melt.
He knows it's not wise to develop feelings for your teammate, even more so when he's a replacement, but he can't help it.
Truth to be told, Sava always had…
(He and Bez have known each other for a long time. He was never able to guess if his feelings were reciprocated. Sava is afraid, he supposes. Afraid to be proved wrong.)
It doesn't mean he'll back out of his friendship with Bez. Never. Even when the younger man acts weird at random intervals and tries to push Sava and everyone around him away.
He spots the Aprilia shirt easily enough; it was dropped in the middle of the room, hanging uselessly on one of the chairs. Bez must have been in one hell of a hurry.
He picks it up rather thoughtlessly, having no way to wash it in his motorhome. Sava meant to drop it in one of his luggage when his fingers grazed something cold on the fabric.
He freezes in his spot and looks at the black shirt with wide eyes.
Did Bez spill water on his shirt?
Sava rolls his eyes as he presses his index finger on the damp patch. Actually, knowing the smaller man, he probably spilled food on it without noticing.
He flips his hand to look at the pad of his finger.
His amused smile slips off his face, replaced with horror.
There's blood under his nail, fresh and warm like it came from a recent injury. The flat of his finger is also stained.
His heart stops in his chest.
Sava opens and closes his mouth in terror, fighting the urge to bring the digit closer to his face to make sure he isn't hallucinating.
Because there's blood on his shirt. A shirt that Bez was previously wearing. And in no small quantity either.
Bez? injured?
Did something happen that he isn’t aware of? Is this a recent development? Why is he only finding out about this right now?
It doesn't take a lot of thinking for Sava to run out of his motorhome, shirt still in hand. His head is a big loop of the words Bez and injured and need to find and is he okay.
His teammate's home is thankfully right next to him, and Sava doesn't bother knocking before opening the door, an urgency running through his veins strong enough to make him discard any kind of manners. Everyone knows the younger Italian despises his privacy being invaded, despite laughing about it like he doesn't know what they're talking about.
At this exact moment, Sava couldn't care less about how Bez would react to his presence; whether he would scream, cast him out, or curse him out. If he turns out alright, then Sava can bear the toll that will follow.
“Bez!” He shouts in panic as he makes his way inside and feels himself break all over again at the sight in front of him.
His teammate is half-standing, half-leaning on the countertop, his expression twisted in a specific grimace of pain Sava had seen a few times during the season, yet one he wasn’t able to explain at the time. The younger man is shirtless, his skin glowing with sweat, a trembling hand hovering around a red gash on his side.
“Sava—What are you doing here?” Bez asks, and Sava can almost taste the panic in his voice from how strong it is. He takes a hesitant step forward, only to stop at the small flinch wracking Bez's frame.
“Bez, you're hurt. Please let me help you,” he pleads with the younger man, who is already fervently shaking his head.
“No, no. No, you have to leave, Sava. You can't be here. Nobody was supposed to be—” his teammate's sentence is cut short by a wince. His sides are heaving, and he looks in enough pain to pass out.
Nobody was supposed to be there.
That's what Bez was going to say. Nobody knows about it except Sava, and Bez doesn't want him there.
He bites his lip hard enough to taste blood.
“Bez, I can't leave you here. I promise I won't make trouble for you, alright? Just let me help,” he begs and hopes that the smaller man will see that Sava is dying from seeing him like this. He can see that Bez is trying to act tough. He wishes that the man didn't feel the need to be strong around him; that he considered Sava safe enough to let go just once.
“No, it always ends in trouble. I just—I'll be fine! It's just a scratch,” Bez laughs nervously and angles the injury away from Sava's field of vision. He gets a small glimpse of messed-up stitches before it's truly hidden from his sight.
“You won't be fine,” Sava says, and it tastes like finality. He feels like someone just took over his body. All he wants is to run closer and take care of the man he's come to care for more than anything else in the world. “You won't be, and you know it. You've been acting weird for a while, trying to distance yourself. Don't think I haven't noticed,” he says when Bez opens his mouth to object.
Sava raises the stained shirt between them. The proof of a secret that wasn’t meant to be revealed, or so he thought. It just struck him at the moment. “But, you wouldn't have left this in my motorhome if you didn't want to be found out. You had to know I would notice, and there's no universe in which I won't come and find you, Bez. You have to know that.”
He doesn't mean to make it sound like that, but from the way Bez's eyes widen, he guesses it does.
“That's not…I didn’t think you'd notice,” the younger man mumbles, curling on himself. Sava doesn't hesitate anymore and closes the gap between them with two long steps. He engulfs Bez in a hug he hopes is as warm as Sava's feelings. So much joking and laughter between them, so much ease and peacefulness. How could Sava feel anything else but warmth?
“I'll always notice when you need help, Marco. Always,” he emphasizes and almost cheers when trembling arms circle around his body to hug back. It makes him want to cry just a bit.
“Will you let me help you?” He asks again and smiles as he feels a nod against his chest. He turns Bez around slowly, taking his time so as not to startle the younger man.
There is the gash, just under the ribs. It's rather poorly stitched together, holding itself close by a thread. It doesn't look good; there's a light trickle of blood dripping down from where one of the stitches popped out.
“What happened?” He finds himself asking softly and hopes to everything that's holy that Bez will find it in himself to trust him despite having tried to hide it for so long.
He gets no answer for a while and opts to observe the injury while Bez decides what to say.
“That's not…it's not important. It's going to heal, Sava, I swear,” and now it's Bez pleading with him, his eyes almost desperate for Sava to listen to him.
It makes him angry; it makes him want to punch something, or someone. Whoever or whatever is responsible for this. Whatever happened, Bez is unwilling to speak about it.
Sava isn't a very violent man by any means. He'd even go as far as to say that Bez is the one doing the more punching and insulting between the two of them, meaning the older man never has to meddle in much conflict.
But right now, as he presses a gauze to a wound on the left side of the man he may even dare to say he loves, he finds himself really wanting to punch something. Anything.
“It won't,” he snaps quietly. Because it won't. Sava's not an idiot.
A fool could look at this wound and tell it won't just heal like that. Bez might have been stabbed for all he knows; impaled by a foreign object. He doesn't have any other rational explanations for an injury like this.
“It won't get better, Bez. It's going to get infected.” He doesn't look at the younger man's face as he says it. He doesn't dare to.
The skin beneath his palm twitches and moves away. Sava chases it like a man desperate to fix something he doesn't understand.
“No, shut up. I can't go to the hospital, I'll get pulled from the weekend,” the smaller Italian hisses, clutching his side in pain.
Sava throws his hands in the air and tries to breathe through the crushing wave of guilt when Bez flinches at the sudden movement.
“You can't race like this!”
Bez snarls.
“It's none of your business, Sava! Do you think I want to be like this? Do you think I want to have this remind—” he cuts himself off with a choked gasp.
Sava gets to his feet in panic.
“Bez—”
“Leave it!”
He closes his mouth and watches as the younger man clumsily ties bandages around his midsection to hide the gash. Sava wants to scream something back; he wants to yell at Bez that he's being ridiculous, but he can't.
He can't, because Bez is looking at him like he might leave Sava forever if he pushes just a little more.
(He wants to know. He wants to fix this. But Bez looks so scared, and Sava is also scared, and nothing good will come out of this. He doesn't know why Bez has something resembling a stab wound on his side, or how he was even able to ride with it in the previous races, but it leaves Sava aching like never before.)
“Please, Bez,” he pleads one last time. He will never tell anyone without Bez's consent, and the younger man is aware of this. All he can do is plead and plead and plead until his teammate sees reason.
Sava only wants to take care of Bez. He doesn't want to see him hurt. Is that too much to ask?
He gets another shake of the head.
“I'm so sorry, Sava,” Bez sniffles, and tears fall down his face as he puts on a dark shirt. He looks as devastated as Sava feels. It makes him want to scream.
Tears spring at the corner of his eyes.
“I…” Sava can feel his heart breaking in his chest as Bez goes to leave the motorhome.
“Please don't worry about me. It's not the first—I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I swear I'll get it checked right after, okay?”
He can't speak.
Bez winces and walks away from him, leaving him standing in a motorhome that isn't his own.
Sava really can't do much at all.
He watches Bez win the sprint, then podium in the race. He watches the man joke around with Marc and Pecco and Valentino and Álex. He watches as nobody seems to notice the flashes of pain on the man's face. Or maybe they simply do not care.
But Sava sees them. He always has, really. He simply didn't know what they were.
When they leave Misano, Sava sends a text to Bez to make sure he got checked alright. He hasn't been able to think about much else since the weekend ended.
His text gets delivered.
(Bez never answers.)