Work Text:
The empty Honda garage echoed with faint noises as Marc sorted through items from the season. To welcome the new year, it was time to clear out the old stuff.
He got up and headed toward the storeroom, where boxes were piled high—filled with trophies, old leathers, and caps. In the corner, a dusty cardboard box caught his attention.
On it was written in marker: 2014 Season Items.
Back then, his relationship with Rossi hadn’t yet shattered. Marc hesitated for a moment, then opened the box. On top was a team hoodie from 2014, underneath were some technical documents, and then a small paper box.
According to each team’s New Year tradition, riders would write wishes or blessings for their fellow riders and place them in envelopes for each other. They would all be opened together at the start of the new season.
But that year’s box had never been opened. Back then, a team staff member had misplaced it, and everyone gradually forgot about it. Then came the incident at Sepang in 2015, which completely tore apart his relationship with Rossi.
Marc wiped the dust off the box with his fingers and gently opened the lid. Inside, letters were stacked in piles. He pulled out a black envelope with VR46 written on it in green highlighter.
Just then, there was a movement outside the door. Rossi stood at the entrance, his eyes immediately falling on the box in Marc’s hands.
“…What are you doing here?”
The young man was startled by the voice, and the VR46 letter slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. Rossi walked over.
“Oh, hi, Vale. I’m sorting through this year’s things and accidentally found this box from last year. It’s filled with last year’s letters.”
Marc found his own letter and said to Rossi, “Want to see yours?”
Rossi leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, not reaching for it. Marc didn’t press him, just placed the letter on a nearby shelf and began opening his own.
Rossi hesitated, unsure if there was any point in opening the envelope. Decades had passed since they first met. Over the years, they had gone from fan and idol to rivals, then to strangers who knew each other too well. The media loved to sensationalize their rivalry, exaggerating their relationship for clicks and views. But the truth was far more complex than the headlines—a tangled web of regret, misunderstandings, and emotional entanglements. Eventually, Rossi picked up the black envelope.
Racing against my idol is something I’ve always dreamed of. I’ve imagined this happening countless times, and I never thought it would become a reality just a few years later. I hope you achieve all you wish for in the new season, and I hope our relationship can stay just like it is now—learning from each other and progressing together.
The Italian was stunned. These brief yet sincere words seemed to bring back the image of that little boy who once held out a shirt for him to sign, eyes sparkling as he said, “I really like you.” His heart wrestled with itself. Had he misunderstood the incident all along? Had he been too harsh and biased? His expression shifted uncomfortably, though no one noticed.
Meanwhile, Marc opened his own letter.
I never imagined that boy would reach a level where he could race against me. I hope you stop getting hurt so often. I have to say, your talent far exceeds my expectations. I see great things in you.
The content of this letter was more or less what Marc had expected. During their time as teammates, he had come to know Rossi better. Rossi liked to compete with Marc over small things, then brush it off as a joke.
Marc had always left a door open for Rossi. If only Rossi would take that step, they could still be like before. But Rossi’s choice was clear—he insisted in front of the media that he and Marc were only rivals, never willing to accept or confront the conflict.
The two fell into silence for a while before Marc broke it.
“Vale, why are you here? This is Honda’s garage.” He looked up, wearing that trademark smile.
“It’s raining outside. I was too far from Yamaha, and I saw the lights were still on here,” Rossi replied.
“It’s almost a new season again. I regret what happened, and I know you can’t forgive me. I won’t force it. Give me your letter. I still have to move things soon.” Marc reached out to take the letter from Rossi’s hand.
Rossi just stood there, unmoving, watching Marc.
“Oh, right,” Marc added before turning away. “Happy New Year. I’ll head out now.”
Marc placed the envelope back in the box, covered it with the other items, and sealed the box—this container of memories from before their relationship fell apart—with tape. He took an umbrella from the shelf, picked up the cardboard box, glanced at Rossi once more, and turned to leave.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder. The umbrella and box fell to the ground as he lost his grip, and he was pushed against the wall.
“Uh, Vale? I don’t want to start the new year on a bad note with you,” Marc tried to move the Italian’s hand away.
“It’s my fault,” Rossi said, looking into Marc’s brown eyes.
“I know it’s your fault. It’s fine, I don’t mind. Can you let go now?” Marc turned his head away.
For him, this was too hard to say out loud. The pent-up emotions—the anger from back then, the wavering afterward, and now the longing he could no longer ignore—were all tangled together. He found it increasingly hard to articulate what he truly wanted, only instinctively tightening his grip.
The Spaniard winced in pain and pushed him away forcefully. “What are you—”
Before he could finish, a heavy kiss landed on his lips.
Marc froze, stunned by the move. Panicked but unable to break free, he could only accept the deep, lingering kiss. His hands rested on Rossi’s shoulders as the Italian pulled him tightly into an embrace. Warm breaths mingled between their lips, and their heartbeats echoed loudly. Only when Marc, gasping for air, tapped his back did Rossi pull back slightly, resting his forehead on Marc’s shoulder.
“I miss you,” he whispered, his voice so soft it was almost drowned out by the rain outside.
Only Marc understood that this was his way of asking to stay. Rossi never bowed his head, yet he feared losing what mattered more than anyone else. And perhaps only Marc in this world always knew how to meet him halfway.
The sound of falling rain seemed to accompany this moment of reconciliation. Marc patted his back, and they held each other for a long time, as if trying to make up for all the embraces lost the previous year due to misunderstandings.
---
At the pre-race press conference, Marc and Rossi sat together for the first time in a long while. The reporters keenly noticed that when Marc answered questions, Rossi no longer deliberately looked away but watched Marc with an almost imperceptible smile.
One reporter asked the inevitable question: “Regarding your relationship, will things be different this season?”
Rossi and Marc exchanged a glance.
Marc spoke first: “We’re both trying to move forward, whether it’s competing fiercely on the track or respecting each other off it.”
Rossi added: “There are 20 riders to beat on the track. It’s foolish to focus on just one.”
The reporter, caught off guard by this response, pushed further for drama: “But the rivalry between you two…”
“The rivalry will continue,” Marc cut in. “But only on the track.”
After the press conference, they walked down the hallway together and shared a knowing smile.
“Good luck,” Rossi said, a sincere blessing, not the usual courtesy.
“You too, Vale,” Marc replied.