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Marco shouldn’t be surprised to find Pecco already in his pajamas, given the insensate hour.
So he knows, he shouldn’t really be here, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking every bit like a kid on his first day of school, unsteady and not really able to still the constant movement in his limbs. He couldn’t sleep, that’s it. And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that he knew, he knew, Pecco would be alone – with the Sepang tests getting closer and closer, with their tight schedules and deadlines and the beginning of a new season, it’s only natural he wanted to hang out a little, no?
This, or all the plethora of excuses he’s tried to craft while driving all the way to Pesaro, forty-five minutes more or less, trying to anticipate Pecco’s questions.
It’s not like he needs an excuse to see his friend, anyway. It’s only that nobody in their right mind would ring at someone’s doorbell this late just to hang out.
He briefly considers the idea of leaving. It would be brutally rude, but it would spare him the embarrassment of acting, once again, like a fucking simp. Still, you don’t simply stop loving someone just because they got married, right? It doesn’t work like it. And after a decade of dedicated yearning, Marco has probably forgotten how to un-love his best friend.
“Hi,” he says, almost sheepishly. The sole idea that Pecco could kick him out is causing him a skin rash, spreading hot and itchy all across his torso, making him shrug uncomfortably inside his bomber jacket.
“Hi. You almost gave me a heart attack with your text. I thought something horrible had happened.”
Ah, the text, right. He isn’t sure of what he’s texted Pecco, but it had to be something like are you home? I’m coming over. Open to interpretation, so to say. Pecco must have thought Rubik had died, or that Marco’s new apartment had caught fire while he was trying to make himself an egg white omelette – given his scant abilities in the kitchen, it’s something that could actually happen. He forces out a laugh, almost too cheerful, watching the indents left by the tip of his Nike shoes in the soft gravel path that zigzags through the garden. It’s chilly, and the luscious green grass is glistening with condensation that glitters around the in-ground floodlights. Pecco looks weirdly soft like this, bathed in the gentle orange light, with his hair sticking out in all directions and a shadow of dark stubble he’ll probably take care of tomorrow.
Marco remembers this very garden, before Pecco renovated the house – he probably liked it more, back then, a little bit wilder, with a tree that produced inedible apricots. Domizia had it removed, said it was just making a mess for nothing since its fruits were so bad. Sour, mostly. Too spongy or too watery other times.
(chat, is it normal to treat your best friend’s wedding anniversary like a funeral?)
“Nah, nothing happened yet. I just wanted to see you,” he shrugs, because we’re soon going to be too busy to properly hang out left unsaid. “I was thinking if you were up for a little adventure?”
He rehearsed that part, so that he could sound less cringe while impersonating an Aladdin wannabe at his friend’s doorstep. Pecco’s stare is skeptical and kind of sleepy, and he can’t resist scrubbing a rough hand over his face in that peculiar way Marco is so fond of.
“I would like to go to bed.”
Now the laugh he punches out of Marco’s perennially churning stomach is genuine, a booming thing that ricochets around the garden, forcing the corners of Pecco’s lips up as he shakes his head.
“For what? Domizia is in Milan, right? There’s no rush to be in bed.”
Pecco strokes his chin thoughtfully for a while, smirk turning slowly into a smile. Marco pretends his heart hasn’t performed three backflips in his chest at that.
“It’s Domizia, now?”
He snorts, amused.
“You prefer I called her Dudi?”
Sometimes, the way Pecco looks at him makes Marco feel like he’s been flayed alive and then rolled in a thick coat of coarse salt to maximize the agony. It’s the fondness, he supposes. Pecco’s face going all soft, mushy, as he gestures for him to come in.
(it’s not the kind of love he’s looking for, but it’s better than nothing)
“What kind of adventure am I agreeing to, if I say yes? Anything that could ruin my reputation forever?”
The doormat has three sausage dogs printed on the hard, ugly brown bristles. Marco wipes the soles of his sneakers until his calves hurt before getting in – Domizia’s realm, no doubt. There’s a bit of her in every piece of furniture, every shade in which the walls are painted. Cream-colored, insta-ready perfection. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, Marco would never judge Domizia’s design choices, but every time he comes here he’s reminded of his general ineptitude at a stable adult life – he might be unsuited for it, or still too in love with someone who could never reciprocate to actually commit to the bit. He’s also an expert at fucking up perfectly fine relationships with his immaturity and indecision - his latest ex girlfriend’s words, not his own - so, perhaps, it’s better if he doesn’t settle down yet.
Marco swallows the lump in his throat, but it keeps coming back up, floating over his stomach acid. He would hate it, if Pecco said no. He would fucking hate it. It’s got something to do with his fear of rejection – or the occasional fear that, at some point, Pecco will have to pick a side and stick to it. You can’t linger on the door forever, after all. Either you’re in, or you’re out. Too bad Marco is still struggling to understand the mechanics of it.
“It depends. Would it ruin your reputation forever to spend some time with me?”
There is no other way to put it: he simply aches to spend time with Pecco like they used to do. Before he got married is such an uncharitable thought Marco downright refuses to acknowledge it, but it’s undeniable that Pecco doesn’t have much time for anything else since he tied the knot. Just like Luca – they’re mostly around for training sessions and official occasions now, and it’s not the same as when they actually could linger, doing nothing but drinking beer and playing some videogames…it feels like a lifetime ago, ancient reminiscences of simpler times.
“Where are you taking me? I need to know what to wear, it’s cold outside.”
A part of Marco is glad Pecco hasn’t picked up the petulant edge in his voice, or maybe he’s deliberately chosen to ignore it. Either way, it’s fine, because he’s smiling with his eyes and when he does he’s just – so fucking handsome. Like a fairytale prince, or the loyal white knight of an illustrated storybook. Beautiful and good and kind. While he, on the other hand…well.
(he’s yearning, yearning, yearning)
“Layers. And bring a good jacket. It’s a surprise.”
Pecco sucks his lips in, as if he wanted to say something but decided against it at the very last second. His eyes are still amused and twinkling, though, so Marco brushes it off, blames it on Pecco’s uptight nature and somewhat rigid mental schemes. Getting dragged on an adventure in the middle of the night surely doesn’t sit well with his build-Legos-and-plan-ahead personality.
Less than fifteen minutes later, they’re on the road, the heating inside Marco’s Cupra trying to make up for the dropping temperatures outside. Pecco, reclined against the passenger seat, is still looking at him with the soft expression of a dog owner who’s getting his dog euthanized, and the sweet scent of his body shower is making Marco dizzy. It smells expensive, kinda floral without being too girlish, and it reminds him of clean bedsheets, of clothes hung out to dry in summer. Marco could get drunk on it just by flaring his nostrils a little, just by inhaling a mouthful and let it settle in his lungs like the smoke from the cigarettes he’s shoved in the pocket of his bomber jacket and didn’t light just because he wanted his car to smell like Pecco’s skin and hair for a while.
“We’re headed back towards Rimini,” Pecco says after a while, chuckling, his features sharpened by the fluorescent glow of the street lights. An otherworldly creature sitting inside Marco’s car. His heart skips a beat, and he almost misses their exit because it’s just so damn hard to focus when Pecco is like this – chill, trusting, with his disastrous hair hidden inside a beanie, wearing the most beautiful smile in the world.
“Shhht. I told you, it’s a surprise. Don’t spoil it, please?”
Pecco chuckles again, then he pretends to zip his mouth shut and raises his hands in mock surrender.
Even like this, he doesn’t stop smiling.
“So far so good?”
The piadina they’re eating isn’t by far the best Marco has ever had, but his usual spot was closed, and he had to find another place within a reasonably walking distance that was open past 2 a.m – not as easy as it sounds, given that the whole Riviera Romagnola seems to be alive only from may to september. The rest of the year, without the tourists amassing on the beaches and crowding the clubs, it feels like the whole Riviera is sleeping, put in a stand-by as it waits for the season to start again; the calm before the storm, not unlike a six months long coma. Shops close early, and in the coastal towns there’s little to do besides waiting for summer to make the streets and the beaches come alive once more.
Sitting next to him on the leveled, packed sand, Pecco nods, mindless of the oil dripping from his piadina down his wrist and into his jacket. He always chooses the most random fillings. Marco, on the other hand, is a traditionalist. This doesn’t mean he hasn’t taken a bite from Pecco’s monstrosity, contemplating the idea of sucking his oil-slick fingers too while he was at it.
In the chilly night air, Pecco’s body feels hot next to him, steady enough that Marco can lean in, their heads bumping ever so slightly. It’s comfortable even like this, with his temple pressed into Pecco’s. Even through their massive jackets, he can feel his heartbeat, soft as a hum. Countless of memories, exactly like this. The smell of salt and wet sand, overstuffed piadina, and long summer nights that seem to stretch beyond time itself – hot croissants served fresh out of the oven in the early morning, always by the same place on the highway between Rimini and Pesaro, wasted and sweaty and never-been-so-happy-before giddy. The only difference is that it’s winter now, and Pecco is a married man. If Marco hasn’t kissed him back then, well. That ship has sailed already.
“So far so good,” Pecco nods, brushing their cheeks together. Marco feels it everywhere, like a jolt of low voltage electricity traveling through each nerve ending, making the hair at the base of his nape stand and his toes curl inside his sneakers. Maybe it’s true what Cele said, that he’ll have to start to be more careful or else everyone will notice he’s always staring at Pecco with the corniest bedroom eyes known to man. “You always do it. Like it’s your default setting or something”.
Maybe it is, all things considered. Maybe his default setting is pathetic yearner. He still lowkey wants to suck Pecco’s fingers, and that says a lot about him, about how much he can long for something - someone - and never fucking move on, like he’s perpetually stuck in the mud.
He takes another bite off Pecco’s piadina, just because. Compensation. Cheek against cheek as they chew. It should feel awkward, sort of wrong, but they’re used to sharing spaces, used to doing things most people don’t do with others. Or they were, at least.
“It’s cold, but I thought…it was a nice night for stargazing, no?”
Pecco’s nose bumps into Marco’s cheekbone as he clumsily attempts to look up, to take stock of the stars above. Marco wonders if he still remembers how to find each constellation, all the names he has patiently taught him, all the names Marco has forgotten because stars aren’t his department aside from checking his daily horoscope once in a while, when his sister reminds him.
“Well, yes, the sky is clear tonight. How did you come up with this? Stargazing?”
(because it’s something you like)
“I don’t know. Got out in the garden to smoke, I saw all the stars…I mean, why not? And I knew Domi wasn’t home, so…”
Pecco chuckles, crumpling the towel and aluminum foil in which his piadina was wrapped and shoving the ball he’s made into his pocket, to throw away later. Marco’s face is turning pink and warm, and it’s got nothing to do with the temperatures, of course. It’s just this proximity, the feeling of Pecco’s skin against his own and the sensation that he could – he could risk it all, now. He could seize the opportunity, he could.
And maybe this is even his last chance to do so, who knows. But again, putting their friendship in jeopardy is out of the question; if there’s something racing bikes all his life has taught him, that would be not taking unnecessary risks when the goal is unclear or downright unreachable.
The air clots around his breath and into Pecco’s face. Pecco chuckles, rolling his shoulders.
“Ah, I see. You took pity on me because my wife is away and I must feel terribly lonely without her.”
Marco’s tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, pasty with melted squacquerone and burnt piadina crumbs. Oh, if he could fucking speak.
“More or less,” he forces out, trying to sound casual. Friendly. Friendly enough to hide his longing, at least. Too bad that it feels like someone is twisting his insides with a wrench.
Pecco shifts then, putting a more socially acceptable distance between them to stretch idly, long arms up and then behind his back, nails scraping at the hard sand in shapeless patterns. He yawns so hard his jaw pops audibly, but just like the rest of him it comes off as graceful, cute even. One of those things that would make Marco stop dead on his tracks and stare in wonder, mesmerized at how beautiful Pecco looks even when it seems like his jaw is coming off its hinges, snakelike. It’s just that Pecco is – mind-blowingly pretty doesn’t convey it fully. If there’s a way to say it, words big enough to translate his feelings into something coherent and understandable, he doesn’t know. What knows is that his breath is hitching as he stares at Pecco in the half light that comes from the promenade, wanting so bad to let his fingers run across the lines of his profile and down the perfect line of his nose that his hands hurt from it, from the effort it takes not to brush against his lips until he commits every crack and line to memory – until he can burn that very impression into his fingertips, like a tattoo.
Only now he notices that Pecco’s eyelashes are long and thick like a girl’s, casting long shadows over his high cheekbones. His mouth…Marco can comfortably say he’d wax poetics over his mouth any day. Whoever says Pecco isn’t good looking, Marco thinks, should have their vision checked. Twice.
His throat spasms as he swallows compulsively, trying not to make a fool of himself. He likes how Pecco looks with his eyes closed and his head tilted back, showing the delicious jut of his adam’s apple in an unintentional thirst trap – Marco is lured in right away, lacking any kind of dignity when it comes to Pecco. It feels almost as if he’s getting high on it, staring at his very straight, very married friend and letting his own traitorous, wayward dick fill out his boxers, slowly turning into a slightly uncomfortable bulge that strains against the zipper of his jeans.
Good thing he’s wearing jeans, tonight. If he’d gone for his favorite sweatpants, his hard on would be so easy to spot. Jeans afford him a modicum of privacy, even if all of his body is turned towards Pecco, barely resisting the urge to straddle him, fist the collar of his jacket and kiss him, with the wind whipping at their faces and the taste of warm piadina still on the tip of his tongue.
If he ignores his erection, it will eventually go away. At some point. Perhaps.
“But you’re right,” Pecco says, an eternity later. He’s cracked one eye open now, and he’s looking at Marco through the fan of his girlish eyelashes, his lips curled in a small grin. “The stars are beautiful tonight. I didn’t think they could be so visible, with these levels of light pollution…”
It’s such a Pecco thing to say. Marco laughs, incessantly endeared by his pecco-isms.
He loves him, he loves him, he loves him. He loves him, and he will never tell him.
“I heard there was a solar storm incoming. Perhaps that’s why the stars are so bright tonight?”
Pecco hums, and Marco doesn’t know whether he agrees or if can’t be bothered to correct him, to call him out on his bullshit.
“Mind if I smoke?” He asks, out of the blue. Pecco gives his back one last stretch before tucking his knees close to his chest, cocking his head slightly, like he’s in the middle of an internal debate, wondering if it’s a good idea. When he says “only if we share”, Marco exhales, relieved. At least he’ll give his hands something to do, since he can’t spend the night with them glued on Pecco. It’s either that, or going mad for good.
Out of all the boys, he’s the one who smokes more often. Mig has permanently given up on his Winston Blues when he’s discovered vaping, and Pecco usually doesn’t smoke, only indulges from time to time. Tonight, he’s indulging, apparently.
Lighting up the cigarette is, by itself, a monumental task. It’s always windy on the shore, and it takes him three attempts just to force his beaten Clipper lighter to produce a faint flame.
Pecco watches him, his expression impossible to read. Like the smile of the Mona Lisa, charming and mysterious. Not closed off, but slightly distant, slightly otherworldly. So pretty it’s almost fucking unfair.
First drag. A punch to the guts, as always, heavy smoke setting in his lungs, burning down his throat, Another drag just to be sure the cigarette’s lit, then he’s passing it to Pecco, slightly crooked from where the pack has crumpled in his pocket – he should buy a cigarette box, Franky had one when they were cool, it made him look fancy. Maybe he should ask Franky whether he still has it, and borrow it.
Pecco’s fingers are brushing his.
Pecco’s fingers are brushing his.
It’s casual, they’re just passing a cigarette, but there’s a low thrumming in his bones and, this time, he can’t pretend it isn’t there. Drag, pass, drag, then another. It’s really not that hard to deliberately force the contact, once they fall into a sync – he’s being childish, he knows, slightly defiant. Something in the back of his head is screaming it’s mine, this moment is mine, I earned it. A small act of pettiness, nothing more. It’s not like Pecco has been pried from his hands, nor stolen from him. On some days, though, Marco feels like he’s been robbed of his own personal what if, cheated at a game he didn’t know he was playing.
What if he’d been brave when it still counted something?
What if he tried harder when Domi wasn’t yet in the picture?
Pecco, always the gentleman, follows along, doesn’t pull his hand away and doesn’t remind Marco that holding hands is for faggots and pussies. He just lets Marco play with his fingers and gazes up at the stars, then down at the waves lapping the shore. Marco is under the impression that Pecco wants to say something, but then he’s shaking his head as if dispersing a thought and they don’t say anything until the cigarette is half smoked and their noses hurt from the biting cold. It’s okay, though. If they can keep touching, it’s okay.
There’s a saying that goes roughly like this, even an old rag is worth stealing to a man who’s naked, and these bits of casual intimacy are his old rag, while he’s the naked man desperate for anything.
And the best part? Pecco doesn’t know. Pecco hasn’t got a fucking clue. This, too, is okay. It’s a way to safeguard their friendship, Marco has diligently schooled himself into believing.
A way to avoid massive fuckups on his part, mostly.
(the ultimate alibi to his cowardice)
He clears his throat, the wind dispersing the smoke coming out of his nose right away.
“Do you feel ready? For Sepang, I mean.”
This wasn’t exactly the topic he wanted to discuss, but it’s better than pouring his heart out and confessing his love to Pecco – this would be a massive fuck up, one he can’t afford.
Pecco makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. His breath smells like ash and burnt tobacco, and it’s so sexy Marco almost feels dizzy with how much he wants to lick it off the insides of his mouth.
“I don’t know. You?”
Tricky question. Does he ache to get back on his bike? Yes, absolutely. But the thing with a new bike is…there are too many variables at play. Last year’s bike wasn’t that easy to adapt to, but after a little bit of dancing around its - her - weak spots, they had found their foot, culminating into a mock wedding Pecco had teased him about for weeks. This year’s bike is new, and he wants to start the season with a streak of podiums, yet he can’t fully indulge that fantasy, not when so many things could still go wrong. So, yeah, mixed feelings.
“Don’t know either. I just hope the bike isn’t shit.”
Pecco laughs. It’s not an amused laugh, more like a courtesy one, like those you make when your unfunny friend is trying too hard to crack a joke.
“What do you think?” He asks then.
Marco thinks they should be panting and whispering into each other’s mouth right now, but it’s not something he’s going to say out loud.
“About the new bike?”
“About the new bike, about the new season…”
“I think I can’t let myself hope too hard, but at the same time…you need to hope, isn’t it? You need to believe you’ll get handed a bike that will do exactly what you want it to do…” he makes a noise to which Pecco agrees with a nod. Their hands are still touching, brief and tender strokes, tiny grains of sand between Marco’s fingers.
“You can’t perform well if you constantly need to ride on the bike’s limit,” Pecco concedes after a long moment of contemplation, squinting in the wind that’s starting to pick up.
His hair is a mess now that he’s discarded his beanie. Marco finds it hard to resist the urge to sink his fingers into Pecco’s curls and tug. Would it feel soft under his digits? Or maybe it would feel crunchy, like when he puts too much curl cream in it and it cakes a little? He bites his lip in frustration. He’s still hard, and the wind has blown out what was left of their shared cigarette – he ponders whether he should light up another, but he’d hate to come off as a desperate addict in front of Pecco, of all people.
The silence that stretches between them is comfortable, familiar. Marco can think about countless nights like this, when they were younger and stupid and could pull an all-nighter after a pool party and they were both too drunk and too exhausted to speak.
(he could have kissed him, back then)
(at least he could have blamed it on the alcohol and play it cool afterwards)
(if only)
“What is it with you?” Pecco’s voice is soft, curling into the edge of a smile. It feels like they’ve been sitting on this beach forever.
“Nothing. I just missed you.”
There, he said it. For a second, Marco is sure he’s seen Pecco’s chest seizing.
He gives into his intrusive thoughts, at last. He just wants to rest his head on Pecco’s lap for a moment – he used to do it all the time, once. Fuck his impulse control. Worst that can happen now, Pecco laughs at him and he can say it was all a jest, a way to reminisce about the good old days. A jest between friends never killed anyone, right? He’s sure he’d pull it off, if Pecco asked him what he’s doing. Put on his brave face and pretend he’s not leaking in his boxers at the thought of having his nose almost pressed into his crotch.
Pecco doesn’t laugh, though. Doesn’t ask for an explanation to his sudden clinginess. He breathes and breathes, and then his fingertips are brushing against Marco’s cheekbone, featherlight. A lazy, idle pattern, from his ear to his nose, back and forth.
Something in his chest swells and expands, impossible to contain. If he had a tail, he thinks with a low chuckle, he would probably dislocate it wagging like crazy.
“Do you think we can stay like this a little longer?” He hears himself asking.
Pecco’s finger draws along the shell of his ear, slightly catching on his earring.
“Yeah, why not.”