Work Text:
They're relaxing by the calm, lapping ocean waves on the beautiful shores of Condado in San Juan—a place Valentino has always wanted to visit and where Marc had only begrudgingly agreed to tag along to because obviously nothing beat the real thing in Spain, and Marc knew that Valentino knew how he felt about it but only liked to get a rise out of Marc though Valentino swore up and down that he really did want to visit San Juan—and Marc's just finished reapplying sunscreen to Valentino's reddening face, settling back into his chair with his legs splayed out in front of him, next to Valentino who's busying himself with pretending to read yet another bestseller that Marc bets tonight's dinner on he won't finish, just like the rest, when it happens.
Valentino closes his book, finger marking his place, and slowly turns to look at Marc, like they're in a horror movie and he's just gotten the cheesy sixth sense that the dastardly killer is right behind him.
"It's happening, isn't it."
Marc gives him a cursory glance, tilting his sunglasses down so he can see better. Indeed, the salt and pepper in his husband's hair is disappearing right before his eyes, as are the sun spots that splatter his skin, subtle and inconspicuous against his summer tan to all except Marc, who's had decades to learn and commit every inch of him, in every season, to memory.
Valentino scrubs at his face, suddenly looking more and more like he should be on a bike at a Grand Prix rather than sipping piña coladas with a fifty-year-old Spanish man on the beaches of Puerto Rico.
"Yep."
"How old do you think? Or young?" Valentino grimaces, pulling at the skin that's now already way more taut than it was just a few seconds ago.
Marc hums, marveling at the rather dramatic transformation before him. "I'd put it somewhere between your first and last title." His eyes drift down to where Valentino's tattoo is, and isn't surprised to see it returning in color and sharpness as the skin tightens and the years turn back. It's the first time he's seeing it as it was meant to be seen, crisp and vibrant, not a splotchy two by two of faded ink.
Valentino fa-wumps, deflating like a balloon, folding into himself, but more in disbelief than anything else, not even protesting the entirely unhelpful non-specificity of Marc's answer. "I've never regressed more than ten years."
"Well I like it," Marc announces, and he does.
He'd spent most of their younger years hating rather than loving, and the reminder of what they could've had, looking at a younger Valentino now, who, while distressed still manages to look every bit in love just by virtue of the ever-present softness in his eyes, unguarded and uncomplicated, briefly stabs a pinprick of hurt in his chest. "This is a good thing," Marc tries again. "Now I get to be the sugar daddy."
Valentino groans, this time thwacking back against his chair with enough force that he almost knocks himself back. "Ugh, that is so not—" Marc can't stop from snickering. Valentino fixes Marc with a glare. "You know I hate when this happens."
"Only because you don't get to the pull the elderly card for a few hours."
Valentino scoffs. "You take that back, I'm not- I'm not elderly. You say that like I side eye people's seats on the bus."
"You do."
"Not because I'm old," Valentino protests, "just old-er, and kids these days are all punks."
"Aren't you always going on about your knees?" Marc quickly detracts before Valentino goes off again about manners and how the younger generation just didn't have them anymore. "Why don't you give 'em a try."
As Valentino jumps up with more vitality than Marc himself has been able to manage in years, Marc peeks at the sun just starting to set behind his husband's hopping silhouette, and he thinks it's all very picturesque.
A young Valentino, definitely somewhere in his twenties, shirtless and fit as ever, moving with a grace and agility his body has certainly forgotten, who shouldn't know Marc, not at this age, but still looks at him with hearts in his eyes… if Marc had known this—a life like this with his childhood idol would really be possible—he might've done things a little differently.
But the years grow shorter as they grow older. He tries not to think about how things could've gone instead if he hadn't let his ego get the best of him and bit back in the press, bringing a barrage of his own hand-picked Spanish media to harrass Valentino on breaks. If they hadn't made more contact on track, each one riskier than the last, the final one leaving them both injured in the hospital, out for the rest of that season. That had also been Valentino's last. If they hadn't been at each other's throats constantly, snarling and ready to tear each other down at any chance regardless of honor or dignity…
If only they had wizened up a little earlier, had seen what everyone else had known from the beginning, that they were more alike than different, more kin than strangers, if only then… maybe the Valentino before him, who hadn't yet been humiliated and humbled by a young cocky rider, hadn't yet known to hate, could've been his so much sooner.
If.
If they hadn't done all that, hadn't done their worst to each other till they were broken and bleeding, not quite friends but not quite enemies anymore either, rather, commiserators in broken spirit, then they wouldn't have rebuilt it all together either. Where they scraped each other clean and filled each other with mutual understanding and later the warmth of friendship rather than the cold grip of hate.
They wouldn't have this—Valentino prancing around before a sun setting in pinks and oranges on a random beach, anonymous, hidden in plain sight, older now, grayer, stiffer, but alive and healed, and so much more grateful for life because of how close to death they'd both come.
"Fuck," Valentino says, finally plopping down on the sandy towel laid out by Marc's feet, because he can plop now, though whether or not his young body will retain any bruises, neither of them know yet. They'll find out tomorrow, Marc more than likely waking up to the sound of Valentino groaning at his protesting joints, this time from more than just the usual aches.
"Enjoying yourself?" Marc spreads his legs, beckoning Valentino to tuck himself into the space between. Valentino does, shuffling himself up backwards until Marc's hands find themselves threading through his hair, head so full of curls now that Marc has to be careful not to pull any hair out as he works his fingers through the mass.
"I can't believe I can still do a back flip," Valentino exclaims. Marc laughs, because he'd seen the first two attempts and neither really counted as a flip, though he'd somehow managed to land his third, even if it was a little wonky.
He smacks a kiss to the top of Valentino's head, the soft curls tickling his nose. "I know, I saw. It was great. You were great." Valentino sighs, bringing his arms up to rest on Marc's open thighs, head lolling to one side to look up at Marc. Marc blinks back at those ocean blue eyes. Valentino might look younger, decades younger, but those eyes remain immune to the passage of time.
"How does it feel?" Marc's always been curious, but he's never asked. This time, the difference is too large for him to overlook.
"It's always weird, like it's my body but it's also not. I can tell my toes to move," Valentino wiggles his toes to demonstrate, "but they're not my toes. But I can still see them move so they technically have to be mine, right? Since I'm telling them to move. But they're not like old toes, you know, like they're not the toes I put socks on this morning." Valentino shrugs as best he can when his arms are still draped on Marc's thighs. "It takes some getting used to, this time especially. But I think I got it." He brings an arm up to flex his rather developed muscles in Marc's face, though Marc would never admit it. He playfully swats it away.
"Don't underestimate dad strength," Marc warns. "I'll take you down any day." He's only half-joking but he doesn't expect the blush that quickly colors Valentino's face. "What?" he asks when he can't make out Valentino's mumble.
"I said, you're not a dad."
"It's just a saying," Marc says, exasperated. "You know what I mean."
"But I'd still let you take me down." Marc gently swats at Valentino's head, moving it to the side so that his cheek rests against the bare skin of Marc's thigh.
"Are you flirting with me right now?"
"So what if I am? A man can't flirt with his husband?" Now it's Marc's turn to flush. He struggled with his Valentino plenty, but hearing it from a young Valentino was something else. It reminds him of the early days, years before he'd learned what an asshole Valentino was on track, back when he'd still jerked off to his magazine cutouts in the shower, dreaming of those brown curls between his fingers and that tall, slender figure pressed against his.
Fuck. The smirk on Valentino's face is not new, but without wrinkles and without the time-accurate ego behind it, Marc positively melts. Remembering his own age, he suddenly feels like a weirdo. He scrunches his nose. "This isn't, weird? Like, this is okay?"
Valentino twists his body to face Marc. "It's always going to be weird but I'm still me, even if I look different." He flicks Marc's forehead. "Don't you think I'm hot?"
Marc blanches. "That's what I mean—isn't it weird that I'm middle-aged and you're- you're young, in your twenties?"
"I'm not in my twenties," Valentino corrects. "I just look like I am. I'm still older than you, sorry to disappoint. And it's just for a few hours, I'll be back to normal tomorrow."
"But people are going to think things. Today. Now." He'd only been joking about being a sugar daddy before—now that it's sinking in, he's not so sure he's up to the task.
Unconsciously, his hand slips away from where it'd been playing in Valentino's hair. He knows that they're in a large public area, with thousands of people who probably care way more about the volleyball or football game they're playing rather than a random couple sitting under one of the hundreds of beach umbrellas set up on the sand, but he can't help but wonder.
"Mmph," Valentino says, smushing his face further into Marc's thigh. Marc wants to shift away, but he doesn't. "Now you know how I feel all the time."
"You know that's not the same."
"Feels the same."
"Okay."
Marc lets it go because truly, the sky is too pretty to argue about something so asinine, not when their love is matured and sure, when the world is so large and they are so small.
They sit together in silence as the waves lap against the sand in sparkling reds and oranges again and again, in an endless ebb and flow. The ocean is on fire and they watch it burn until the bright ball of light far far away in the sky disappears behind the watery horizon and the chill turns on in the air.
The waves don't stop and Marc feels like this could be forever.
When they return to their en suite later that night, after a delicious dinner at a restaurant Valentino had handpicked and reserved ages ago, sat in a darkened booth in a private corner to Marc's delight, and hours of suggestive foot-knocking and shoulder-nudging, they are finally alone, together, without prying eyes. Valentino was almost recognized, when they were getting in a cab to head back to the hotel, the fan gasping at the spitting image of his temporary youthful visual. Valentino played it cool, joking, "I get that a lot," before beckoning Marc into the car and shutting the door, telling the driver to hurry in broken Spanish that made Marc laugh.
But now that they're alone, gently buzzed from the well-selected wine by their maître d', Marc feels bolder, more attuned to his desires, and much likelier to act on them. Valentino, of course, where matters of lust are concerned, is, as always, a willing participant.
The sex is fantastic—Marc had forgotten that it was possible for a person to bend in all those places, Valentino eager to show him all the ways his younger body could move, and for how long, but also everything he hadn't forgotten, like the spot on Marc's neck that instantly results in a moan and the positions he liked best—and they fall back into bed after their shower that really was just another pretense for Valentino to show Marc what else he could do, but with water and when wet, tired and blissed out and most importantly, clean.
Before Marc settles on his side of the bed, he leans over Valentino and presses a close-lipped kiss hard against his lips, breathing him in. It's a post-sex ritual meant to be a silent promise. To be together even after the lust has passed, to choose each other, still, at the end of every day.
It's I love you but also I choose you, because they'd made that choice long ago, even before their vows. They hadn't known, but they'd made this choice since the beginning, that their lives would forever revolve around the other, intertwined for a lifetime, in sickness and in health.
It's been more than a few hours but the lack of wrinkles on Valentino's face still throws Marc off kilter. He brushes his fingers against his skin, like he can rub away the makeup covering the fine lines but of course nothing comes away and his skin remains just as smooth and taut, if a little red from Marc's ministrations.
"What are you thinking?" Valentino whispers, his breath fluttering against Marc's lips.
"I love you," Marc says, like a reflex, and it is—it's honest and it's true and he'll never tire of saying it.
Valentino reaches an arm up to wrap around Marc's neck and Marc follows obediently, gently letting his full weight cover Valentino's. It's a familiar position but it feels different against this young, harder body. Still, Marc knows that this is Valentino, his Valentino.
He slots his legs against Valentino's longer ones, glad that at least that has not changed. He could be older, but he didn't know how he would handle it if he were taller too. In a way, he thinks he'll always want to look up at Valentino. It wouldn't feel right otherwise, not when he'd already spent his whole life this way, podiums notwithstanding.
Marc mouths at Valentino's earring, catching it between his teeth, pulling it lightly. Valentino barely suppresses a moan and seems ready to go for another round, hands already roaming up Marc's chest again and Marc entertains him, grinding slow and dirty against him, not really aroused himself but enjoying his reaction nonetheless, until he finally pushes off with a laugh.
"You are so going to regret this tomorrow," Marc says once he's safely out of Valentino's reach.
Valentino groans at the reminder, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I'm already paying for that back flip, but it was fun while it lasted."
"Definitely more fun than that time you regressed two years on your birthday and insisted on getting hammered because you were turning sixty again."
"I remember that," Valentino says with a wistful smile. "Kind of."
"It only took three drinks," Marc reminds him. "Three, and we had to drag you home because you didn't want to leave."
"Best birthday ever," Valentino jokes.
"Today was better. For both of us, I think."
"Obviously. After all that sex, it better be the best day of your life," Valentino says, evidently proud of all that work he'd put in.
"Yeah yeah, let's see who gets the last laugh tomorrow."
Valentino sobers up at that and starts to stretch his limbs in bed. After some time, he asks the silent room, and a drowsing Marc, "Will you miss me?"
"Why would I miss you?" Marc asks, half-awake and confused. "You're not planning on leaving are you?"
"No, but today was so nice, I carried all your shopping and I even gave you the empty seat on the bus. Which I would do on any day," he clarifies, "but it was just so much easier. Plus, the sex."
"Baby, I'll love you in any age, in any time. And I like the sex we have just fine. Do you not?"
"I do. But," Valentino wrings his hands. "Are you sure? Sometimes I wish I was younger," he quietly confesses. "So I have a few more years with you, can spend more time with you, doing the things we love." The concern etches plain in his features, casting its own shadow separate from the lamp's. It doesn't belong there, this worry about the future on a face yet untouched by the cruelty of time.
Marc sighs. "You don't think I wish that too? That we'd found our way to each other sooner, had spent the best years of our lives fucking rather than fighting?" Valentino cracks a smile. "You get to regress and see what that's like, being younger, and I don't, but life is so good when it's with you that I don't even care. Being with you is enough."
"You really mean that?"
Marc gives him a long-suffering look. "I married you. I could've had anyone in the world at thirty-six."
"But you still chose me."
"And I'll continue to choose you, with all your wrinkles. Now sleep. You still need your rest, you know. Even if you look like that young guy from the galaxy movies you like, cause you'll need it tomorrow."
"You think I look like a movie star?" Clearly chuffed, Valentino rolls around to Marc's side. "I should do this more often then," he says, even though they both well know that he can't control when it happens.
Marc shushed him. "Go read your book and leave me alone. I still need my beauty sleep."
"No you don't, you beautiful sexy man whom I have the absolute pleasure of calling my husband and sugar daddy." Marc rolls his eyes.
"Shut up."
"Uh oh, sounds like somebody wants a bedtime story." Valentino scrambles off the bed, all long-legged and long-limbed, to dig for the book he'd started earlier that day, yelling triumphantly when he finds it at the bottom of the beach bag they haven't unpacked, and he climbs back in, flipping to the page he'd dog-eared and starts to read. It's a story about a young boy who makes a promise to his friend before his friend dies, and who then embarks on an epic adventure to keep that promise.
He's just left their small town of Orvop on horseback, with another horse in tow, both stolen as part of that promise, when Valentino's voice starts to trail off, and with the little remaining energy Marc has, he takes the book from Valentino's hands, which have started to slowly return to the worn and weathered ones he knows so well, and reaches back to place it on his nightstand, and turns off the light.
In the darkness, he brushes a light hand over Valentino's face, feeling for what he's hoping to find tomorrow when dawn arrives. Valentino sighs into his touch and Marc pulls closer still, as they welcome the night as they've welcomed the waves and the sun's dying rays—together, in each other's arms, in the only place in the world where it seems like time has no bearing.