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The first thing Marco saw when he woke up was Pecco’s face. Marco turned his head sharply to check the time and was surprised to find he had only slept for three hours.
He didn’t even remember falling asleep — one moment he was holding a dozing Pecco in his arms, he blinked — and now here he was, watching as the blackout curtains in Bagnaia’s bedroom, still not fully drawn, let a thin strip of grey light fall onto the bed. The room was dark, but it was enough for Bez to see Francesco’s serene face.
The night had been exhausting — Marco hadn’t had one like that in a long time. They were just about to go to sleep when Marco suddenly realised that Francesco had turned away from him, staring at a single spot — that very gap between the two curtains, it seemed — and pressing his lips together until they turned white.
Marco has known Pecco almost his entire life — he’s not one to complain. But Marco was never one to give up easily either, so it only took a few well-aimed questions for Pecco to turn to him and admit that he didn’t understand how things had come to this.
He didn’t blame others, didn’t grumble about the team, or the bike. Detached, almost like an outsider, he brutally analysed every mistake he’d made, saying he was letting everyone down: Ducati, Marc, the fans, the sponsors, the academy that had invested so much in him, especially Valentino. Marco listened without interrupting, but when Pecco said he was letting him down too, Marco could no longer just be a listener.
He gently took Pecco’s face in his hands and kissed him on the forehead. Words were not his strong suit. Never had been. But he could do this — hold him, kiss him, be there, listen.
But Bezzechi tried, because he felt Francesco needed it. He said that shit happens, but Pecco would get through it. He said that everyone makes mistakes, that even Valentino made mistakes, that mistakes toughen you up.
Marco had no idea what he was saying. He forgot every word the moment it left his tongue; he spoke fast, trying to explain to Pecco that this dark patch, as Pecco saw it, couldn’t last forever.
And Pecco seemed to believe him. He fell asleep in Marco’s arms, and Marco held him, not wanting to let go, not wanting to fall asleep.
Now Bez lay and looked at him. And couldn’t bring himself to blink.
Bagnaia was a handsome bastard when he wasn’t frowning, pondering all the world’s problems. No, even with his brows furrowed on the bridge of his nose, Pecco was gorgeous, but like this — sleeping, peaceful — he seemed like a different person.
Bezzechi wished this could last as long as possible. But the moment he got distracted by a rustling sound downstairs, he saw two pairs of eyes staring straight into his soul.
Turbo and Rubik. Marco himself had spoiled them with early wake-ups and early breakfasts.
And now they wanted Marco to do his job, like a good owner.
It took Marco titanic effort to get up silently, without waking Francesco, and go down to the kitchen to fill the bowls. After ruffling the dogs’ fur, Marco yawned widely and was about to head back to the bedroom when he heard the sound of running water.
Well, that was clear. Pecco was awake. The moment was already lost.
Marco straightened up, looked around, and thought about what he could do. Something nice for Pecco.
Breakfast? Marco wouldn’t risk it. Sandwiches were unlikely to make Pecco happy, and Bezzechi couldn’t offer much more than that.
Marco’s gaze fell on Pecco’s semi-professional coffee machine, which was Bagnaia’s great pride, and he decided the idea wasn’t so bad after all.
Marco smirked and turned on the coffee machine. He’d seen a thousand times which buttons Pecco pressed, what he poured in, how much milk he used, which cup he poured into, and which spoon he used. Someone might call Pecco a pedant — and, would you believe it, such people did exist — but to Marco, that seemed adorable.
Pecco never let anyone make coffee for him. Marco knew this. He would take a sip, smile, and when the volunteer turned away, he would pour the coffee down the sink.
Perhaps there was something of a pedant in Pecco, but even that seemed adorable to Marco.
He was thinking about this as he watched the crema in the cup — Pecco’s always turned out exactly like that — and didn’t notice the moment two hands settled on his stomach and a chin rested on his right shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Pecco asked lazily, clearly having risen on his tiptoes to seem a little taller. “You don’t drink coffee on weekend mornings.”
Marco smirked and deliberately tilted his head, offering up his neck. Pecco hugged him tighter and brushed his lips along Bezzechi’s neck, giving a peck in the spot behind the ear that Marco forbade him to kiss. Because it felt too good.
“It’s not for me,” Marco finally said, turning his head as far as he possibly could.
The smile on Pecco’s face faded. Marco almost laughed.
“Bez, you know..” he began, but Marco interrupted him.
“Try it first. You can pour it out at any second.”
Pecco took the cup.
“I won’t pour it out. No matter what.”
Marco now turned around and hugged Pecco by the waist.
“Promise?”
Pecco nodded unconvincingly.
“Great,” Marco said, running a hand down Francesco’s back. “Otherwise, it’d be a shame about those two sugar cubes I dissolved in that cup.”
Pecco forced out a smile, so unnatural that Bez wanted to laugh.
“You added sugar?” Pecco clarified, almost as a statement, visibly fighting the urge to pour the coffee out right then and there.
“Everything just the way you like it. Just try it.”
Pecco took a sip, closed his eyes, and visibly relaxed.
Pecco didn’t add sugar. Never. One didn’t have to be especially observant to know about the sugar — almost everyone in the paddock knew and joked about it. But to add the exact amount of milk for a morning cappuccino — well, that required some effort.
And when Pecco exhaled, Marco knew he hadn’t gotten it wrong.
“Never joke like that again, Marco,” he said contentedly, and Marco finally laughed.