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The hospital room was bathed in light. Fluorescent lamps flooded the space with a harsh, bright glare that was impossible to hide from. Inside, a near-absolute silence reigned, broken only by the faint, steady breathing of two people. The surgery had been somewhat complicated, but fortunately, it was a success; the worst was finally behind them, and the doctors had let Marco sleep it off peacefully and recover his strength, only asking him to be as careful as possible.
Marc sat beside Marco's bed, waiting patiently for him to wake up and fully shake off the anesthesia. He wore an oversized t-shirt, his face etched with exhaustion from a journey that, while not particularly long, had been quite a hassle. On top of that, Marc had run himself ragged during the race before dropping everything to fly out here that very day, straight after the podium and all his other media duties. And now, having finally made it to the hospital, he sat close, leaning forward slightly, holding Marco's warm, dry hand tightly, the one on his uninjured side. Or, more accurately, uninjured this time around.
People had already started writing Marco off en masse, dismissing him from the championship battle. One of the main reasons for this was his broken collarbone—an injury he had already suffered a few years back, with the only difference being that back then, it had been the other collarbone, and he hadn't been given enough time to recover. This year, though, was a completely different story. Obviously, it would have been better if it hadn't happened at all, but now they had to work with what they had. And the fact that the injury had occurred right before the summer break, offering a solid four weeks of free time to recover without any pressure, was a stroke of absolute luck, the best-case scenario they could have only dreamed of back then.
But Marc hadn’t doubted his Marco for a single second. Even on Saturday, during that ill-fated qualifying session, even though his chest had tightened with a terrible sense of dread, because you couldn't crash a motorcycle that many times, especially as badly as Marco did, and not end up breaking something eventually, even if you were born under a lucky star. He still never stopped believing in him, even after the fracture was confirmed, even after this sudden, exhausting sequence of setbacks.
It seemed like only yesterday everything had been perfect, but it was right after that beautiful, triumphant victory in Mugello that endless trouble began to rain down on Marco on the track. People wondered what devil he had sold his soul to in order to win on home soil; they simply couldn't find any other explanation for why everything had taken such a brutally unfair turn afterward. Yet, Marc knew Marco was strong enough to handle it all and return to the grid even hungrier for victory, though that didn't stop Marc from worrying quietly, deep down. He worried as much as he let himself, and he wasn't ashamed to admit to himself that through it all, he had missed him terribly.
He truly had missed him in that brief stretch of time while wrapping up the weekend at the Sachsenring, giving routine post-race interviews, smiling at sponsors, and celebrating with the team on autopilot. On Saturday, after the sprint, while everyone around him rejoiced, Marc felt a step removed from it all. He kept checking his phone over and over, trying to ignore the flood of congratulatory messages, desperately waiting to see even a tiny sign from Marco to let him know he was at the clinic and that the surgery had already been scheduled.
Sunday’s victory was sweet, but only bittersweet at best, and mostly because right before the race, just as he was putting on his helmet to head out onto the starting grid, Marc had learned that the surgery was finally over and had gone well. The message lifted a massive weight off his shoulders, yet he still couldn’t wait for the whole circus to wrap up, for the congratulations to fade, so he could fly to Italy and support the person dearest to him in person, not just from afar.
Even during the official post-race interview on Sunday, Marc hadn’t been able to resist a snarky comment about how karma doesn't exist. He had seen all those venomous and extremely gleeful remarks from people who were throwing around loud words again after what had happened to Marco just the day before. Marc knew he wouldn't be standing here right now, at the top, if this so-called karma actually existed and worked. So, he understood Marco perfectly; he knew how hard and frustrating this was for him right now. He wanted to shield him from unnecessary attacks, from the foolish, unfair pressure during an already difficult period. His words to the journalists were a kind of shield he chose to raise for both of them.
And now, at last, he was here, at the clinic in Sassuolo. The flight time had gone by unnoticed, and now all that racing noise was left far behind.
Marc felt the fingers in his hand twitch weakly. Instinctively, he leaned closer and blinked, snapping out of his thoughts to look at the face across from him. The hazy glaze over those beloved, honey-colored eyes slowly cleared. Marco squeezed his eyes shut; his eyes were unused to the harsh hospital light, which stung terribly after his long sleep. He winced cutely at the unpleasant sensation, tiny, expressive lines crinkling across the bridge of his nose and around his eyelids, and the corners of those lips Marc loved so much slowly, effortfully pulled upward. It was a faint but completely genuine smile, born of Marco's pure joy at seeing his person right there beside him.
As soon as Marco was fully awake, Marc met his gaze and smiled back, not a staged, camera-ready smile, but a warm, tender one he saved for when they were alone. And that lovesick, foolish grin wouldn't leave his face until they had to part, thankfully, he wasn't the only one wearing it.
Marco parted his lips, trying to find his voice, and despite his weakness, a familiar, devilish spark flashed in his eyes, after all, those rumors about him selling his soul to the devil didn't just come out of nowhere. He simply couldn't keep quiet. Marco just had to say some stupid nonsense, whether to comfort himself or to ease the tension for Marc, who looked far too serious and worried.
"At least... it's the left..." Marco rasped, licking his dry lips. "At least the right one is intact. My good hand, Marc... The most important asset didn't get hurt, so I'm still good to go."
Marc could only roll his eyes dramatically, letting out a loud sigh and shaking his head, but a wave of incredible relief washed over him at that moment. Bez wouldn't be Bez without his humor, the most direct and reliable sign that Marco was definitely going to be fine. His spirit wasn't broken if he could still joke about things like that.
"You're impossible," Marc chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You just got wheeled out of the operating room and that's already all you can think about. Speaking of which..."
Marc teased him right back, in good fun, about his picture in the surgical cap with the doctors. He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked the screen, and showed him a recent post that the clinic's official account had shared right after the surgery, reporting on the successful procedure. In the photo, Marco was lying on the gurney, surrounded by surgeons.
Marco immediately pouted in mock, purely childish offense, dramatically turning away from the screen and burying his face in the pillow. He instantly began grumbling excuses, claiming he hadn't fully recovered from the anesthesia yet, which was why he looked so blissfully dumb in that ridiculous purple surgical cap, adding, "As if you don't know what it's like after surgery! Like you don't have photos just like that!"
Watching this adorable grumbling, Marc couldn't help himself. At that exact moment, he leaned in even closer and pressed a feather-light kiss to his pouted lips. Marco fell silent in surprise, and Marc pulled back, a soft warmth blooming in his chest as he let out a quiet chuckle. He had missed this childishness and playful spontaneity so much more than he realized.
After the kiss, Marco kept up his playful pout for a moment longer just for show, before glancing over at the nightstand where his own phone lay. He would definitely take a better picture later and post it to kill two birds with one stone: first, to show everyone once and for all that he was awake and ready for rehab to try and make it back by Silverstone, and second, to reassure his fanbase, who were losing their minds with worry and lack of news. But absolutely not, of course, because Marc had managed to get to him so easily with his harmless teasing. Absolutely out of the question.
For now, Marc simply kept holding his hand tenderly, gently brushing his thumb over the back of Marco’s palm, keeping him from getting distracted by social media at a time like this. With his other, free hand, he reached out to softly ruffle his dark curls, coarse but incredibly pleasant to the touch, before leaning in to press a slow, tender kiss to the crown of his head, closing his eyes and breathing in that familiar scent.
This was a ritual Marc deeply cherished. It wasn't something mundane or every day. In the paddock, under the constant glare of hundreds of camera lenses, they couldn’t afford even a single open glance, so Marc only allowed himself this intimacy on rare occasions, only when they were entirely, completely alone.
And honestly, the only person who loved this ritual more than Marc was Marco himself. The touch of warm lips against his head had a magical effect, relaxing and soothing him all at once, as if washing away the remaining pain of the injury. In other words, this simple gesture provided a much-needed sense of a safe haven and a quiet harbor for a man who spent, at best, barely three months of the year at home.
Sometimes, "home" is far from a mere spot on a map; sometimes, it's the person you love right beside you, flying halfway across Europe immediately after crossing the finish line. The person who will always be with you and for you, no matter what happens, both on the track and in life.