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The last race in Germany ended like a snapped string. The summer break was beginning — that blessed, almost timeless period when every rider could allow themselves to exhale and rest however their soul desired. Usually, Marco Bezzecchi's summer was woven from a dense, sparkling fabric of the most pleasant memories: spontaneous trips with other academy members, exhausting but oh-so-familiar bike tests, silly endurance races, and laughter that echoed until dawn.
But this summer was different. Or rather, the same as the last one. Empty. Because Celestino Vietti was no longer by his side.
Once, back in the days when they were inseparable, Celestino had a surprisingly touching, albeit slightly silly, tradition. Every year, after the summer holidays, he would hand Marco an album. Not just any album — it was a true handmade treasury of the summer, carefully filled with Polaroid photos, funny drawings by Cele, witty comments in the margins, clippings from tickets, or simply dried flowers. All to capture their best summer together forever. And Bezzecchi, though he would never admit it out loud, would wait with childish impatience for that moment when he would receive the cherished volume. But last summer he didn’t receive it. Just as he wouldn’t this summer. Because Cele was no longer his friend.
Thoughts about the albums, like an obsessive tune, had haunted Marco throughout the entire race weekend. He recalled every spread, every funny sticker, felt with his fingers the roughness of the pages he remembered down to the smallest detail. He needed to touch them again, to feel that bittersweet sting of nostalgia right in his heart.
So, in the very first week of the break, giving in to a sudden impulse, he got into his car and raced to his parents' house. There, in the very corner of an old wardrobe, hidden from prying eyes, lay a stack of ten albums. From the first summer of 2014, when they, still green boys, were introduced by the academy, to the fateful 2024 — the summer when everything ended.
In his room, enveloped in blessed silence, he opened the first album. It was incredible how old and yet alive these memories were, frozen in faded photographs. Celestino had lovingly, carefully put together each page, and that realization made something painfully clench in his chest.
He flipped through the pages, quickly at first, greedily swallowing the images of the past. But the closer he got to the last album, the slower his movements became, as if his fingers were afraid of getting burned. He had never once opened the 2024 album. He couldn't bring himself to. But now, with his longing for Celestino almost unbearable, the time had come. He had to do it.
Here it was, in his hands. On the thick cover, in elegant script, was the inscription "Summer '24," surrounded by a chaotic but endearing array of stickers, newspaper clippings with headlines about races, and the silly face of Rubik — his dog. This last touch made the cover complete, alive. Marco was terribly afraid to open it. He felt like a traitor who had no right even to look at this treasure, let alone touch it. For a long, very long time, he simply stared at the cover, feeling a lump grow in his throat. Finally, overcoming himself, he opened the album. And it greeted him with smiles.
The photographs were arranged in chronological order. On some, dates were written in Celestino's neat handwriting. The first were pictures from Sicily. Marco carefully, almost reverently, ran his fingertips over the photograph where Celestino was smiling broadly, showing all thirty-two teeth, against the backdrop of an endless turquoise sea. Next to him, hugging, stood Pecco and Luca.
The decision to go to the sea in Italy, to scorching Sicily, had been spontaneous, like everything in their lives. They were all Italian — Marco was even born in Rimini, on the Adriatic coast — but the southern heat beckoned with its wildness. The sun beat down mercilessly, the air trembled, and the only salvation was the sea. Although, the motivation to drop everything instantly only came from the ever-energetic Celestino. Marco, as always, was ready to support any adventure. But the others had to be persuaded.
"What the hell are we going to go there for in this heat?" grumbled Pecco, sprawled lazily on the sofa. "We could just stay here by the pool..."
"Because there's the sea!" countered Cele, his eyes burning with enthusiasm. "And the best ice cream in the world. GianGia, Luca, what do you say?"
Just the mention of pistachio and lemon coolness was enough, and Pecco and Luca were already at the door, holding towels and swimming trunks.
The beach was terribly crowded, but how could that stop them? Well, it didn't, right up until the first person recognized them. Within minutes, it seemed like five random passersby had photos of the famous motorcycle racers posing like idiots, shoulder to shoulder with fans. But it was even funny. One of those photos — where all four of them were making silly faces — Cele was definitely planning to add to the album.
The Polaroid practically never left Celestino's hands. He photographed everything: the waves rolling onto the shore, footprints in the sand, his friends' bare feet. At one point, he handed the camera to Marco.
"Hey, take a picture of me with the sea in the background. With Pecco and Luca." He glanced at his friends, who were arguing about something.
"You act like you've never seen the sea before," Marco snorted, trying to hide his smile. "Like my mom, who takes a hundred photos for Instagram so everyone can see she's on vacation."
"Shut up and just take the picture," Cele snapped back without any real anger. "It's for the memory."
Marco took the picture — a truly incredible one. The sun was gilding the water, and the three friends were standing, hugging, laughing genuinely. This photograph was now in the album, and it came alive before Marco's eyes.
And then the camera was no longer needed. Pecco spotted a jet ski rental place, and nothing could hold them back. What was intended as a leisurely cruise along the shore instantly turned into a chaotic competition. Pecco and Luca on one jet ski, Celestino and Marco on the other. The first ones won, obviously. Marco gave up almost immediately because he was choking with laughter.
"You gave up without a fight! Marco, that's not fair!" Celestino was outraged, but his eyes were laughing.
"Haha, look at Pecco," Marco squeezed out through laughter. "He looks like an idiot in that life vest and on that jet ski. He suits sitting on a Ducati prototype much better."
When the rental time was up, they continued just swimming, splashing around, and fooling about. And then sunset came. Celestino had always loved watching the sun slowly sink into the sea, flooding the sky with orange and purple hues. They were sitting on a blanket, tired but immensely happy. Vietti, taking a chance, gently laid his head on Marco's shoulder. Marco froze, his heart hammering somewhere in his throat.
"It's so beautiful..." whispered Cele, and there was so much quiet admiration in his voice that Marco's breath caught.
He blushed deeply at the unexpected intimacy of the moment, words stuck in his throat. Pecco, sitting a little way off, just silently and somewhat pityingly watched this couple in love, who didn't even realize how obvious their feelings were.
Now Marco was looking at this photograph and thinking only one thing: what a scared idiot he had been. Next came photos from Milan, and memories immediately flooded back to him. If Sicily was just a shy beginning, here they seemed to have stopped pretending.
Italy. Native, beautiful, noisy Italy. It seemed like each of them had been to Milan dozens of times in their lives, but this time the city revealed itself in a new way. They were only here for a day, but that day was incredibly packed. They visited, it seemed, every cathedral in the center, got lost in the narrow streets of Brera, enthusiastically looked at boutique windows, and didn't miss a single opportunity to have coffee on a terrace. Celestino photographed everything, the charm on his blue camera jingling melodiously. He photographed flowers on balconies, reflections in puddles, a piece of pizza. Like a child who had gotten out to the big city for the first time. That was all Cele.
Just before sunset, when the streetlights began to reflect in the water, they reached the Navigli canals. Pecco, squinting slyly, casually mentioned that you could take a boat ride here. And a few minutes later they were standing on a wooden pier, waiting their turn.
The atmosphere was surprisingly romantic. Sunset, the quiet lapping of water, a boat filled with similarly loving couples. And Celestino, who suddenly became truly bold, kissed Marco. Not passionately, not deeply — quickly, almost weightlessly, secretly, so no outsider would notice. But for Marco, it was a real explosion. A kiss. A real one. From the person he valued above all else. Was this not a dream? Was it really happening?
"I love you," whispered Celestino in his ear, and his breath burned his skin.
"I... I love you too," Marco's voice trembled, he was barely pushing the words out.
In the background, Pecco and Luca quietly high-fived each other. Their long and cunning plan to bring these two blind idiots together had finally worked.
Next was France. The first photos were from Lyon. This spread was decorated especially cutely. On the left page — a traditional collage of many small pictures: the facade of an old building, a plate with a croissant, Luca's funny face. And on the right — only one large photograph. And what a photo! It was a picture of their kiss, expertly taken by Luca without their knowledge. In the album, around it, Celestino had drawn countless little red hearts, and in the white margin, in neat handwriting, he had written: "The best kiss of my life!!" Marco looked at this and physically felt his heart ache. They were truly incredibly in love, carefree idiots back then.
They ended up in some random club in Lyon. None of them really knew how they got there, but the crazy desire to let off steam and party hard was stronger than common sense. By then, they were definitely horribly drunk. There was no room left in Marco's head for any thoughts about bikes, gears, or racing lines, which usually seemed to live there around the clock. There was nothing in his mind but Celestino. He looked incredible, throwing his head back, screaming the words to some silly pop love song blasting from the speakers, and dancing completely out of rhythm.
"This is for you, Marco!" Cele shouted over the music, his eyes shining in the strobe lights.
Marco just watched him, leaning on the bar counter, smiling, feeling everything inside him tremble with delight. He was already tired of the noise, of the crowd. He only needed Cele.
One drunken, messy kiss right in the middle of the dance floor... Then a series of equally hot, drunken kisses in the back seat of a taxi, while Pecco tried to tell the driver the hotel address. And then — in the hotel room, when the door hadn't even fully closed yet. They couldn't get enough of each other, as if the world had shrunk down to one room and one sensation.
Marco laughed quietly, turning the page. There was a photo of their morning: them sleeping in one bed, intertwined in an embrace, their lips almost touching even in sleep. As if even in oblivion they longed to be one. Next came dozens of photos of beautiful places in Lyon — the Traboules frescoes, the majestic cathedral on Fourvière hill. And a bunch of funny pictures: Marco stuffing his face with a pastry, Marco looking at an abstract artwork in a gallery with a haughty, thoughtful expression while Pecco, like a professional tour guide, told a made-up history of the painting.
"So," Bagnaia's voice echoed in Marco's head, "this yellow stain symbolizes the artist's despair at spilling coffee on the canvas, and this green line — his hope for a paycheck."
Luca and Cele almost collapsed laughing back then.
But then came Paris. The city where everything broke.
The closer they got to Paris, the more doubts gnawed at Marco. His feelings for Celestino were real, deep as the ocean, but at the same time, they scared him to death. It was... wrong? That's what the inner voice, poisoned by stereotypes, told him. Marco had to maintain his status, date a girl society would approve of, eventually have a family and children, like all "normal" people. Not go crazy from the touch of his former best friend. He thought about it the whole way there. And he made the biggest mistake of his life.
The first day in Paris passed calmly. They walked near the Eiffel Tower, ate Nutella crêpes, and Cele, as always, never let go of his Polaroid. But Marco had already started to pull away, hiding his gaze. On the second day, they went to a club again. And there, giving in to panic, Marco started flirting with the first girl who came along, who, apparently, was a devoted fan of his. She was beautiful, with long dark hair, and looked at him with undisguised adoration. It was easy — too easy.
"You're just incredible on the track, Marco," she purred, touching his arm. "I watch all your races."
"Really?" he smiled tensely, buying her a cocktail, feeling something inside him clench with self-disgust.
Celestino was on the other side of the club, in the company of Pecco and Luca, and initially didn't even notice Marco's disappearance. When Pecco pointed it out, Cele just shrugged, trying to convince himself: "He just wants a little break from us, from these silly jokes. Everything's fine."
But when real fear started to grow in his soul, he went looking for him. He found Marco in the VIP area, on a leather sofa. He was kissing that girl. Greedily, deeply, passionately — in a way he had never kissed Cele. With such fiery, ostentatious passion that it seemed deliberately cruel. The girl was sitting on his lap, her hands in his hair. This sight shattered Celestino's heart completely. He felt sick right there, by the stairs. He felt his knees buckle and his eyes fill with a veil of tears.
"Cele, Cele, shh..." Pecco caught him by the arm, trying to pull him aside. "Let's go get some air."
"How could he..." was all Celestino could breathe out, and tears, bitter and burning, streamed down his cheeks.
Marco only returned to the hotel late at night. And then the fight erupted. A terrible, ugly one. They screamed at each other in the room, not mincing words. Marco, driven by panic and shame that had turned into aggression, spat out the most disgusting words he was capable of.
"I'm disgusted by you, understand? Disgusted!" he yelled, avoiding looking into Cele's tear-filled eyes. "I don't want to be the same... the same stupid fag as you!"
It was a low blow, and it achieved its goal. Celestino froze for a moment, as if a knife had been plunged into his back. All the pain and disbelief in his eyes turned into icy, dead emptiness. He didn't say another word.
The trip home was unbearably tense. They couldn't even look each other in the eye. Celestino, who usually chattered non-stop, was silent the whole way, staring out the window at the passing fields. Marco felt like he was dying of guilt. The only saving grace was that Pecco and Luca, like guardian angels, were sitting between them, ready at any moment to prevent a fight.
After that fight, the album was empty. Not a single new photograph. But on the last page, which was clearly completed after their return, there were four random, unconnected pictures. They weren't photos from their big trip, well, except for one — from Lyon, where Marco was eating pizza. There was a photo with Rubik — from that day when just the two of them went to the forest to walk the dog, because Marco was afraid to walk alone among the tall, gloomy trees. Two more were from the summer tests at the Academy — they were in their suits, sweaty but happy, hugging by the track. And under the last one, in handwriting trembling with emotion, was written: "I love you ❤️."
Marco couldn't hold back anymore. Tears gushed from his eyes. He cried, unashamed, letting his feelings out for the first time in a long time. Even after all that horror he had spewed, after he had trampled everything bright between them, Celestino still continued to love him. He had found a way to pass this album through Pecco, just to keep this memory alive, so Marco would know — it was all real.
Rubik, hearing his master crying, jumped up from his bed, ran over to Marco, and started whimpering pitifully, poking his wet nose into Marco's hand. Bezzecchi felt like the biggest idiot on the planet. It was because of him, because of his cowardice and cruelty, that Celestino left the Academy. Disappeared from his life. He still seemed to talk to Pecco and Luca, but he was even afraid to look in Marco's direction.
Then came 2025. Celestino moved to the World Superbike Championship and immediately started fighting for the title, making the entire paddock hold its breath. He finished the season second — an incredible achievement for a debutant. All their mutual friends congratulated Cele, wrote posts on social media, called. Marco was silent. He stared blankly at his phone screen, typing and deleting a message dozens of times. He never wrote a single word of congratulations. As if Cele meant nothing to him, as if he was an empty space. And only now, holding this album in his hands, did Marco realize with terrifying clarity how blind and cruel he had been, and what an incredible treasure he had lost forever that summer.