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The noise in the Formula-1 paddock was different. Not like in MotoGP. It didn't tear the air to pieces, didn't vibrate in your chest down to the bones. The cars sounded more delicate, softer, like a predatory purr, but hidden in that purr was such a terrifying, high-frequency power that there was an almost physical sensation — as if your eardrums were about to burst from the pressure of the decibels. And there was a sea of people here. A real, vast human sea, buzzing around the track. Far more than even at that record-breaking MotoGP race where the stands were bursting at the seams. Well, Formula-1 truly lived in another league of popularity, and you could feel it in every glance, in every click of a camera shutter. All around was a solid wall of eyes and lenses, and all of them, it seemed, were aimed only at him — at Pecco. At Francesco Bagnaia.
But Pecco hadn't come here to be in the spotlight. Not at all. His wish was the complete opposite — he dreamed of becoming invisible, blending into this crowd like an ordinary spectator. He wasn't wearing a single branded piece of fabric: a simple, logo-free grey hoodie, a cap pulled low over his forehead, and the darkest sunglasses he could find. No hint that under this plain clothing was a two-time world champion from another racing series. As if that could help. As if he really could hide. He was given away by details that were impossible to erase: unruly curls sticking out from under the edge of the cap, and the moustache he didn't even try to hide. They were his signature, his second skin.
The whole paddock was already buzzing because of one single piece of news: Francesco Bagnaia would be at the race. Of course, he'd come to support a friend. An old, close friend. It wasn't the first time, and clearly, it wouldn't be the last. As soon as the long-awaited summer break in MotoGP started, he found himself in Belgium, at the legendary Spa-Francorchamps circuit. He couldn't fly in on Friday, but for Saturday's qualifying, he arrived long before it started, as if wanting to soak up every atom of the atmosphere. As soon as his foot stepped onto the track grounds, he headed straight for the garages without hesitation. He was interested in only one garage. The one burning with a rich, matte blue. Red Bull Racing.
Marco was already there. Hidden in a cocoon of carbon fibre, rubber, and adrenaline, he stood in his blue racing suit, surrounded by mechanics. They leaned toward him, showed him graphs on tablets, gestured, trying to explain the nuances of the car's setup, the strategy for qualifying, the weather forecast, and the track conditions. Marco listened with that special, predatory attentiveness that only appears in him before a session. He showed things with his hands, drawing invisible racing lines in the air, describing his feelings about the pace, the chassis balance, the braking point, and a thousand other minor settings that for an ordinary person are just white noise, but for a driver are a matter of life and death. He was in his element. Focused, sharp as a blade. Francesco didn't even want to disturb this sacred ritual.
But as soon as Pecco's dark silhouette appeared in Marco's field of vision, the rest of the world seemed to be switched off like unwanted noise. The car no longer existed. The engineers turned into blurry spots. The only thing that mattered to him was Francesco, standing at the door of his garage. The stern concentration instantly melted away, washed away by a warm, almost boyish smile that lit up his face. Marco quickly but politely finished his conversation with the chief mechanic and headed for his guest. They hugged — tightly, genuinely, putting everything they couldn't say aloud under the gaze of hundreds of eyes into that gesture.
"Francesco!" Marco breathed out, and undisguised joy rang in his voice. "I thought I wouldn't see you in the paddock. You disappeared like a ghost."
"Do you mean to say I flew to Belgium for nothing?" Pecco raised an eyebrow, but a smile was hiding in the corners of his lips.
"No, no, of course not!" Marco even waved his hands. "I'm terribly glad to see you, you can't even imagine!"
Pecco lightly, like a child, poked his index finger at the tip of Marco's nose. He wanted to do much more than just a friendly hug. He wanted to pull him closer, bury his nose in the curve of his neck, forget about all the cameras in the world. But dozens of lenses were aimed at them. This very thing — these little moments, these short, coded conversations in the most crowded places — was what maintained their fragile balance. Their relationship lived in the gaps. Between races. Between countries. Between hotel rooms and VIP lounges. Between two different worlds that formally didn't intersect, but somehow created space for each other.
All their friends knew. MotoGP and Formula-1 drivers, managers, trainers — it was an open secret. Even Marco's PR manager was briefed on the details to skilfully avoid "unpredictable situations." The fans, of course, also guessed. The hashtag #Beznaia was on fire on social media, growing with theories, screenshots, and slow-motion videos of their glances. But in public, they played their roles flawlessly: just two Italian friends, connected by a love of racing.
Time dissolved, slipped through their fingers. The clock was relentlessly counting down the minutes. Fifteen minutes to qualifying. Marco returned to his working state again, pulling a mask of composure over his face. He dived into the cockpit, and the car, with a short roar, rolled out of the pits. Watching this was a special kind of torture for Pecco. There was something deeply personal in it — seeing Marco here, on his track, in his world, behind the wheel of a machine that was the embodiment of speed. It evoked that same feeling of inner peace he felt when he got on his bike. Everything fell into place. As if the universe had finally aligned.
The first part of qualifying was calm. The Red Bull car was going well enough not to waste an extra set of tyres. They drove a preparation lap, one flying lap — and Marco posted the sixth fastest time, easily progressing to the next segment. Pecco sat with headphones connected to the TV broadcast and silently watched Marco's run. His fingers drummed nervously on his knee. Right now, he was much more worried than the driver behind the wheel.
The second segment already felt like a battle. The air in the garage thickened. The scheme was the same here: drive a perfect lap to stay in the fight for the top 10. Marco did it masterfully, showing the fourth fastest time. This guaranteed a fight for the top ten, but the final segment, Q3, turned out to be a real battle. The fight was terribly fierce, the times were incredibly close. Marco pushed to the limit, attacking the kerbs so hard the car shuddered. On the finish straight, he risked everything, but the result was only fifth place. Not pole position. Not the front row. Just the fifth result. This, undoubtedly, was not the lap he had hoped for, especially considering that Max, his teammate, won the qualifying. The car definitely had the pace; he just couldn't put the puzzle together on one single, crucial lap. But fifth place isn't a death sentence. Spa-Francorchamps is not Monaco; here, the long Eau Rouge straight and wide corner combinations give space for overtaking. This was enough to fight for victory tomorrow.
Returning to the garage, Marco plunged into an endless conversation with the engineers. Pecco watched him from the opposite side of the box, saw him tiredly rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to explain his insecurity in the fast corners. It lasted, it seemed, forever. And as soon as there was a chance to slip away — Marco took it. But not alone. He discreetly nodded his head towards the exit, and he and Pecco disappeared into the quiet of his driver's room. There were no cameras here, no prying eyes. Just the two of them.
"Haha," Marco chuckled bitterly, pulling off his race suit and remaining in his fireproof underwear. He spoke with a sarcastic tone, trying to calm himself down. "You came such a long way, flew across half of Europe, and I put in a lousy qualifying. A pretty poor show, I guess."
"Marco," Pecco leaned his back against the cool wall, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice sounded even and firm. "I'm here for you, not for your results. Even if you wreck the car at the start tomorrow, I'll still be here to support you. Because you're my boyfriend."
Simple. Honest. No room for misunderstanding. A short pause, full of meaning, hung in the room. Pecco's hand, warm and slightly rough, touched Marco's shoulder, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
"A two-time MotoGP champion came to watch the race," Marco continued, although there was no more bitterness in his eyes, only fatigue. "And I couldn't even show a good result. I'm terribly embarrassed now."
Pecco let out a quiet, soothing laugh that settled comfortably in the small space between them. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, his curls moving under the cap as he instinctively minimized the distance, not violating personal boundaries but making them shared.
"You're embarrassed?" Pecco asked again, and his voice dropped to that deep, calm tone he used only with him. "Marco, you're starting fifth at Spa. That's not a disgrace. That's a challenge. It's a fight. In MotoGP," he continued, and the corner of his lips twitched in a faint smile, "we say that the real race only begins when the red lights go out. Qualifying is just... a warm-up. Preparation for battle. You have the pace, I saw that in the second sector. You have the car. That's more than enough for a win."
He reached out, and his fingers barely perceptibly touched the fabric of Marco's race suit near the shoulder — a short, intimate, almost ghostly gesture.
"And besides," Pecco added, and his voice softened, coloured by something personal that had nothing to do with lap times. "I didn't fly across the world to watch you win pole. I came to watch you compete. To watch you fight."
"That sounds harsh," Marco pouted, pretending to be offended, but trying his hardest not to laugh. A squeezing warmth spread in his chest. "Didn't you even want to see me win? Just you wait," he raised his index finger, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "If I win tomorrow, I'll dedicate this victory to you."
Pecco laughed softly and sincerely, so that barely noticeable wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. He leaned his back against the wall, his posture was relaxed, but his eyes burned with attentiveness.
"I want you to win. I always want that. And if you dedicate the win to me," he tilted his head to the side, "then I'll have to come to the next race. And the one after that. I'll start appearing at every Grand Prix of yours, and then it will be very hard for me to pretend I'm just a random guest, Marco."
His fingers touched Marco's sleeve again, this time stopping a little below the elbow, not gripping, but promising.
"I don't think the Ducati management will let you miss a race for me next time," he said thoughtfully. "But you know, it would be good if you came back again. And again."
Marco looked up, and his gaze was direct and open. He was looking straight into Pecco's soul.
"Because you are the most important person in the whole world to me. And it's not my fault that you're so important."
Pecco froze. The noise of engines and voices outside the room seemed to dissolve, fading into the background. Marco, meanwhile, calmly, as if he hadn't said anything special, started changing into normal clothes — a simple black T-shirt and jeans. Pecco slowly exhaled, and this quiet, incredulous breath turned into a soft smile.
"You shouldn't say things like that here," he muttered, although there wasn't a trace of reproach in his voice. He took a deliberate step forward, closing the distance until he felt the warmth from Marco's body. "People will start asking questions they shouldn't know the answers to. But you're right," he added in a barely audible whisper, even and confident. "I'm not just some guest. And I'm not going anywhere. Let them talk. Let them wonder." His lips curved in a light, mysterious smile, and his eyes, dark and focused, didn't let go of Marco's gaze. "I will come back again and again. To every race. To every country. Just to see you do what you do best."
For a moment, Marco held his breath. These words were greater than any confessions. The moment was so intimate that he physically felt the desire to kiss Pecco, here and now, regardless of anything. He even leaned forward, but stopped himself in time. They were still in the team's garage, and anyone could come in at any moment. He tried to push these distracting thoughts out of his head, but couldn't say a word, so he just blushed, feeling the tips of his ears burning.
"So, are we going to the hotel?" he tried to change the subject, hastily pulling on comfortable clothes to get rid of the awkward feeling of the race suit. "Or do you want to sleep here, in the Red Bull garage? You know, in Formula-1, they usually don't make us sleep in the boxes, unlike your Ducati."
"Hey! I don't sleep in the garage!" Pecco snorted indignantly, starting to laugh. In fact, he had fallen asleep countless times right on a folding bed in the box, when he stayed up late with engineers, solving some quirk of the motorcycle.
"Yeah, tell me another lie," Marco smiled. "I have proof. Marc shows me everything."
"Damn Marc Marquez!" Pecco swore, but his voice only held cheerful helplessness. Well, couldn't Marc have hidden this from Marco and not embarrassed him?
"Let's go already," he muttered, walking out first.
They walked side by side through the evening paddock. The sun was sinking towards the horizon, flooding the track with gold. They weren't holding hands, although that was the only thing they both wanted. The hotel was right next to the track, so there was no need for a car. They lived in different rooms so as not to arouse suspicion. At the door of his room, they parted, and Marco, barely alive from exhaustion, collapsed into bed. Nothing worried him right now — only the pillow.
Pecco's phone buzzed on the nightstand exactly at 6:00 AM. He didn't even need to look at the screen. He hadn't been sleeping for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of the hotel air conditioner and thinking about how Marco had looked in that black T-shirt last night. He sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. The silence of the room was deafening after the roar of the paddock. He'd slept badly. Not from nerves about the race, but because his mind replayed that moment on repeat: how Marco looked at him, how the light reflected the tension in his jawline. Pecco reached for his phone. He knew Marco's routine. He knew he would be waking up now.
"Good morning," he typed, then deleted. Too formal.
"Are you awake?" — deleted. Too casual.
He chose something simpler. Something that was a password between them.
"I'm not sleeping. You too?"
He sent it and threw the phone on the bed, not waiting for an answer. But he knew one would come.
The phone vibrated almost instantly.
"Yes. Just woke up. Are you already up?"
Marco smiled, looking at the screen. Quickly, without thinking, he took a selfie. He was wearing a Red Bull polo shirt, his hair was sticking out in all directions, his eyes were still sleepy and incredibly cute. He sent the photo and put the phone aside, reaching for a cup of coffee. Pecco was standing by the marble counter of his mini-kitchen when the phone buzzed again. He picked it up, expecting a message about the schedule, but instead saw a photo. His hand with the coffee cup froze halfway to his lips. He stared at the screen, and his gaze instantly softened. Marco looked... vulnerable, domestically perfect. Finally, he typed a reply, slowly moving his finger across the glass.
"Looks like you need more coffee" — jokingly, and then added, unable to resist: "And you look perfect. Don't change a thing."
He pressed "send" and took a long sip of coffee. His soul felt surprisingly calm. The race was approaching, the pressure was building, but looking at this photo, Pecco felt an absolute, unshakeable peace.
"I guess if I leave it like this, my PR manager will beat me up in the garage, or something," Marco replied with a laugh. Then, after taming his hair a bit, he sent one last message: "See you in the paddock!"
This was a direct hint that the connection was breaking. Pecco looked at these words, and a meaningful smile touched his lips again. He understood. This was a driver's discipline.
"Understood. No more distractions. Just focus."
When Pecco found himself in the paddock, Marco was already sitting in the Red Bull garage, bent over the telemetry data. He was incredibly collected, and Pecco found it funny to see him like this after that morning sleepy photo. Pecco didn't wave, didn't call out. He just stood there, a quiet anchor in the midst of the storm, watching his boyfriend navigate the pre-race chaos. Marco didn't notice him immediately, but when their eyes met, he quickly finished the conversation and walked over. They shook hands — firmly, holding palms a second longer than was customary.
"Hi! I didn't expect to see you so early," joy rang in Marco's voice.
"I wanted to make sure I had a front-row spot before this madness started," Pecco replied, looking him over. "You look ready. Don't let this noise bother you. Just remember who's watching."
"Just watch and see — I'll keep my promise," Marco smiled.
The drivers' parade, interviews, technical briefings. Pecco spent all this time in the shadows, observing. And then came that same free hour before the race. They found themselves in the changing room again. Marco, without shyness, changed into his racing suit, and Pecco watched him.
"Marco, do I absolutely have to be here?"
"Don't you like looking at my chest? Usually, you love them very much."
"That's not the point!" Pecco snorted, feeling himself blush.
"Then there's no problem," Marco stated calmly, zipping up. He took his bag with the helmet. "Watch the race well. I'll show them all how it's done."
Pecco just shook his head, walked over, and kissed him on the cheek, barely holding back a smile.
"Go on, I'm keeping my fingers crossed for you."
The final minutes before the start — the hardest. Marco fidgeted in the cockpit, checking the buttons on the steering wheel. Pecco, frozen in front of the screen in the garage, was more worried than ever.
The red lights went out.
The race started, and the flame instantly engulfed the track. Oscar Piastri, who started from third place, rocketed forward with lightning speed, aggressively took the La Source complex, and was already on the tail of the leaders on the exit to the Eau Rouge straight. It was a perfect start. Even before the end of the first lap, taking advantage of the fight ahead, he overtook his teammate in a lightning-fast dance and took the lead of the race. Marco, no less collected, started perfectly and immediately found himself in third place, settling in behind the two orange McLarens. Their internal battle in the opening laps only worked to his advantage. They attacked each other, causing faster tyre wear, while Marco, like an experienced predator, stayed within overtaking range and saved his tyres.
The pit stop was key. Red Bull acted with tactical genius. When the McLarens started battling, Marco's engineers instantly commanded, "Box, box!" He dived into the pit lane a lap earlier than his rivals, and the mechanics performed a flawless, lightning-fast tyre change. It was a perfect undercut. On fresh, softer tyres, on a clear track, Marco flew as if he'd grown wings. He put in three laps at qualifying pace. And when Oscar and Lando came out of the pit lane after their stops, they saw the blue Red Bull car confidently leading the peloton.
From that moment on, nobody could challenge him. Marco was driving one of the best races of his life. It was an incredible feeling — a perfect symbiosis of man and machine. The tyres were degrading quickly, the car was sliding a little on corner exits, requiring delicate work with the steering wheel and accelerator pedal, but he managed to pull away from his pursuers to a safe distance. He led the race, unmoved like a rock, while behind him a fierce battle for the podium raged. Oscar, who started so heroically, unfortunately couldn't maintain the pace on the second stint and was pushed back to fifth position. Instead, Max Verstappen, who had fought through from eleventh, due to a penalty for changing the battery, and Lando Norris sat on the leader's tail.
Pecco watched the screen without blinking. Every overtake, every attack echoed in him with a jolt of adrenaline, as if he were at the wheel himself. He saw how Marco's car perfectly took the fast Pouhon corner, how he navigated the Bus Stop chicane, balancing on the limit. His whole being was tense to the extreme when Marco crossed the finish line first, punching the air with his fist.
The radio crackled in the headphones. Marco, breathless, was screaming with happiness, and the team erupted in a congratulatory chorus. The cool-down lap was full of euphoria. The stands roared. Pecco, unable to help himself, exhaled loudly and applauded along with the mechanics.
On the podium, Marco, drenched in sweat, found Pecco in the crowd of the team. He was too far away to come over, but their eyes met. And that was enough.
After all the protocol handshakes and interviews, that same moment arrived. The traditional "dedication." Marco's plan was terribly stupid. In front of him stood a bottle of champagne, traditionally signed by the winner. Usually, there were words of thanks to the team, his mother, his sister. But today, Marco, squinting slyly, wrote something completely different with a marker. On the dark glass, in big letters, he wrote: "#GoFree," and below he added his signature. And the letter "o" in "Go" was stylized as a heart pierced by Cupid's arrow.
This said more than any words. Anyone who followed MotoGP even a little knew that #GoFree is the personal brand, mantra, and life credo of Francesco Bagnaia. It wasn't a coincidence. And a heart instead of a letter? That was a direct shot to the hearts of all the fans who had been building theories for years that they were a couple. Well, wasn't that a confession to the whole world that Pecco had literally pierced Marco's heart and taken it for himself forever?
Pecco watched this on the big screen in the garage. His heart jumped somewhere in his throat. What an idiot he is... But he was his idiot.
Then came the awards ceremony. Fanfares, trophies, laughter, the Italian anthem. And then — a sweet shower of champagne. All three were wet and sticky to the core. But the real prize was waiting for Marco in the garage.
As soon as the official part ended, he ran to the pits. The team was already celebrating, champagne foam flying everywhere. Marco, without hesitation, grabbed a bottle and generously doused Pecco from head to toe, and his laughter was drowned in the general noise. Then, taking advantage of the bustle, they escaped. They locked themselves in the same quiet room where they'd been the day before.
"Well?" Marco asked breathlessly, pressing Pecco against the doors. "Did you like what I did?"
"If you're talking about the signature on the champagne, then you're a complete idiot," Pecco whispered, but his eyes were shining.
"But now everyone knows I'm your idiot," Marco emphasized the last word with his intonation.
"Yes... My idiot."
Marco didn't wait any longer. He leaned in and kissed Pecco. They were both wet, sticky, with the taste of sweet champagne on their lips. The kiss was passionate and deep, Marco holding Francesco's face in his palms so tightly as if he would never let go. When they finally pulled away from each other, breathing heavily, Marco laughed quietly.
"My PR manager is definitely going to kill me by tomorrow..."