Chapter Text
PART ONE
If you’d ask Marco if he’s religious, he’ll only pray to Jesus when he’s getting tattooed or a new piercing. But he will look out for their holy mother when he’s feeling homesick, sees her pureness in everything.
When Marco’s chasing his first podium in the new season, the Aprilia feeling like a beast between his legs, he curses to all the saints he can remember (and he does remember a lot for the 12 seconds he keeps sitting in the gravel until reality and the marshals catch up on him and he leaves the track). He can’t believe that he’s crashed out with only three more laps to go. Not only does that mean no points, no podium, no drinks, but also mending himself together again for the next weekend.
After cursing some more and reaching the fence, he looks over and sees no one else than Marc fucking Marquez also being out of the race. Of fucking course.
Marc doesn’t know how many saints Marco has cursed and pleaded to and haggled with until he managed to get to the point of knocking at the Spaniards motorhome door, a few hours after the race ended. They’ve all been busy with debriefs, media duties and packing up. It’s no use pretending not to be there when the whole grid is trying to flee the scene and get going to the next venue, possibly beelining home or to headquarters.
“Why on earth did you glue yourself to me until we both crashed! You could have avoided that!” Marco sharply comments. No hello, no ‘do you have a moment’. Only knives out, ready to stab. Marc’s used to it, he would like to say. It still hurts, even more now he’s being directly confronted with such opinions and unfiltered accusations. He doesn’t want to check the news later, seeing headlines of his unsportsmanlike behaviour and whatever they want to call the crash. His shoulder hurts and he wants to snap back, but barely so holds back.
“I mean that was totally your fault!” Marco shakes his head, furious, trying to get a reaction from Marc. He’s grown too tired and maybe also too old to react in the heat of the moment. He lets the guilt burn him up from the inside as he shrugs and states that he got a penalty for it anyway. It doesn’t change the fact that Marco’s race was done for too, that he got out of this weekend without points.
Marc thinks it funny - the same Marco Bezzecchi who crashed into him in his second year (maybe it was his rookie year, but it wasn’t the first time he’s been sat on a bike) so stupidly that none at Honda had any explanation for that accident. He had shrugged it off, everyone makes mistakes. After all, they’re just human, going 300 kilometres the hour trying to stay alive.
On the plane the pain meds kick him out of the orbit, he can let go of the nagging thoughts. Once again he’s taken out another driver accidentally. He’s been keeping track of the moments he’s lost control by stupid accident, on which tracks and turns it had happened, learns from his mistakes and the errors of others.
When it happens again two races later, Marc starts questioning himself and if he has some underlying issue with his vision. During debrief they’re rewatching the sequence and he can clearly see the Aprilia of Marco and where the tyres end of his bike and his own start. He’s always been amazing at having a highly accurate understanding of proportions, where the bike extends past his body on the track.
Alex shoots him a quizzical message if he’s got it out for Bez. It’s only qualifying, but still means a shit start into the race for each of them. Also means more mending work on the bike and his body. He can hear his tendons screaming when he’s showering later and lifts his arm to turn the shower head in a different direction.
Marc doesn’t want a repetition of 2020. Despite the pandemic having overshadowed a majority of that time, keeping the painful surgeries in a tight mental bubble wrap of (what the hell what the hell what the hell) is all he can do to not go crazy.
After all, this is the first season since he’s truly feeling capable of challenging himself on the bike and the tracks, ready to attack and chase a championship. For that though, he’s learned, he needs to study the other riders on the grid, find their weaknesses and extort them every given chance.
“Between us, you know mum and dad have a savings account for your death.” Alex says without any emotion in his words. At some point in 2020 he was sure his older brother was going out there trying to die in some freak accident if he wouldn’t be able to recover. Racing is all he knows, all he’s ever done. It’s the blood in his veins, the broken bones he’s forging together anew.
“I might need that one…”
Marco’s heading straight at them, not stopping when he’s pointing a finger at Marc, pressing it into his chest, and spitting out that it was intentional (because it always is when it comes to Marc).
Alex simply turns away and breezes off to his own motorhome. Not his fight, even if it is his brother. Marc has taken on the big Valentino Rossi, he can deal with the infested pack of his proteges.
“Why are you accusing me of an accident.” Marc smiles away, lifting his hands defensively.
Marco gets closer and oh, Marc is glad to still be in his leathers, with the chest plate keeping his ribcage safe from being poked. Marco’s finger presses down on his chest, he’s repeating again, that crashing them out twice can’t be an accident. It’s comical and absurd and Marc wants to go to his motorhome and, cry. He doesn’t want to crash at all, even less so crashing in a way that makes people believe it’s what he wanted.
After all these years everyone should know how much he’s hated Valentino for that one stupid crash and how it happened. There was no way to resolve this big massive fuck up back then and Marc is sure he can’t do this again.
“Look, I am terribly sorry! Please do race faster and get on pole, and I will start somewhere behind you and try not to catch up.”
It’s a joke of a reply, and Marco scrunches his nose and shakes his head. A muttered ‘the fucks wrong with you’ escapes the Italian’s mouth before he pulls his hand back, Marc’s fly up immediately to show he’s not going to war (again).
“Just, you try not to get into my lane.”
Marc wants to retort with an ‘or what’ but it’s not Valentino and he’s not 20 anymore and there’s too many cameras and people around to comfortably start a little fight. In his motorhome, he slumps against the cold door and bumps his head back against the metal. He wonders why he can’t avoid the Italian on track, where’s he messing up.
People have been telling the story of Sepang 2015 much too often. It’s back again - a whole decade in between and the media is trying to extend the rivalry Marc has with, anyone really. It’s seemingly impossible to be on friendly terms with him when it comes to what media makes people believe. No matter what he says, no matter how hard he’s trying, somewhere traces of Valentino will always haunt him.
As Marc walks out of the press conference room, he’s catching up on some messages Gemma has sent him. Where they want to go on holidays this summer. July when they’re having a three weeks break still seems so far away and with his medical history he knows better than to make promises he might not be able to hold. Gemma’s always been supportive and Marc wants nothing more than to have some peace of mind and get through this season alive.
Just when he’s about to turn a corner, his phone gets pushed back against his chest with full force and a shoe is digging itself in his shin.
fuck. ouch. damn. what. hey sorry.
It’s a mess of words and when Marc sees no one else than Marco he smiles brightly and lays a hand on the other’s shoulder, asks if he’s alright. He really wasn’t looking and apologises, smiles too brightly and happily that it’s not been on the track where they got each other.
“Please. Just.” Marco exhales as he shrugs off Marc's hand from his shoulder. He’s running a hand through his hair and face, pushing wild curls back and then looking straight at Marc: “Just get out of my way."
Marc’s smile doesn’t fade as he retreats his hand and steps aside widely to leave enough space for a whole football team to pass him.
“My God, what’s UP with you?!” Pecco asks him who was casually walking a few steps behind his team mate.
“Do you have anything against Italians?” he jokes as Marc’s mouth opens but no sound comes out. Quickly he shakes his head and puts on his perfect smile again. How could he, the arch enemy of an Italian legend, have anything against them?
“I love them, you should know that." - "You should eat more pizza to be credible.”
Eating more pizza won’t make him less public enemy no1, less contact with Italians on track would help. But them being practically everywhere is not the greatest starting point.
Marc’s fate with Italians is getting blown out of proportion by the end of that weekend. Two more contacts and one near-crash in qualifying. It’s only fool’s luck that Marco didn’t land in the gravel and that Jorge was fast to shoot Marc a warning message. He’s left the track as soon as possible before the Aprilia team would come and get the better of him. It’s not a great feeling going into a weekend without a race but constant nagging thoughts.
His parents are proud, he won after all, there was no crash, his body can rest a bit finally. He’s promised Gemma to take her out for dinner and Alex and his girlfriend wanted to do karaoke again. He’s not too inclined to get out and be happy and forget about everything that’s happened during the weekend, he’s learned to block it out for most of the time.
-
“You’re doing this on purpose, no?" Valentino asks as they’re sitting in the garage, a cold beer in hand, the other arm propped up on a tyre tower behind them. Marc just shakes his head and says he wanted to see how bad the bad air actually was on the Yamaha. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying, what answer he’s picking. Valentino’s opinion on the young rising star stands - he’s impeding, disruptive and dangerous. But there’s something else the Italian can see in Marc’s eyes.
Excitement, a frenzy and fever that consumes his whole body and mind as soon as he’s on that bike and ready to flash his teeth.
“No, I like it!" Valentino nods appreciatively and Marc can’t help but blush at the compliment of the much older and experienced rider. He wants to be like him too, make his own name, not stay some number in dumb statistics no one will look at in a few years time.
“You’re learning fast and that’s what you need to, to be a good racer.” he keeps nodding and they’re replaying another recording, on the wet this time. Silverstone from how the first 2 corners look like. Marc likes that track layout, less so the rain and cold weather. He’s always too cold and lingers on his bike for a bit after the race has ended. To keep holding onto that feeling of rush and adrenaline and warmth. It’s so welcoming, just as Valentino’s hug was when he greeted him earlier this weekend.
Marc’s too shy to reply properly, his Italian is slowly improving past mechanical lingo. And also, this is The Valentino Rossi after all, who’s a 7 times champ, and 2 times in the lower series. He’s Marc’s sort of idol-crush, the one he’s been talking about more often than about girls or other things. Of whom he has posters hung up in his childhood room (and Alex had to look at too, because they shared a bedroom until Marc turned 17 and their parents moved to a larger house for some more privacy for the boys).
“And I mean, your last two years were fantastic. You have natural talent!” Valentino laughs as he looks over to the young Spaniard, adds: “You’re quite small too, that’s a pretty good advantage!”
Marc scrunches his nose, always feeling like he’d never become a proper adult, never fully grown up. Within his grid mates he’s always been the shortest. Always been the shortest guy in school no one wanted to pick for team games. Girls were not interested in him due to his height until he wasn’t interested in them anymore. There’s more important things in life, such as being close to a motogp champion, being in that format too now and having won a race already. They stood on two podiums together already and Marc hopes for more to come. He wants to learn from Valentino, how it is to be a world class racer, how to behave in this world where everyone else was so much more experienced and, well older.
“5 centimetre more are nice." Marc finally manages and puts his hand flat on his head and goes up a few centimetre. Valentino gives him a dirty laugh and says, what Marc had thought about for many years: “It won’t matter to the girls once you’ve got a championship in.”
He rather concentrates on the screen again. When he’s older and has at least one championship in his bag, then he’ll think about girls, or whatever. First, he wants to make his parents proud, wants to be a good old brother to Alex and not tarnish the family name with stupid on-track action so Alex can also have a good career.
When Marc gets back to the motorhome, he smells of cigarette smoke and beer and Dani lifts an eyebrow, wondering out loud where his young rookie team mate had been. Marc can’t help himself but sit down on the small couch where Dani’s been flipping through newspaper, and sighs dramatically, he would have loved to stay all night at Valentino’s motorhome to talk about old races. Only in the premier class the Italian legend has properly acknowledged him and initiated contact. He’s even offered Marc calls him “Vale" - not simply Rossi, or even Valentino! And Marc feels all hot and fuzzy and tells Dani all about what they talked and how cool he was and how he’s always watched his races instead of going immediately to do debriefs.
Now, he can finally soak in all the glory of his childhood hero and get some more background infos and old stories from Dani too.
-
Alex has put some music on their shared spotify account (their ma should have never split them and let them have their own rooms) and Marc’s listening to some 90s rock and classic metal. He’s enjoyed Metallica so far and wants to delve a bit into harder stuff.
It’s almost quiet on the trackside, so quiet he forgets for a moment there’s nagging social media accounts that want attention, he hasn’t written Gemma he’s arrived safely (ma’s probably told her because Alex always calls her right when they arrive) and he hasn’t looked at the PR schedule for the weekend. He hopes it’s only one interview for tonight. There’s a nice restaurant near Florence he wants to go to, but it’s about an hour car ride to get there, so he hopes he can get off duty early.
When it knocks on the door, Marc jumps up awaiting one of the assistants to pick him up and walk to the press tent to get over and done with, but there’s no David or Antonio standing on the other side of the door but Marco.
The ‘oh’ escaping Marc’s mouth is neither friendly nor what he wanted it to sound and doesn’t soothe the visibly pissed off Italian.
“Can we - not have you crash in me for one weekend?” Marco sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He too seems tired and as if he doesn’t want to be here, talking to Marco. Marc nods with lips pressed close, fights back the urge to once more tell him it was an accident, no matter how the other wants to twist it.
“I can’t have you crawl under my skin and-” - "Am I?!" Marc interrupts and all the held back fury lashes out.
“Stop spitting shit. You’ve been doing this for years! Make others go mental, annoy them to the point they get skittish and anxious next to you.”
Marc rolls his eyes and hisses a name he’s sworn to never say out loud a few years ago. Despite racing for Aprilia as of this season, Marco can’t shake off his connection to a certain Valentino Rossi. He’s always said that about the younger Spaniard - he drives him mental, he’s always there.there.there. fucking staring and doing it on purpose (always intentional).
“Come, stop now. I apologised and I can’t help sometimes messing up myself.” Marc rolls his eyes, tries to sound reasonable like any other rider who sometimes crashes.
But there’s the difference - he’s not any other guy on the grid. He’s Marc role model youngest ever overachiever 8 times world champion Marquez, the guy who wants to dethrone a legend, spit into a god’s face with a smile. He’s waltzed into motogp as if it’s nothing. Won the championship in his rookie year (as if it’s nothing). And always with this stupid bright smile Marc can’t even get rid of no matter how hard he’s trying. As soon as Italians start speaking rapid-fire he burns down.
Marco snorts in disbelief over the words he’s being fed: “Don’t try and fool me. Vale’s told me enough about you and now you’ve gone too far.”
Vale doesn’t know shit, Vale’s been the one to kick him off the bike, Vale’s been the one who let him down and tricked him, feigned friendship and then stabbed him in the back like it’s nothing. As if what they had never meant anything. Italy needed an enemy, and Marc was perfect to suit that role.
Marc presses his lips shut not to shout at Marco that Valentino’s preaching bullshit and poisoning their minds with anger of a lost championship, one he lost all to himself. The doctor got too high and mighty and Marc. Marc was simply there, starting his career in the premier class with a noose around his neck the first time he’s shaken that damn Italian’s hand.
Hearing Marco’s words is like sobering up after a long night of partying. Marc’s been chasing wave after wave of intoxicating moments washing through his system, like a drug addict. Perfectionism was so addictive, for the longest Marc believed he could be absolved of peoples’ judgement if he just made things right.
But he’s never escaped the criticism, it doesn’t work like that.
It’s all too much and the scrutinising eyes scanning his every gesture and motion, exposing all the dark corners he’s hiding pain and insecurities, cavities filled with nasty build-up of things he’s never properly taken care of, feel like turning on the high beam when there’s fog. Every thought he’s had so clear in mind dissipates and he’s stranded with nowhere to back off to.
“I never meant to-" it comes out in a choke, air pressured out of his lung.
Growing up in Spain, in a region where the dialect is so discernible to count as its own language, always made Marc at loss for words. He’s always felt that words are never enough, no set of language could ever make his thoughts tangible. Marc’s figured so much, even when the very Italian speaking mechanics and team colleagues offered him a vocabulary to explain 2020, and 2021 too. Even when his therapist suggested writing it all down.
Maybe he is meant to snap and break in half.
It comes out as half a sob, half like Marco’s supposed to call an ambulance. It’s disgusting in its honesty and all the times kid and teenage Marc had nightmares about going to school without clothes on, losing all his teeth before giving a presentation, being left behind at the hotel after a vacation, his parents and Alex gone and his missing forgotten, doesn’t compare to the strangulating vulnerability he now offers Marco to see. It’s unintended, the first emotion past the hurt is anger. Always on the surface, floating around Marc and making him a madman when he’s afraid it would take over.
Anger and frustration are rarely something masculine. Violence akin a religion so indoctrinated you cannot break free from. It’s swallowed parts of his sanity to never lash out, to never scream and punch. There’s no salvation in hurting someone else for your own comfort. There’s no turning back once you let loose.
“Jesus…”
Marc can barely think of anything else than holding back barking and biting like a dog licking blood, ready to maul anyone who comes too close.
He’s being pushed back inside, along with Marco who slams the door shut behind them, loud enough for Marc to freeze up.
He does feel very much like a dog that rather mauled the other rider than sitting in the cage with him, guilt and shame painting his movements.
And Marco stares, just stares until Marc wipes the tears off his face and curses, turns around to get away. He doesn’t know where and the motorhome is too small to take more than five steps without bumping into each other again. Marco is trailing him like a stream of blood from a shotwound, rapidly trickling out of his body until Marc has to sit down on the floor.
Marco’s killed the enemy and immediately regrets it.
“Should I call Alex?”
He’s squatting down to Marc and searches for something, anything, a hint of what to do next. He thought once Marc was defeated he’d feel better, but all he does feel is a whole lot of nothing and that he’s not going to be able to sleep tonight. He’s never seen Marc cry, not like this.
“No, no." he shakes it off promptly, can’t have his brother think of him less than a hero. He’s always been Alex’ big brother, the one who supports him, is a pillar in the family, an example of divinity and healing. But all these years all Marc’s ever did was putting a plaster over the hurt, never looking at the source of the pain.
There’s a pile of stuff he’s ignored for years, and he’s finally gotta admit it’s there.
The ‘why’ is so visibly there in Marco’s confused face, Marc can’t help but smile. Being weak is not only his secret anymore. Reason is not tangible when it comes to family.
Marco has decided to sit down on the floor across Marc, his legs stretched out on either sides of Marc’s body that’s squished together, knees ready to hide his face should he burst into tears again. They look at each other for the longest time.
Marc is known for staring, being a professional racer you don’t blink a lot, so it makes people extra squirmish when they’re being object (victim, really) of a one minute long stare. But Marco’s not better than him. Breaking free from the decision of not looking away is a mutual process, and Marc plays with the idea that it’s not the first time Marco’s doing this. In the end, people want to have someone not look away.
The bigger part of the paddock loves the Italian, adores him as much as he does adore them. It’s a natural conclusion that others feel comfortable with Marco seeing them vulnerable. A part of Marc still feels violated and he can’t help wishing to turn back time.
“It’s not like, I’m going to tell anyone about this, you know…?” Marco offers quietly and it’s strange to think of Marc as someone else than this unshakable giant. The only ones who have seen him cry were his family, Alex included.
“All those years…”
Marc has worked hard to be good with words. Always honest, straight forward, respectful and demanding the same respect, too. He’s been stitching himself together, mending his body and mind after every crash and fall out. Hearing the same words, sentences, like prayers in the church, broken free of its meaning, repeated and forgotten, but repeated nonetheless, shifts something in Marc.
He’s never been shy to back out of pointing at the wrong doings. But it’s the first time he’s been offered a lifeline while drowning in the aftermath of what most people would simply describe as 2015.
“Was stupid.” Marco nods, as sort of explanation why he said the stuff he did say. “We’ve been talking a lot about- “ (this, you, me, Valentino, Alex, Jorge) “ -guess it comes natural to talk about it the way I did. Wasn’t thinking.”
Marc shakes his head as if to get the thoughts out of his mind, shake it all off. “We’re all used to what we do a lot.”
Routine.
The word sits on the tip of his tongue. His therapist has told him to make it his routine to block negative comments out, to stop asking himself why things went down as they did. To heal a wound, you first need to stop touching it constantly. He’s learned so only years later when he had to take care of a physical wound.
Routine can become unhealthy, obsessive.
Just like he’s been following Marco on the track, trying to figure out his racing style, how he’d attack and where he could slip past the younger man.
“I thought I were used to these sort of comments.”
He doesn’t want to admit they hurt. Deep down, Marc knows these words are wrong, and he can’t hate Marco for believing and saying them.
Even less so can he despise Marco when the younger gets up briefly to catch a bottle of water from the countertop, open it and hand it to Marc. His mouth feels all dry and fizzy. He downs the whole bottle in one go, closes his eyes to recharge for a short moment.
Marco wants to say something but there’s a sudden knock on the door, some voice calling out for Marc for media duties.
“Hey, man shit, look I’m - “ Marc gets up and interrupts Marco with a soft smile, a professionally plastered relief of someone who’s not entirely Marc anymore.
“All good. Thanks for staying.”
Marc doesn’t know what else to say. Maybe he should have opted for an apology, because the younger rider looks like a kicked puppy when he’s already walking up to the front to get in his shoes and jacket, ready to face even harsher words.
“Wait, does! Does Alex…? Know about this?” Marco gestures vaguely between them, leaves the sentence fading out, open for Marc to interpret whatever he wants. Marc all but rolls his eyes and gives him a hushed “don’t be funny.”
Marco does not find it funny, at all. But he’s also being quietly asked out so Marc can continue his evening as if nothing had happened, leaving a very confused track opponent behind him.
-
It’s not the first time there’s boos and shouts at the podium celebration, it’s not the first time the team and marshals notice it, the camera pans to the yellow mass of fans that muted the Spanish anthem like a car radio struggling to be heard over the revving motor. Everything speeds up and next to Marc Valentino grabs for the bottle of champagne and starts spraying the other 2 men. Somewhere next to them the girls and a Honda mechanic rush off, let the boys have their moment.
The following press conference is funny. Neither Marc nor Valentino understand the heavy accented English the German reporters are asking questions them, Cal half-heartedly breaks it down, but they’re too absorbed with each other - standing on a podium together, again! - that’s all Marc’s dreamed of and now that his dreams become reality, reality starts looking surreal.
Valentino leaves right after for team celebrations, Marc quietly making his way back to the motorhome, champagne still sticking in his hair, ready to get washed out and his body screaming for rest.
It had been one of the best weekends since racing in the premier class - pole, win, fastest lap and standing on the podium with Valentino.
Later the evening when the Honda team has organised a nice buffet, other riders joining in, celebrating with Marc, the Spaniard sits around, tries to take it all in. He knows these moments won’t last forever, he wants to enjoy every minute he can before it all turns into memory and he eventually forgets about it.
Quietly Valentino has come up - Marc is so surprised at just how quiet the Italian can be when he’s usually welcomed with a fanfare you can hear for miles ahead - and taken a seat next to Marc, offers to cheer with a bottle of beer, clinking it against Marc’s plastic waterfilled one. He laughs loudly, tells him to cherish these moments. Marc watches the older Italian take a sip, beer trickling down his chin, eyes glimmering from the little campfire they’ve started between folding chairs and turned up side down beer crates. The rising star is leading the championship uncomfortably with only 2 points ahead of his teammate, the more seasoned and yet to clinch a title Spaniard. Of course Dani knows how it feels to win a championship, has done so in the lower classes. But he’s not calculated to even get so far as to lead in the premier class - how does it feel like? How will that be?
He wants to ask Valentino all these questions but bites them back down. Time will come when the season is drawing closer to an end. For now, he will cherish the small joys and wins, every positive notion that washes over him and keeps him afloat on this high. He’s been doing so good and salvaged his position in terms of championship standings. It’s all he needs to focus on the present - where he’s sitting with his idol, comfortably close, knees brushing, laughing over the silly songs the team has started to sing a cappella.
At some point later that evening Alex has taken the seat next to Marc while Valentino joined in on some shenanigans and Italian games the younger brother duo isn’t familiar with. They don’t quite fit in, but Marc tries to make up for it, tries to listen to their conversations, grasp on words and phrases and watches Valentino move around, celebrate tonight as if it were his win alone.
When Marc wins the following three races in a row, the boos and chantings get at him. Softly, like being gently lulled into a nightmare, the sounds don’t fade out after he’s left the front part of the paddock set up. The podium is being cleaned right after to make space for other important things, the reporters muted with optimistic words.
“I like that confidence in you.” Valentino states when he’s slowly making his way back with Marc. Marc can’t help but let his shoulders slouch down just a little bit. Basking in Valentino’s words doesn’t feel as good as it had done when he was still running behind his teammate and Jorge. When he wasn’t leading the championship.
Hearing Valentino’s praise is sweet like honey and drips slowly into Marc’s chest.
It’s something he’ll have to learn to deal with, Dani had told him after Germany. There’ll always be people jealous of him. He’s still to learn why people do feel this way.
Marc feels like a foolish little boy, barely twenty, his baby features still showing in the podium pictures his parents take of him. It does take a mountain to square his shoulders again and hold Valentino’s gaze. And even more to find the right words to say something.
But Marc fails to give some witty or mature retort, so he adds a quiet, he’s working on it.
Silverstone is rainy and qualifying is delayed so they rewatch old F1 races because they’re lazy and it’s something different than motogp. It’s still racing, just more wheels. And Valentino gets to talk about Schumacher who is a hero to many, an inspiration to Valentino too.
Marc finds it incredibly endearing how Valentino describes every little notion, mouthing along the commentary in the background like some mumbled prayer. It’s something holy he’s experiencing here and Marc isn’t sure what to do with his hands. The cup of tea he’s holding onto is long empty and their qualifying session delayed some further.
Valentino stops the record as soon as Marc sets the cup aside, stretches himself and tells him Schumi wins. Of course. He’s the greatest of all times.
For Marc, Valentino is the greatest of all times, but he doesn’t say it, doesn’t want this moment to end by his boyish comment. Valentino half-apologises for boring the young rider. It’s ridiculous to think he ever could. Even when he talks rapid fire Italian about something Marc’s never heard before. He hears the passion, the excitement, the joy.
“I don’t think you can ever make me bored.” Marc giggles and watches the fine lines around Valentino’s eyes appear again. He wants to stretch his hand forward to run his fingers over Valentino’s face, see if he’s really here (really here, with him). And to see if he’s really the reason he’s smiling now. Not a win, not a title, no girlfriend or fan screaming his name - just, Marc.
“Is it weird for you not to have a hero in this sport?” he asks to deflect from his silly fan-moment.
“It’s - hard.” Valentino admits and the whole world shifts from its axis. The smile is faint now on the Italian’s face, more a reminder on how to be happy, on how not to forget who he’s supposed to be. Marc etches his features in his memory.
He has his own idols, people who have achieved great things. But they are hard to relate to - how can you compare a football player who has a whole team alongside on the field with a motorbike racer who’s sole way of communication is one-sided and only so comes in abbreviations and numbers when shit goes down.
“You’re a hero to many on the grid.” Marc says in the poised silence. He gets a toothy grin and a “Ah, let’s not talk about that."
PART TWO
It feels great to be on the podium and not have it be about you, Marc thinks as he watches Johann and Marco chat away happily. They’re an odd combination, make for a weird press conference imbalance, the unharmonious sound of breathless English laced with this so heavy French accent makes Marc smile softly. He enjoys the wordless banter he’s having with Marco who sits in the middle, basking in the spotlight of his first win with Aprilia.
“Enjoy it.” Marc whispers as the reporter gets to ask Marco all the questions that are withheld from the second and thirdplaced riders.
Marc quietly nurses his bottle of water, listens how well spoken Marco had become. After their last clash he’s wondered if Marco had spoken up about him in a negative way - which, everyone has. Probably Alex too, but never loudly, to anyone really but himself. Some things are terrible to say about your brother, but Marc understands.
After the press conference is over and done, Marc trails out in front of the other two riders, notices how Marco catches up. They fall in a quiet humming trot, shoulders brushing, then “It was nice racing you."
Marc flashes the winner a smile, shields himself from the guarding look Marco gives him.
“You only say this because you won.”
Marco places his hand over his chest where his heart is, throws his head back and lets out a loud dramatic laugh: “You’re too cold.”
He’s sheepish, and Marc watches him lick his lips as he composes himself and nods at Marc. There’s something in these brown eyes Marc cannot pinpoint, he’s slowed down so much that Johann now overtakes them to get out of the building, the two of them standing in front of the glass door.
“Alex finished 5th, no? Are you gonna celebrate together?”
Alex. Alex. Alex.
Marc nods. Not his team, but his brother. Pecco had to retire, so he’ll probably stick around at the guys at Gresini, taking every opportunity they can get. He has to call Gemma, and ma later when he’s reunited with his little brother.
The sudden urge of calling his parents and telling them about their results takes over any thought Marc’s had about asking if Marco is going to celebrate his win in some grandiose way. He’s probably going to call his family, his mentor, who knows.
Marc doesn’t stick around to ask, and excuses himself out of the front door.
The 1-2 with his brother in Aragon comes sweet and intense. Marc’s not even fully off his bike, there’s reporters, mechanics, his brother, other team members, other riders all over the place. He can barely make out their parents in the whirr of people that want a piece of him. Most of all, Alex wants a piece of him and Marc hugs him so tightly they tumble through the crowd, camera zooming in on them, people patting them all over the body. They stumble and fall and roll on the ground and shout each other's names.
Alex. Alex. Alex. Marc. Marc. Marc.
He’s surprised their ma never dressed them in the same outfits because she wanted them to be individuals, but they are so obsessed with each other and do not care if they’re one mess of red and blue and black leathers rolling on the ground.
The air is being pressed out of Marc’s lungs and they burn when he gathers himself to get up. He lets out a loud roar, words fail even here where he feels so at home. Next to him Alex has taken off his helmet, tears streaming down his face, a smile splitting it apart.
“Are you okay!” Alex shouts over the wild crowd, pushing a camera man aside to nod at Marc’s shoulder. They fell on the concrete with such a force that Alex still has to catch his breath. Marc shakes his head as he finally pulls off the helmet, tears tingling at the corners of his eyes, a sob stuck in his throat. That’s all he ever wanted. Being here on top with his brother, sharing this joy with someone. Finally.
And then everything speeds up and they're on the podium and drenching each other in champagne and congratulations. Somewhere next to them, Marc makes out Pecco, who nods over to them.
Pecco. His teammate. Who actually came in third. Forgotten because it’s Aragon and it’s the Marquez brothers. Alex drags Marc back off the podium and back to the paddock where their respective teams have already started organising a little party.
Respective is such a great modifier to define lists in parallels - Marc finds himself somewhere off where Pecco isn’t anymore and he can’t spot him for the remainder of the night.
Marc wants to apologise but feels stupid doing so. He should first congratulate Pecco, then apologise that he’s a fucking egoist who steals everything from him. His position within the team, the media coverage, all the attention from the team and everyone else, even the joy of celebrating a podium has been denied.
In Mugello it’s raining and Pecco has slipped away from the podium-finish position, and it’s hell all over again. Because it’s Italy and it’s the Marquez brothers.
Hiding never helped, but for once Marc feels okay not to celebrate in a fancy fashion. He feels his strength coming back, his performance aiming towards a constant he wants to maintain. Alex is sitting in his motorhome when Pecco shoots a message at Marc, asking if he’s here actually.
It’s so silly - where should he go even? - that Marc decides to send Alex back to his team before he gets too comfortable on his couch, and heads over quasi next door to Pecco.
Pecco has this wonderful trait of never locking doors. When Marc enters casually, nothing on his mind or heart, he’s being stabbed by Marco’s stare. A surprised ‘oh’ escaped Pecco who’s still holding onto his phone like a pacifier while the intruder is standing in his home.
It feels almost like betrayal. Cruel and unexpected. He wants to ask what’s Marco doing here, holds back just so and nods at his teammate with his chin.
Marco’s quick to stuff his own phone away, locking the screen before Marc can see whatever race they’ve been watching. Probably todays - Marc doesn’t want to overthink anything or accuse them of whatever he seems fit to.
“Alex has really been improving.” Pecco states and pats the large bed nicely as to invite Marc further into the motorhome. He doesn’t have a couch or an area to properly sit down. It’s awkward, but Marc slips out of his shoes and sits down where the two Italians apparently want him.
“You have too, congratulations on the win!” Marco admits and stretches his hand forward to shake it with Marc. It’s so embarrassing and formal and Marc chokes back a laughter as he shakes hands, getting an approving pat on his shoulder from Pecco. Is this some conspiracy meeting he’s walked into?
To some point it is - Marco and Pecco have been theorising when Jorge is going to return to the team again or if Lorenzo will finish the season with them. Not that he cares much, but Marco says it would be good for the team to have consistency and rise up another level. He’s struggled the past year and the change to Aprilia has been a good one. Pecco is giving Marc a hard to define look, Ducati having favoured him over the younger, defending champion.
It’s hard to turn off the thoughts - why are they asking this, what do they get out of this, is this mental warfare - and Marc excuses his poor Italian for not being able to express himself properly. Pecco’s performance had dropped, he’s struggled with the Ducati being so attuned to Marc, so cut for a fighter who’s genius has put the greatest of them all in the shadows.
“Come on, we’re trying to gossip here!” Marco whines and lets his head fall on the bed, the curls springing around and twisting in all directions. Pecco sighs and mumbles that Marc shouldn’t act like an old man.
Marc smiles softly and notes, they got the wrong Marquez brother, which makes Marco whine even louder and even Pecco gives him a quizzical look.
“I would feel bad for pulling your younger brother into this!” he laughs voicelessly, promptly stretching his hand towards Marco who’s looking up again, hair all over his face. He strokes out the wild curls as if it’s the most natural thing to do and Marc watches in awe and terror.
“You should do the haircut.”
Marc is missing out on something here. He’s turned around on the axis and got lost in the loop where it’s past midnight and they’re still sitting on Pecco’s bed and chatting about nothing really. When he’s leaving and Marc is laying in his own bed, an odd feeling spreads in his chest that this will never happen again. He’s acted too weird for thinking Pecco would ever chance to have Marc invite himself over to his motorhome for just, chatting.
Being on more the less friendly terms with Marco though is new. Marc doesn’t know what to do with it whenever they cross paths and nod at each other, fist bump at some point even. Pecco who’s seen their odd encounters already mocks him on the way to the garage, and he has a long weekend to twist the knife even further into the wound.
“It’s nice that you two don’t try to kill each other on and off track anymore.” Pecco remarks with a gentle and mature smile. It sounds slightly condescending, enough for Marc to pull out the knife again and shoot a glance over to Marco who’s sitting at the campfire, laughing with some other riders, shaking his head ever so often now that he has to get used to the new hair cut.
Marco looks right over as Marc wants to blink, doesn’t. He gets a cocky nod, toothy grin, the fire reflecting in the younger one’s eyes. The haircut suits him, gives him some edge.
He might start to try and kill him again.
“He’s a good friend of mine." Marc doesn’t know what he should make out of this. It doesn’t help the old hurt of a friendship dissipating into nothing but coldness and guilt.
It feels mocking when Marco comes over to the two Ducati riders and pats them on the back, congratulating them on the podium and the great race. Marc is too ashamed to reply, gives the same old weary smile. He wishes Marco would be clearer with his sarcasm, not have Marc second guess statements.
Marco squats between them, holding onto the back of Marc’s chair and Pecco’s knees and they’re watching the other starting to get the karaoke machine connected to speakers and ready to blast the night away. Alex is dragging a tipsy Fermin over the place. The rookies always have to start embarrassing themselves first, it’s a hard to deal with ritual. What is even harder to deal with is when Marco casually stretches his hand to the little table in front of them and grabs whatever bottle of beer is open and not yet empty, takes a swing and then rests his elbow back on Marc’s armrest.
“Have you tried these before?” Pecco asks and before Marco can reply he gets some sticky pastry stuffed in his mouth. An appreciative humming fills the space between them and Pecco grins too, takes one of the sweets himself, indulges.
Why do things seem so easy between the two Italians, why is it that Marc feels like a narrator to a wonderful evening he can never be part of.
It will never truly leave because it’s been a decade since he’s last felt what friendship could be like. And it’s in his every thought and dream. When he thinks he can’t finish a race, it’s there, and when he sees the sun set after a long day of training, it’s there. When people boo him, it’s there and when he’s being held in Alex’ arms it’s there. Even after he had left, he remains, like some corpse replacing itself.
The friendship Marco and Pecco have seems easy. Everything about Marco seems easy, if Marc is being honest with himself and subtracts the prejudices he’s been harbouring for the Italian. It comes easy when the microphone is passed vaguely in their direction, Pecco already up for a toilet break and Marco asking if Marc wants to join in on a tune or two. He doesn’t give enough time for a response as the next song starts and he’s straightening his back to be close to Marc’s face.
The non-alcoholic beer does nothing to help Marc feel less fucked up about it. He sings along, blurts out the wrong words, makes Marco giggle like a girl for everyone to hear. He blushes and guides them through the song until everyone tags along to help them. Marc’s bursting into giggles as he sees Pecco standing aside, watching with a tender smile. He wants to feel normal about this, have this one thing. His heart takes comfort in the pretense that this could be normal, and good.
And it is so good until someone brings up the topic of Valentino, and suddenly a handful of the riders pull their phones out and start scrolling, cooing, and clapping their hands on their thighs as they look over to Marc. The dinner wants to make a return from Marc’s stomach as Marco’s staring at Joan’s phone who shows him a post about Valentino having unfollowed the official motogp account on instagram after Marc’s win in Italy a week ago.
“You really must have hurt his ego!” some blurt over to Marc but he can’t hear them anymore. Alex shoots them a questioning look but Marc gets up promptly to leave before his younger brother starts to worry. He should have this moment, too. Make friends and find out how it feels to be stabbed in the back - he needs to turn around and get him out of there, save him before it’s too late.
He crashes face first into Marco’s shoulder, slouches down, breathing out against the exposed biceps of the Italian.
“Gotchu."
He’s been dragged across a side alley, into a maze of metal doors until the ringing stops in Marc’s ears and he’s being pushed a bottle of gatorade in front of his face.
“Have you tried breathing?" Marco’s voice is poised, tilting the bottle slightly to make Marc drink.
“Not when you’re making me drink this." he finally states after he’s taken a good swing and lets go again. Marco closes the bottle, sets it aside on the small table before he sinks down next to Marc.
“Breathing now?" it’s mocking and Marc’s lip twitches up, he nods with closed eyes, breathes in deep and lets the air flow out through his nose.
“That shit’s scary, you know?” Marco talks quietly as Marc opens his eyes again, takes in the motorhome he’s been - kidnapped? - sitting in. The low dimmed lights are comforting, don’t scrutinise him, don’t point out his flaws and failures.
“Have you talked with someone about this? I mean, a professional, I’m probably no good.”
Marc lowers his eyes. He doesn’t want to admit being weak, doesn’t want to give them all even more they can mock him with and point the finger at.
“Sorry for scaring you.” is all Marc can say. He’s thought so hard what to say if Alex were ever to figure out what’s going on behind his smile and closed doors. He suggests he leaves so Marco can head back to the party again.
Once more he feels Marco’s hands steadying him, pushing him back into the couch. Marc doesn’t even try to fight against it, takes the hand he’s being offered immediately like he’s sitting in a burning house.
“That’s not what I want.” Marco’s face is grave and he takes in the shy glances, the blinks coming more often so Marc doesn’t fucking cry. Again.
“I thought things would get better after 2021.” he whispers, admits that yeah, he does go to therapy.
Marco lets out a hum, drums his fingers on Marc’s knee. So casually. They don’t know what to say or do with their limbs, devoid of their bikes, they cannot extend towards anything else. After a few more minutes Marc takes a long and deep breath that brings out a surprised chuckle from Marco. He’s been holding it back for some time but somehow he feels comfortable to let go a bit. Just a tiny bit. Maybe that is okay.
“Do you wanna watch a movie or something?” Marco suggests and something in the Spaniard screams to leave. But he’s so weary and tired like getting off a high so he nods and slumps further down on the couch, watches Marco start the tv and pick two movies up for Marc to select one. He doesn’t care, knows both of them anyway.
“That’s intentional. Glad you know them. I’d fucking kick you out of here if you don’t know mission impossible!”
Marc laughs out loud and nods to start with this then. He can’t help but drift off to sleep within the first half hour of Ethan Hunt doing the very possible things.
-
It’s a barn.
(Yeah, you heard that right.)
Maybe he’s being mocked. Maybe Valentino lost his mind. Marc takes it as warning that once you’re a champion, you do weird things like purchasing a hundred hectares of land with a barn on it.
But it’s also magical. It’s so pure and undone, nothing crafted on it yet but the sloppy container with some of Vale’s stuff and dirtbikes hidden under tarp sheets. There’s a fireplace inside, a garage right next to it. They don’t talk about the possible fire hazard, motor oil and other flammable liquids scattered around the farther side of the garage. What they do talk about is the possible loops and how to stretch a track on the land. Vale plans on using it for training and offering younger riders to try out different bikes. To have them have a chance to sniff how it would feel to properly race and compete.
Vale offers a normal bicycle to ride around the grounds of his property, tells him about the changes he plans on achieving. Some friends of his are coming over later, asking for Marc’s opinion and he doesn’t really know what to say. For all he knows, his parents had always taken on the responsibility of making decisions for him. They want to keep things fair and squared between the brothers and Alex is still a tad bit too young to choose responsibly. He’s had a whole tub of ice cream after his first win in moto3 and was down the following day with a bad stomach ache.
Vale’s friends are much older, none of them active racers anymore, or never been in first place. One of them an engineer Vale’s worked with in his years with Honda, two seem like they have little idea what’s exactly Vale’s vision, but a bunch of money to realise it.
They scribble on oil stained papers how a track could possibly look like, Vale letting Marc refine the sloppy sketches with the focused eyes of a youngster. From somewhere back in the barn Vale pulls out a chess board and starts setting it up to play. It’s a long night and Marc wins his first ever chess game with the help of Valentino. He’s never been into board games, never smoked a cigarette.
It’s amazing updating Alex on all these things, how beautiful Tavullia is and how good the dishes are Vale is ordering for them. There’s so many firsts and acknowledging smirks from Valentino who’s so much more experienced in this life. He drives them around in a little Fiat, making a detour to one of his favourite vineyards where some grandpa is inviting them into his house. They’re being poured a glass of red wine - Marc’s not too fond of wine, but he tries it after some coaxing from Vale. He doesn’t want to look like a child.
Valentino praises him and Marc can’t help but cringe and blush. He’s gotten much better at understanding Italians, Vale. There’s a lilt in the older racer’s voice and Marc has been trying to tackle it down. Accents are rarely so distinguishable from local lingo. Even with Dani, Marc sometimes wonders why he has to rewire the sentences.
The next day they’re out on the dirtbikes Vale had kept safe underneath tarp and old blankets. Everything smells of oil and sawdust and Marc’s sweating underneath the borrowed leathers. They’re giving each other a relentless battle going in circles around the barn house. After catching some breath, they sit down and go over Marc’s first draft, improving some parts. They’re deciding on going out to a bar for dinner and Marc gets to know some more guys from the local dirtbike and motocross community. It’s nice to feel so free and independent, to feel like you’ve achieved something.
When they’re sitting together after another good fight on track. Marc has fought hard and bitter after colliding with Vale, but he’s got no hard feelings. They’re all fighting for something and sometimes you make mistakes. Marc’s winning campaign is unprecedented.
Vale jokes with him, makes Marc feel light headed and good. He’s enough points ahead to spare some for his friend. (Of course) Marc laughs and tries not to care about championship points. He’s in a good lead and intends on extending it. Dani’s almost complained why he couldn’t share a podium with his teammate, joking that the Yamaha riders should be fair and share. Jorge who came in second shakes his head, refuses flat out to ever share anything that’s his.
“We’re all the same! We’ll never share.” he’s beer drunk, poking at shit none of the rookies is interested in, so he hangs around Valentino.
“I think Marc would surely share with his brother, no!” Vale nudges his elbow against Marc, who sheepishly runs his hand over his neck. He’s hot and he doesn’t want to lie (he’d rather lose than see his little brother sad).
“Of course, I love Alex." he smiles and gets some raised eyebrows from his fellow countrymen. Aleix has been eyeing them for a while already, doesn’t comment on anything really. He’s asked how Marc was, after the crash though, which is nice.
“You two should come to the ranch with me before we’re all going over to Spain, no?” Vale suggests and Marc can only so shift his shoulders up. He knows how much Alex wants to be at home and thrives in routine. It’s comfortable and ordinary and he’s with his brother. They can rewatch the races and learn from the mistakes. The ones they have done, those others do, in order to outrun them.
“I can ask him." Marc vaguely responds, but is not quite sure yet.
“Ah, come on! It’s gonna be great! He can also try the bikes, there’s plenty anyway.” It’s a fun thought, spending some more time with Vale and also his brother. Experiencing first hand how much Alex has grown as a racer is something Marc has always been waiting for. With how well things are proceeding, Alex could clinch his first title and possibly move up to Moto2. But that’s all still for the future to come and right now, Marc lets himself get persuaded to join Vale on the ranch (there’s proper tracks now!).
-
It settles in slowly and in unexpected moments.
A joke here and there when they cross each others paths around the paddock. A harmless spontaneous race with their bicycles on the track to get to know it again before going out on their actual bikes. A very nonchalant Pecco who mocks Marco by inviting him over instead of going over to him, and Marc can’t escape his presence.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
It’s more of a statement than a question yet Pecco plays the fool who doesn’t know what Marc’s on about. They’re playing table tennis in the box while everyone else is on break, the other riders escaping the heat and sun too. Pecco’s leading with 20:1.
“See it as exposure therapy."
Marc loses the ball and another point against Pecco. He sighs quietly as he picks up the ball to start again.
“Thank you, but I’ve already had enough therapy.” He tosses it big time, the ball skimming all over the floor. Pecco puts the padel aside and watches Marc search for the small ball.
“I meant for Bez." (Valentino’s a bad influence on him, the others spiral around the same old stories, he doesn’t want to lose his best friend)
They don’t talk about it - neither about why Pecco thinks Marco should hang around more often, nor what kind of therapy Marc has been going to. Marc knows he can trust Pecco with these things. The Italian is always so incredibly sensitive and discreet, it feels like shouting at a child that’s done nothing wrong.
When Marc is laying in bed later that night, he calls Gemma and asks if she thinks any progress has happened since he’s started going to therapy again. She’s tagged along, once, so the doctor could get her opinion, see her point of view on things, Marc can inherently not answer. It was a strange session and things haven’t gotten better after. His work schedule is also much too busy to cram in one more appointment he doesn’t have the mental capacity for.
He’s trying, nonetheless.
For his family, his brother, Gemma, himself, the fans out there, the community - there’s a knock on Marc’s door. Someone’s voice quietly asking if he’s still up. Marc pretends he’s fast asleep and doesn’t move.
It haunts him in his dreams.
Valentino’s knocking on his door and he’s 20 again, being asked to come racing. No one’s looking, they can start the bikes by themselves, no one could stop them. They’re sneaking to the garage, unmounting their bikes and rolling them on the grid. Marc’s not wearing a helmet, no gloves, and suddenly he’s going 300kmph and he can’t breathe anymore. Valentino is in front of him, full gear. Leathers, boots, helmet, gloves, backpadding, his bike roaring underneath him as it drags Valentino’s body over the track, glues him on the tarmac when he’s leaning in almost fully horizontal. Marc’s bike slips away underneath his hands, his side burns and he coughs. There’s blood everywhere and he can hear someone laughing. He’s too scared to look, gets up and pulls the bike up again. His fingers are dark, dirty, his jeans ripped. Valentino is waiting on his bike, head turned back to watch him. And Marc gets up on the bike again, gets it going again, always chasing, always falling. He’s being kicked off, a highside that sends him and the bike flying. By the time of his 5th crash his bike should be in crumbs. Valentino is still watching him, how he lands face first, legs mangled in an odd angle. Marc can barely scream, doesn’t feel the pain. In front of him he can see Valentino turn his head forward again, kicking out with his leg and roaring off into the distance.
“Would you join a detour?” It’s always safer to ride with a partner than alone, especially in a country he doesn’t know the streets of, nor the language. Pecco’s face practically splits in two at the proposal to drive through the last tips of the alps, enjoying the Austrian countryside (and the dishes, really, he’s in there for the food) some more. They’re setting on meeting up with the team in Hungary again on Wednesday, and get provided with street-licensed Ducatis and some nondescript gear.
They look so unidentifiable, Marc fears if he’d lose Pecco, it would be for good.
“What about Alex?" - "What about him?” - “Would you mind if he joins?”
Marc ducks his head and there’s a pause that makes him regret having asked. Pecco probably thought this was just a teammate thing. Now, it’s turning into a family trip and he’s the weird cousin thirdwheeling.
“Do you want Bastianini to join? You’ve been good teammates the past year.” Marc suggests and regrets that too immediately. Pecco looks away, fumbles with his hands and then sighs that, yeah no, they haven’t really talked a lot since the end of last season.
Quartararo maybe, Bez would for sure be up to it, but…
“Why not then, ask him."
Pecco has been tiptoeing around any rider who’s affiliated with Valentino, which is, hard. Marc suggesting now, to ask Marco to join them feels strange, like a trick question. So he asks, if that’s a trick.
“I mean, someone’s gonna need to keep the rivalry alive.” There’s an impenetrable wall Marc cannot stare away when it comes to Pecco handing out low blows. He doesn’t fold, not this time.
After a short stare down, Pecco nods and makes his way to the other two riders’ motorhome, inviting them to their private trip. Fabio understands immediately, sighs happily how he can’t wait to get out of this circus. He’s prepared, has done such trips on his own already, so the team knows the procedure.
With Marco it’s a bit more complicated, like bribing a kid to eat its greens. There’s Jorge, who hasn’t said a single good thing about Marc in a very long time, and there’s the academy riders groupchat. They’d notice his absence. Valentino has asked questions already.
“Come Bez, it’s really nice here, just the Maquez, Quartararo and me and you!”
Marco lifts his eyebrows and closes his eyes, giving Pecco answer enough. He’s not so sure if it’s a good idea to meddle with Marquez in private.
“What, are you like, scared?” Pecco laughs and starts tickling Marco until tears stream down his face and they’ve made a mess on Marco's already very untidy bed. Why are they always acting like children, Pecco couldn’t care less to be anything other than himself when he’s with Marco.
“Then come with us.” Marco bites down on his lip, the tooth gap showing and making Pecco smile. He’s always liked this little imperfection about Marco.
“You’re a bad influence!” Marco barks back, detangles himself from Pecco. He sees it a win, folds his arms as Marco starts pacing around his motorhome.
“Ah, come. Just us guys riding for hours with no interruption. Doesn’t that sound nice.” Pecco lifts up Marco’s phone and mutes it. There’s 130 unread messages from 5 chats. He saves Marc’s number while Marco is preoccupied by gathering stuff he’ll need for the next three days.
They meet up a few hours later in some back alley. Bikes ready, backpacks filled to the brim apart from Fabio’s. He laughs at them and then rolls his bike forward where none of the people still in the paddock can see them. Behind Marc, Alex quietly trots next to Marco, the Italian asking why they’re sneaking away like this. Pecco is at the front, leading them past the local inn. Their visors go down like clockwork and they jump on their bikes. The motors roar up and with a last view on the mountain, they make their way down into the valley to follow the only street leading to their next stop.
Fabio’s organised the inn where they’re staying. It’s an old style hostel, used mainly by school groups. They’re staying in a 6 beds room, two showers, a large table, a tv screen and a couch, everything they need. It’s still early and they dick around in the room for a while, all of them sheepish about managing to get away quietly.
“I could really do with some dinner!" Marc groans after flipping his phone back on the bed. He’s updated Gemma, sent her a few photos of the view they’re having. It’s a beautiful country. He understands Fabio and why he’s so good at sneaking off.
“Isn’t there a restaurant on the groundfloor?” Alex looks to Fabio for help as he seems to be the most informed of them. But Pecco’s quick to suggest three other restaurants which are close-by. Well, close-by for the standards for being in the countryside. Each is half an hour ride away but look promising.
None of them really cares and to some extent they’re too hungry to properly decide. Marc goes forward picking one that serves traditional chocolate cake. He’s always wanted to try it.
“What do you mean with ‘trying’?" Marco stares at him in terror. They have placed their orders, gotten a glass of water each (none of them wants the other to think they’re irresponsible for drinking a beer) and Marc opted to order the cake. He’s the only one wanting a dessert and feels he deserves it. It’s something like a big step, to be out there in the open.
“Not everyone has a cheat day like you.” Pecco mocks him and kicks Marco’s leg underneath the table. Alex mumbles something next to Marc that sounds like he’ll have to share dessert. Fabio admits that the cheese dish is really good, he’s been here before already a few years ago. They laugh about other countries’ traditional foods and the bad things they’ve already tasted.
Alex and Marco turn out to be the pickiest eaters of the group. When your diet is already so limited, Marc sighs, he can’t be picky. They all nod and indulge in courses they’d usually not get from hospitality or at home. After a quick toilet break, Fabio comes back with a stack of cards he got from the owner. They try playing a round of poker but some cards are missing, so they decide to head back to their inn and ask if they have some board games.
The grandma owning the property pulls them in a storage room full of stuff that keeps teenagers and kids entertained. There’s a dartboard mounted on the wall, and Marco tries his best, fails terribly, but Alex isn’t better. Fabio casually without even trying sends the dart straight in the middle.
“My dad had one in his garage. Was the only thing i was allowed to touch.” he winks with his eye at the others and then helps Pecco move some tables to get to other games. They find a complete deck of cards and other boardgames and take them up to their room.
Instead of pushing the tables closer together, they make themselves a cosy place on the floor. With pillows and extra blankets thrown on the ground, Fabio starts mixing the cards for a round of poker. They’re using dice and small figurines from other games as their in-game currency, none of the riders having any actual cash on their hands (and they’re not playing for money anyway). The Frenchman stops then abruptly as he’s finished giving them cards, everyone set but him apparently.
He leans over to his backpack and pulls out his sunglasses, shifts them over his nose, looking more silly than cool. Marco cracks a laugh and hides behind his cards, says he can’t play seriously if they’re fooling around.
Pecco, lovely honest Pecco, is done for after a short while already and leans back to take a look at Marco’s cards. He wants to help his fellow countryman, but is terrible at doing so. As Alex goes broke soon after, the two losers swap places so Pecco can “help" (distract) his teammate and Alex plays mindgames with Marco against his brother. They lean in close, the cards hiding their mouths as they half-whisper about the next move, both pairs of eyes glued on Marc, watching him watching them. Pecco casually stretches himself out, lazily pulls a card from Marc’s hand, and Alex muses which card Pecco might have drawn. Marco denies, he would go for a lower one, Pecco freezes in his move, purses his lips. Marc still doesn’t move nor blink. Both of them have absolutely shit hands just the same. It’s a tie.
“Okay, winners fight it out.” Fabio huffs. It’s past midnight already and they need to leave the room at 9am latest.
“Ah no come on, a tied win!" Pecco suggests while Alex looks for a coin they can flip. Marc still keeps his eyes on Marco, who doesn’t let go of the cards on his hand either. Both believing they could have won this come the next round.
Fabio gets up too now looking for a coin, can’t find one but some single packaged toothpicks. They could still pull straws to decide the winner of the night.
“I think they’re doing a stare down already.” Alex then nods over to them. Pecco gently pushes Marc’s upper body forward and Marco leans in too until their foreheads almost touch and both burst out in laughter and pull away. Marc could have sworn that Marco’s eyes flitted down on his lips (no, he didn’t grin).
“Losers. Both of you!” Fabio declares with a loud laugh and they call it a night.
When Marco wakes up the next morning only Fabio is there, casually lounging in his bed, fully dressed already.
“Where’s the others?" he asks with a groggy voice and gets out of the bed to hit the shower. It’s still only 7am but the sun already shines brightly. At least all their stuff is still in the bathroom, so the others didn’t leave them behind.
“They went out for a run." Fabio sighs and gets up now too, urging Marco to get going, he needs some coffee already.
Alex rushes in first, spots Fabio and Marco lazily enjoying breakfast in the dining lounge. He greets them breathlessly and Marco lifts one eyebrow, asking himself if they hadn’t gotten enough from being comparative yesterday night. He doesn’t say anything when Pecco and Marc come in, sweat running down their arms, shirts drenched and faces flushed pink. It sure is a sight, to see Marc smiling so brightly so early in the morning, the training shirt only a tanktop, the scar clearly visible for everyone.
He goes up to the table where Marco and Fabio are sitting (they’re the only ones here during this time of the week) and lifts the glass of orange juice from the table, holds onto Marco’s shoulder while he downs the juice.
“Ah - I really needed that!” he pronounces and puts the glass back on the table, gives his best smile.
“How are you so happy at 8 in the fucking morning.” Marco mutters but then smiles as Marc squeezes his cheeks.
“And don’t give me some carpe diem stuff now.” Marco scrunches his nose at the affectionate but wet touch.
“Routine." Marc pats his shoulder for good and lets go, follows his brother and Pecco up to their room to get showered and changed. Marco doesn’t wipe off the sweat from his cheek, smiles sheepishly, how confident and grounded Marc is actually.
It’s nice having someone pronounce their cadence, allowing others to join in on their routine. They make breaks when Marc calls for them. Pecco gasping for water because he doesn’t think about drinking enough. Marco shoving down a protein bar because he really can’t stomach a lot in the early morning hours. Alex and Fabio use the slow times for their own pace and stillness.
There’s a moment in the afternoon, when they stumble through a forest, just to get lost a bit, explore the places they’re visiting. They’ve called in at another inn right at the border to Hungary where they’ll be staying for the night before uniting with the rest of the paddock and teams again.
“Are you gonna go for a run tomorrow morning too?" Marco asks, treading on moss next to Marc while Alex is chasing a perfect shot of the sunset for his girlfriend.
“You wanna join?” Marco can’t say that Marc beams, or challenges him either. It’s something akin to surprise when he looks over to the Italian, and Marco can’t help but shrug half-heartedly, unsure if he can force himself out of bed when the alarm goes off.
For Marc it’s a support to not forget the significance of things. Routine, after all, is what anchors a person in the present and a competitive rider always has to pay full attention to the present.
They arrive at the inn, drenched wet from a sudden rainshower. The room is cool and the sun has already set. There’s a kitchenette and Pecco says fuck it, and runs down to the local grocery store to buy pasta and some vegetables to cook dinner. None of them wants to go out again for dinner and they’re searching their 4-beds apartment for extra blankets to keep them warm. Marco takes one for the team and announces he’ll sleep on the couch while the brothers share the double bed and Pecco and Fabio have the room with the twin beds. He doesn’t mind, enjoys the rush of being in the centre of everyone and making a playlist with Marc while Alex is demoted as their cook.
“He used to cook a 4-courses dinner on mothers day every year. I’ve never been any help.” Marc smiles as he watches his little brother banging pots and singing along the songs Marco’s chosen.
“Aw… I bet you contributed in another way…?” Marco has always tried helping his sister organising a trip for their parents, was mostly the driver so his parents could enjoy wine and a carefree day, simply following the sunset and whatever their chaos-kids have planned.
Marc looks down at his phone, unable to come up with another song. He’s never been good with that, only knows Spanish ballads or some obscure songs he can barely remember the lyrics of. Marc’s pa always pulled him aside, put him into race gear and taken to the track, so his ma could have a relaxed morning sleeping in. He always wanted to make her proud, make her believe in him and support him but all it ever did was wedging distance between them.
He looks over to Alex who feeds Pecco a spoonful of sauce he’s preparing from scratch. His little brother is a DIY guy, always had to build himself up from scratch and crumbs Marc left.
“Have you ever gone fishing and prepped the fish you caught and ate it?" Marco asks out of the blue. It takes Marc at surprise and he scrunches his nose, lets out a loud laugh and shakes his head.
"My pa’s not into fishing.”
Dad. Dad. Dad.
Alex. Alex. Alex.
Alex leans over the kitchen island to ask Marc to taste the sauce now too.
“I trust you." he doesn’t even decline and Alex goes over to them to let Marc taste it anyways. Because his opinion counts, the only opinion Alex would ever take to heart, even if Pecco said it was incredible and Fabio is helping himself now too, already hungry and impatient.
"He’s too honest.” Alex sighs then towards Marco, who watches Marc frown, close his eyes and humm, twisting the spoon between his fingers as if he’s some gourmet test eater.
"More salt?" Alex asks, impatient. The pasta will be ready any minute and he doesn’t want to over cook it. Pecco and Marco would probably behead him.
“No I think it's fine." Marc returns the spoon but Alex still hesitates. His bother’s opinion is so, so important.
“Maaarc, don’t tease him.”
Marco chuckles and nudges his elbow against Marc, who leans in closer, eyes still on his brother.
“What do you think about adding more rosemary?" Marc suggests with an evil tone to his voice. Marco laughs out loud, throws his head back against the couch. Alex is biting down on his lips, unsure if his brother is teasing him or if there’s a hint of truth in it.
“Don’t be so mean." Marco eventually sighs and leans his arm over to take the phone out of Marc’s hand and adds a new song to their playlist. The guitar riff starting promptly before Marco can hand the phone back. He’s still holding onto the device as Pecco and Fabio in complete union start blurting out the lyrics. (*)
Something in Marc freezes and then slowly starts twisting into a knot. He knows that some griefs need to be held in the mouth like a stone.
"Why’d you pick that song?” he doesn’t hear himself asking but Marco’s face is suddenly so close to his and he can see the little gap between his teeth. They’re still holding onto the phone, fingertips brushing and Marc is losing it a little bit. He thinks he’s about to have a full blown panic attack.
Because I think you need to make amends - it doesn’t come out like this, not poetic, nor well spoken, but easy. Everything that’s left between them expands to fill the gaps and Marc believes that Marco has done this before. There's a twinkling in Marco’s eyes - has he been wrong about the Italian?
He’s slotting in where Marc feels haunted.
Marc wakes up one day to a message, containing just one photo, no text. It’s Marco with a rod in one hand and a small fish in the other, grinning tiredly. The sun looks like it just crept up beyond the horizon.
Gemma asks if something’s happened, isn’t used to Marc checking his phone while still in bed, hair all dishevelled and voice not ready to start the day yet. He locks his phone again, turns back in the sheets to press a good morning kiss on Gemma’s shoulder, soft giggles fill the room.
He checks his instagram (Marco’s) and sees a reel of his training regiment. It feels weird leaving a trace in the internet, that once so ephemeral space turned into a coded and quantified list of views, clicks, likes, names and followers.
When he meets up later the week with his physio to assess the current situation, go over the data available to them, perfectly understanding what is happening, his progress a linear with the expected lows, they can extend and set the plan.
He doesn’t fully see a grander picture when he shares a new recipe he’s tried that Marco had asked about, but he’s honest enough to admit it. Gemma gives him a tough smile, the corners of her lips turned downwards. She thinks it as joke and Marc is too scared to let Alex in on this.
Feasting.
Marc replies with a classic gif and so does Marco, and he’s losing it for a minute or two. He can barely catch his breath and suddenly they’re video calling, Marc watching Marco eat whatever-curry with a side salad with oranges and a protein shake. All while Marc tells him about the fish market and the wines and pasta he’s stocked up on lately. They joke about Marco cooking pasta for them and Marc opening the wine bottle and then their laughter dies and it’s no joke anymore. He could arrive one day earlier in Italy, make a detour over to Marco’s and they’ll get to the track together the next day. Or separate, if Marc prefers so. The media, of course. The academy riders, of course.
Marc feels boyish, turns the idea in his mind, weighs the words, the suggestion. He decides he thinks too much into this and -
The Italians have taken so much from him, but they won’t take his tongue.
Marc is being cut open like a fish, reporters haggling over the innards while he’s still struggling not to choke. Marco next to him peels a clementine, smug and cool, shoves a piece in his mouth while the cameras flash, immortalising the horrors on Marc’s face.
They’re asking if that (whatever the reporters fabricate it was, Marc still cannot wrap his head around it) was a secret meeting after Bez has crashed last time, if he’s getting advice from the champ on how to perfect his racing.
Someone interrupts, corrects that Bez is already getting proper support from the best in the sport. A cold reminder that once you get too close to Marc Marquez you’ll get gutted like Pecco, in hindsight of the recent season. They’re laughing until they aren’t anymore.
PART THREE
Perfection doesn’t leave room for change, for growth.
Pecco’s been, incredibly sensitive and opportunistic. He’s an anchor where the whole world is shifting and starts turning upside down. When Marc came into his motorhome earlier the month, he’s created a space where there was none.
He openly speaks up to the media (war is over) to have established a good friendship with the so controversial (hated) Spaniard. He’s sad there has always been this harsh line with no common ground. He’s cried more times out of anger than joy over maintaining a friendship with both of them. A task impossible deemed by the whole world. So easy for Pecco who loves with his whole heart and could never do otherwise.
Marc finds it very comforting to see strength in something that’s usually tainted as weakness.
Knowing that your teammate is not someone who’d hate you for your past doings, is something new.
Up to some point Marc had all these connections and friendships and the ability to pull people towards him. Somewhere along his journey of healing (when the pandemic rolled over the world and people were dying and everything happened everywhere all over the world over the course of years) everything else had atrophied terribly. It bothers him a lot actually, the former vibrancy has been choked out by this constant stress and battle.
-
Marc thought he’d have forever, moments like these. When he holds out an empty cup of coffee for Vale to ash his cigarette into, an acknowledging pat on the shoulder, just a bit too tight, knowing Vale’s making sure the leathers are closed properly, they go racing safe and carefree of who’d win. Dancing over the track, overtaking just to let the other bounce back into position. Coming back to the motorhome park, chatting away the adrenaline and rush.
Memories are rarely linear, reliable.
2 years of obliterating pain numbed Marc’s arms to not feel a hug anymore. 2 years of constant phone calls, translating interviews at 6am along breakfast, learning about how a heart transplant must feel like, ribcage being torn open on a cool surgery table, cameras snapping photos of the dissected champion, discussing the merits of every word he’s said about and towards Valentino.
He cannot move an inch without bumping into some piece of Vale.
Time has looped its noose around their necks, the friendship’s death echoes in Marc’s mouth. His movements are frantic, slowed down until they still. He thinks this must be a punishment. It doesn’t make sense - there was no warning and suddenly nothing will ever come back.
Marc forces his eyes open.
The war his mind is fighting turns into a black hole, a concentration of pain and simultaneous events overlapping each other.
Through all the stress and adrenaline rush, rest seems so far away and Marc finds himself suspended in a muffled world where he’s being called to the race director, gets asked all the wrong questions and given all the wrong replies. Interviews and meetings are scheduled, statements are written, official ones where Marc can’t speak his mind, heart.
At the end of it all Marc doesn’t belong to this world anymore and there’s no place to go back to.
He shuts the door without closure, somewhere in his backpack there’s still a key to one of the lockers on the ranch.
-
They don’t greet each other. Why should they. Valentino has refused to shake his hand enough times for Marc to know he’s only making himself a fool to offer it again after so many years. He’s moved on with a goodbye that’s still rotting inside his heart a decade later.
“Have you seen how they look at him…!?”
Marc shuts it out, can’t stand to hear anything this weekend.
“Like he’s fucking radioactive!"
Marco’s voice echoes between the motorhomes. Mumbles follow and Marc finds himself struggling to continue his walk. He wants to make a detour to his own motorhome to hear what they’re talking about, what Marco has to say. He wants to believe, they’re gossiping about him, bringing up the rivalry between him and Valentino and that - he wants to think it could have turned into a friendship, he wants it so, so badly - Marc is an inherently terrible person.
They’ve laughed and joked, carefree, just yesterday evening. It feels like it happened months ago and maybe it never did and none of that is even real.
It’s an old hurt which carries Marc’s bike across the track, the Italian sun shining down on him for so many hours fucks him up. He tries to recall some advice his therapist has given him a long time ago - don’t concern yourself with how you’re being perceived by others.
He walks up to Marco after the race, wants - demands - his attention. Marc doesn’t want to let him get away this time, Valentino has to wait in his favour. Even when Alex pulls on his shoulder until it hurts.
He’s so selfish it hurts.
And he breaks.
Valentino still holds a tight grip over him, when he sneaks forward to his protege, hugs him and pulls him away from everyone else. Marc readjusts, turns around his bike as if he’s occupied looking at something. He notices Alex, pulls him in close and congratulates him. It’s stilted and cold. He doesn’t enjoy the podium, knows that he’s stood here with Valentino, they had celebrated on here together and this is never going to come back. He realises that no one will see it the same way he used to see it with Valentino.
There’s a deep emptiness that comes with being befriended and then unwanted, that seems to never go away. He’s tried his best to find some sense out of a bunch of shards taped together. Feeling eternally insecure about how he wants to see himself and allow others in.
Marc’s so desperate to talk with Pecco but his teammate is living his very own hell after a retirement. It should be theirs, but it isn’t. Ducati still celebrates Marc’s win as theirs.
Everything is being pulled apart and Marc can’t wait to be home again, find comfort in his relationship. Slow and steady.
There’s never been fights with Gemma. When something is not as she expected or liked, she always finds a moment to address it in a way that keeps Marc’s face and he can make amends without losing his own integrity. The good days with her, when he doesn’t feel any pain numbing his mind and withholding some energy, are some of the best he’s had in his life.
She supports him as he supports her and they both are free to live their lives.
When she’s not at home, gone on a girls trip to Madeira, Marc finds himself in a rather cool flat. The muted colours of the furniture do nothing to help him get out of the weekend’s slump. He won, but it doesn’t feel good. Not when Valentino’s watching him, scrutinising his every move.
It’s insulting when Pecco sends him a photo of a table full of drinks, cigarette packs, snacks, other shit laying around, and asks if he’s already back in Cervera celebrating with Alex. He leaves his teammate on read and looks over to the tv, distracting himself with some football match that’s being streamed. He really can’t be bothered to care.
The phone goes off a few more times. His ma calls and is being ignored in favour of turning sour. Gemma writes him then, asking if he doesn’t like talking to his ma tonight. No, he really doesn’t.
There’s more photos and a video coming in from Pecco. He mutes his phone and turns around, holds onto the small device until he falls asleep in his denims.
When they meet again in Motegi, pretty much everyone from the paddock being split along the three hotels lining up in one street, Pecco scoots over as soon as they’re checked in.
“Did your phone die too?” the Italian asks and slips the door close behind, leans against it with crossed arms.
“What does that mean?”
Marc dodges the questions and starts pulling out his clothes for the weekend, looks over to what Pecco’s wearing for their team dinner.
“I mean, it’s fine to not want to hang ‘round when all we did was trying to salvage what I’ve messed up.”
But - Pecco doesn’t continue and Marc gets unnerved. He could also be talking with his therapist right now, never getting a direct question, never getting concrete advice. Just, something to hold onto, that’s what he wants. Needs.
“I had a busy week with training and, family, you know.” because Pecco’s married and he does know that no relationship can magically work without putting in some sort of effort.
“Leaving it all on read is rude, no.” Pecco winces and pushes himself off the door to walk over to Marc who slips away and into the bathroom. Pecco watches him change shirt (he probably should have waited instead of now staring him down through the big mirror) and his eyes trace the scars, big keloid ones, scattered on his shoulder and arm.
“Wasn’t my intention to be rude.”
Marc gives Pecco a hard look, finds his staring rude.
“I know it’s hard - “ - " No you don’t."
Marc turns his body and faces Pecco fully now.
“You don’t.” he repeats. He wants to let it all out and knows it’s not fair. It’s not fair towards Pecco, towards Alex, hell even towards Valentino himself. And most of all it’s not fair to himself. Marc is so scared to let someone close only to lose again.
Pecco shifts on his legs, doesn’t know what to do with his hands or say. So he deflects from the straight: “Bez asked about you.”
Marc pushes through the door back into the bedroom to grab a jacket over the polo. He doesn’t want to think about the Italian and his affiliation to one specific other Italian.
“If you’d ever be up for a chat with Rossi.”
Pecco’s own affiliation with the age old enemy of Marc has cooled down since he’s left for Ducati, and even more so since they’re in each others vicinity which comes only naturally when you’re teammates.
“Even if I were, he wouldn’t, and we both know this, and everyone else knows this too.” - “That’s what I told him too.”
Marc looks up to his teammate, is a bit confused as to why Pecco’s still talking about this if Marco is aware of the situation. He can’t be bribed, neither by Gemma or his parents, nor his therapist or any other rider on the grid.
“Marc - " Pecco calls out with both hands flying up in a defiant gesture, sighs and rolls his eyes: "I also don’t know what he’s on about. The ways of Bez are a mystery to me.”
It feels strange looking at his phone that night. Gemma and his parents on the other side of the world about to wake up and get ready to leave for Motegi soon. He’s yet to look at the photos and videos, the chat with Marco silent for a few days.
Seeing Marco’s back first thing in the early morning hours before the breakfast area even gets prepared for the hotel guests, is strange. He’s jogging away on the treadmill, facing the huge window panel on the other side of the gym. For a second Marc hesitated if he should leave again, decides against it.
Soft sighs are filling the otherwise clean and airy hall. The lights are dimmed and when Marc closes the distance he can see Marco running without headphones in. He’s probably heard him approaching already.
“Didn’t think to see you here at such a time?” Marc gives him an easy and tired smile as he joins in on the treadmill right next to Marco. The Italian gives him a sloppy nod, presses his eyes close. His cheeks are flushed pink, features tired and sweat coating his skin.
“Fucking jetlag." he brings out after a while when he’s slowing down his pace. The board in front of him shows that he’s been here for an hour already.
He wipes over his face with his bare hands, wipes them off on the tanktop he’s wearing. Marc starts at a slow pace, just wants to get in a few minutes of high speed running.
"Sorry about … spamming you, last time. My phone… well I crashed it, partied a bit too hard.”
So, Pecco’s chat actually was Marco’s doing. He grins, pleased that Marco managed to creep under his skin. Looking over to the Italian - devoid of headphones because he doesn’t have a phone at the moment - Marc watches the static lifting and sinking of Marco’s chest, back, how the tanktop loosely covers his sweaty body. There’s moles spreading on his shoulders Marc’s never noticed. He’s never seen Marco in a tanktop before, if he thinks about it. It looks good on him, and he does tell Marco.
"Are you like, checking me out?" despite Marco’s groggy morning voice, it still comes out as a joke and he looks over to Marc who’s picked up on pace, jogging away effortlessly.
“Don’t we all.”
It’s a weak response, the blush spreading on Marc’s face doesn’t help. He blames it on doing sports.
Marco has stopped walking off and turns around, leans back on the bars and dramatically lets his gaze run over Marc’s body until the Spaniard bursts into laughter.
“When you win here, you’ll be champion again, no?” Marco counts, looks around the gym if he wants to distract himself with anything else before heading to the breakfast area. When he got up two hours ago, there was not a single soul around to bother.
“You’re gonna be the oooldest champ ever…!” he whistles and looks over at Marc again. He’s started sweating, huffing slightly, eyes focused on the sun that’s creeping up behind the horizon.
“I have yet to grow grey hair!” he tries to joke about it. He doesn’t feel any weird about it. He’s only 32 and feels fan-fucking-tastic; apart from everything going on.
“I think it’s a pretty big achievement.”
It’s still much too early and Marco starts getting cold, is in need of a shower and food finally.
“You’re mocking me now, Bez.” Marc states, his face red and muscles twitching. Marco looks over, sees the strain of his neck and decides to press on the buttons of Marc’s treadmill to force him to a slower pace.
“No." he places a hand on Marc’s underarm, fingers cool on Marc’s skin.
"I really mean this. You must acknowledge your strengths.”
Marc doesn’t know what to reply and Marco doesn’t wait for something.
The hours bleed into each other. Media, into the leathers, on the track, interviews, Gemma, his parents, Alex, Alex, Alex, more media, more photos. He’s not left the hotel apart from getting on the track, and not left the paddock apart from crashing on his hotel bed again and again. Marc’s nerves are blunted and there’s a pain throbbing in his head.
When Marc crosses the finish line first, he doesn’t have to do the maths anymore. He’s - as they have pleaded - more than a number. A champion, a race winner, one of the greatest. Not the greatest, because this world would never let him become the greatest.
He doesn’t care, he thinks but once he slows down and realises it’s over - it’s done, it’s achieved, it’s over - tears tingle in his eyes and his vision blurs.
In the end, he does care, and he’ll never stop. He hopes somewhere Valentino is watching him. If that was his last race, his last good season - he wants everyone to know he’s cared. And if that is how it ends, then he wants Valentino to remember that he’s always looked up to him.
He lets the bike roll out slowly, painfully, gets off and slumps down on the ground. People are rushing over to him, screaming, repeating his name. They’re pulling him up, huddling him towards a makeshift stage. Everything fills up and blurs at the edges. Somewhere his gloves are being removed, he doesn’t feel his body anymore. At some point he manages to remove his helmet and it all breaks down on him. He’s being the most authentic version of himself, kills the part that’s holding it together for everyone and cries.
He’s been so, so strong and it’s paid off.
All the pain and resilience leave his body, snap him in half. When the world hated him, he had to learn how to love himself. And when everything was against him, he forgave himself for wanting to be weak.
It’s irreversible and meaningful, a non-negotiable part of himself. His team is shocked, and even Alex gives him a surprised glance when he meets up with his brother and sees him crying. It’s the most emotional that he’s ever seen Marc.
It’s terrifying how vulnerable he allows himself to be seen.
Once the media is gone, there’s no cameras and microphones or phones around, Marc finds some peace. The low thrumming of the AC in his room fills the silence. The team is waiting in the breakfast area downstairs, his family is waiting with Gemma, who has her own room to grant Marc the space he needs for getting into the headzone. There’s so much respect between them, it’s a hard clash when Pecco and Jorge knock against his roomdoor like it’s the police trying to evacuate him.
Freshly dethroned, but happy it’s Marc - Jorge congratulates his fellow countryman and invites himself in with a bottle of champagne. Pecco brought some sake and fruit, takes a candid snapshots of his teammate being hugged by the 2024 champion.
It knocks again a minute later, Pecco letting Marco, Maverick and Fabio in, all of them having small presents (alcohol and snacks really, they want to celebrate) for Marc. They snap some more silly photos, try to capture this moment, this feeling. Marc’s overwhelmed by all the love he receives, even if he made Pecco’s season hell.
Marco hugs him tightly, tells him he’s deserved it, absolutely. Tells him that he’s incredible, because, who does that? - crash out and get cut open time and time again, bite back while bleeding out, having lost all hope but found it again somewhere in the rubble.
It’s so genuine and intimate that Marc stifles a sob, hides his face in Marco’s neck. They don’t let go for the longest. They’re rivals but not really, not tonight. For a second Marco pulls back, takes Marc’s face into his hands and brings him back to reality. For the first time in so many years, probably a decade, he feels he’s worthy of having friends and being loved, that he’s enough.
-
He wishes there is still something left to break. He has deleted Vale’s number, taken out the SD card and discarded it on a highway on his way back home. He’ll dispose of the still unpacked boxes in the basement that his parents brought him over to his new house when he moved out half a year ago. All the posters and interview cut-outs in neat folders, merch and caps and toybikes collected from a room he cannot enter anymore.
Alex has grown tired of Marc’s antics, of the constant repeating of what’s happened. It doesn’t matter and eventually Marc has to accept the fact that winning a stewards’ decision (the truth) means losing a friendship.
Was it a friendship even?
Marc’s always preferred to put Vale on some sort of pedestal, a hero. Heroes are untouchable but touch they did. On the track, in the gravel, with their bikes and teeth flashed, elbows out. Their friendship broke the moment Marc became equal and suddenly Vale wasn’t untouchable anymore.
When he arrives late at night, there’s a soft light coming from the kitchen. Alex has left some food in the fridge with a note on the table. It’s his rage now too. Marc laughs at the stupidity of it all.
Did Vale ever care?
Marc’s cared too much for all he knows.
Time loops and they are stuck within a cooled off vicinity, blades out in case one of them forgets they’re not friends anymore. And he’s crashing and spiralling and eating himself.
Marc is living a life in which none of his suffering is meaningful or justified. He endures celebrating his wins and championships alone, endures the pain, the surgeries, the training, the relapses, the glimpses of recovery being ripped out of his hands. Some days (very often) Marc thinks it’s easier to give in than keep running.
When 2021 rolls around Marc knows he’s on the last loop. This is it. It’s freeing but also terrifying - there’s no do-overs anymore, a moment where they (us. us. us.) can die. This also means they can experience a world where things can get better.
It’s a blessing and a curse, an ever drizzling rain, never sun. Valencia is cold and he doesn’t finish watching the race, mutes the tv and rolls over on his couch.
-
After Malaysia, Marco finally with a phone again, they join the flight back to Rome. Half of the time they’re sleeping, a constant drifting in and out of sleep. The other half of the time they’re dicking around. Marc sends him a photo he’s taken of Rubik when he had stayed over at Marco’s a while ago and went on his usual morning run while Marco was sleeping in. As a dog owner himself, Marc has been confident enough to take on the staffie, so now a selfie of Marc in jogging outfit with Rubik is adorning Marco’s phone background. It’s a little cringe and looks like he’s Marco’s boyfriend, and they laugh about it, but it’s the only photo (blurry party photos are no good) on his new phone so he leaves it like this for now.
He misses Rubik, and being at home, can’t wait to get in the car once they land and sleep in his own bed again. This season has been going on for so long already, but Marc smiles gently and says he’s glad he could do it without interruption. The past four years he’s been dragged through hell and back again.
“I can’t even imagine…” Marco mumbles and shakes his head. He’s been utterly stupid for getting mad at Marc for accidents. He was a rookie once too, had to learn how to get along with the bike. Go and tell this a 8-times world champion who’s had to learn about his body anew.
“I’m having a better support network now too, that helped a lot.” Marc admits. It’s like - Marc signaling that there’s a door, in neon lights, ready for Marco to open. And he does: " Has going to therapy, not … physiotraining, you know what I mean. Has that helped?"
He’s careful and ultimately free of any sorrows. Marc sighs a bit and tries to see the positives. He believes in himself. He knows what is wrong and right and that a wrong and a right can coexist at the same time without cancelling each other.
“I guess so, yeah." he frowns and thinks of an example to give Marco, but can’t. Marco though takes the task from him and smiles: "I’m happy. You’ve made friends, that’s not very easy when you’re the arch enemy of the most beloved Italian in this sport.”
It’s a hard to swallow praise, but it is one nonetheless. He’s still unsure if he can dare to call Marco a friend. It feels too small, and when Marco quickly leaves for the toilet, Marc finds himself longing for the Italian’s presence. Vulnerability is part of this, too, he recognises.
When they finally land - after having watched a good part of the lord of the rings trilogy, and Marco stating that, according to his sister Aragorn is a horse girl, and Marc nodding along, completely understanding, saying that they have a horse ranch at home because his mother loves horses and his cousins come riding all the time, and Marco inviting himself over, and Marc beaming at the idea of not having a bleak winter break and something to go on, after - both make their way out, Marco heading to a parking garage where his family waits to pick him up and Marc to the rental car service. They hug shortly, both telling each other to take care, Marc still feels the warmth radiating from Marco’s body when he trots away.
There’s something he needs to do. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s now a 9-times world champion, but honest to God, even if he weren’t - no one can take away the friendship he’s built up with Marco. He won’t let anyone take this away from him.
Biting down on his lip, he finds himself in a little Fiat with the navigation system set to Tavullia. It’s going to be a 5 hours car ride in the middle of the night.
“I cared for you, you know that?” - “So did I.” - “You kicked me off that bike and I still don’t know why.”
Valentino doesn’t answer him, and the silence is a noose around Marc’s neck who’s always filled spaces and gaps with words, laughter, something to go on after. It’s uncomfortable and he’s aware, he has to endure it.
Maybe it’s never been about outperforming the grand Valentino Rossi, about winning a championship as rookie, breaking records since before he’s even had all his second teeth. Marc’s been questioning their friendship - if it ever truly was one. He’s idolised Valentino, wanted to become like him so much so badly, he’s been practising the same poses the Italian does on the podium, bought a dictionary with his pocket money to better understand him in interviews (give one himself too, if he’d ever make it so far) (which, of course he did, and then got a crash course for motorcycling lingo).
Was it all Marc’s fault in the end? In the act of creating a hero, his devotion and ignorance always kept Valentino at distance. His intentions had been pure and innocent, it’s a grief he cannot comprehend.
“Are you even sorry?" - “No." The honesty is comforting yet hurts the same as any other reply.
To break the cycle Marc has prepared himself for the insufferable lack of satisfaction found in receiving closure.
He’s had 12 shots of vodka some nights before just trying to forget Valentino’s name. Not everything will be okay, he’s figured. Too often they’ve put on a good fight and lost. A lot of times Marc has held on really hard and then realised there’s no other choice than letting go.
Marc smoothes out his expression under a patina of indifference. If they had done things differently, they could have been happy, but to do things differently would require them to be someone else.
I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you.
It’s not their lives only. He knows that.
Marc thinks about Marco. Held at shotgun, he thinks about Marco more than friendship does allow. A tight knot builds in his stomach when he has to admit this much to himself.
So he gets up and takes a moment to ground himself. Valentino simply stares at his hands, the empty cup he’s been holding onto for the better of an hour. The sun’s been rising quietly behind them.
Marc wants to tell him, that he does forgive him (he also knows that Valentino would never accept it; his ego doesn’t leave space for someone else’s absolution)
It’s still difficult for him to separate these rational thoughts from instinctive ones.