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It's not the first time he feels like this, and usually he would go find his pack and distract himself with their jokes and kidness. But now, they're busy with their newest addition to the pack. Marc and Álex. Especially since Vale found out about the whole thing; it's been a whole lot of smoothing out and slow steps.

Cele should be there with them. He should've been there for a while now.

And yet here he stood, under the shadow of a hospitality building, watching Marc and Pecco interact with something akin to longing in his chest.

It's not that he didn't try, but every time he became determined to interact with Marc or Álex during a race weekend, he was tugged away by his team members for rider obligations.

He doesn't have as much free time. He has to work harder, if he wants to make it to MotoGP. Harder than anyone.

But because of this, it feels like his opportunity to blend in has just...passed. He sees the pack acting so kind and happy with him far away, and the ugly part of his mind wonders if he was ever needed at all.

He's not being replaced by the Márquez brothers. Just...forgotten.

It's not their fault, really. Cele's seen this coming for a while, now.

(He just doesn't compare to the rest of his pack.)

He knows Marc noticed him staring; he has seen the older man look back at him from a distance, his eyes weary yet open in an odd mix of things Cele isn't sure he really understands.

But the Spaniard never approached him. And so he stayed away.

(The more he reasons with his decisions, the more they start to sound like leaking water that can't be contained by any dam.)

He curls into himself. Dazedly, he wonders, if he'd presented an alpha or an omega, would his pack finally notice how much he needs them? Would they be able to smell it on him? As it is, Cele probably only stinks of sweat with a unique taste of disappointment hiding under it.

"You know, I had a bet with myself. On how long it would take you to come around and approach us."

Cele startles as he looks at Marc, who settles on the chair next to him without a care in the world. He didn't notice the man; couldn't smell him out like most.

"...a bet?" He asks quietly, an ugly feeling swarming his chest.

Cele's used to being the butt of the joke already. This shouldn't sting so much.

Marc smiles calmly. "Not a bad bet, don't worry. Technically, I lost. I've been wondering why you stayed away all this time, so I figured I'd finally ask you."

Cele shifts uncomfortably. "Why do you care if I approach you or not? We're not friends." But he wishes they were. The Italian wants Marc to like him, because he admires the man, and he's liked by his pack. He just...doesn't really know how to go about it.

"We're not, but your pack loves you, and I'm...I'm a part of it, now. I think." Marc shrugs with one shoulder, and Cele stands up straight.

"You are! They all love you, you know. We don't go against Vale for just anything. And he'll come around, too," he finds himself saying in reassurance. He doesn't want Marc to think he's unwanted when it's pretty much the opposite. Cele's sure Bez would cut his hand off for the Spaniard.

(Alphas in love get stupid, that's one thing he's learned.)

"Thank you, it means a lot to hear that from you," Marc says kindly. "Why aren't you with them, Celestino? They miss you, you know."

"Do they really?" He doesn't mean to make it sound sarcastic, but it does. Marc doesn't take offense to it, or if he does, then Cele can't smell it.

(He feels blind to most cues that the other dynamics have. Like he's missing a sense, a nerve ending. Cele hates it.)

The Spaniard looks at him. "You're joking, right?"

Cele snorts. "I wish I was. Listen, man, you'll see if you keep hanging around, but I'm not like the rest of them. I'm not in MotoGP, I can't stay with them much during race weekends, and they have other things to worry about. It's not like they ever really notice when I'm gone." Or when I'm sad. Nothing to smell, right?

Marc stares at him for a long while, and Cele hates the way his eyes turn full of understanding. The man doesn't understand; he's an omega. He might face terrible biases from dumb people, but at least he's something. Cele might as well have nothing to his name.

(He's tired of fighting for the love of other people. If they're not willing to fight for him, then why should he?)

He just wants to be loved unconditionally.

Finally, Marc opens his mouth to speak, a weird light in his eyes. "Can I hug you?"

Is that too much to ask for? He's not like Franky. He doesn't know how the older man does it.

Cele freezes. "Huh?"

"Can I hug you?" Marc repeats as if the Italian didn't hear him clearly the first time.

"Why would you want to hug me?" What the hell.

Marc blinks at him. "Why do you care? Do you want a hug or not?"

Cele, stupidly enough, feels his bottom lip tremble. He doesn't remember the last time he hugged someone. He gives a small nod, bowing his head like it's something to be ashamed of. Marc doesn't even know him, yet he want a hug of all thing. Cele doesn't understand.

Arms wrap around his midsection slowly, pulling him against a hard chest. His face is pushed in the crook of a neck, and Cele wishes he could smell Marc's scent right now. All he gets is the faint smell of home, something his nose can at the very least pick up. He remembers picking it up in that hospital room, too.

I wouldn't mind getting a hug from that scent, you know, he told Bez back then, trying to understand in a deeper level what was going on around him.

Now that Marc is hugging him?

He wants to stay there, in the embrace of that virtual stranger who is now his packmate. He also wants to cry for some reason.

Fuck, he doesn't want to cry.

"I got you. It's going to be fine, I promise."

Marc doesn't sound like he believes himself when he says it, and Cele's aware that the man and his brother are facing their own insecurities within the pack. Yet the Spaniard is still saying it. To reassure him.

He lets out an ugly sob and presses his face harder in that neck. It's embarrassing to break down in the arm of someone he doesn't really know after a few well placed words.

(Cele really is at the end of his straw.)

"I'm sorry," he sobs. He wishes he could be enough.

"There's nothing to apologize for." Hands cups his cheeks and force him to look the older man in the eyes. "You need to tell them how you feel, okay?"

He tenses.

"Why? It's stupid anyway—"

"It's not. Your comfort isn't a stupid concern, and trust me when I say that the rest of the pack will spend the next year making it up to you," Marc murmurs, but Cele is already shaking his head.

"No, no. They didn't do anything wrong! This is my problem. I'm..." I'm the problem.

Thumbs swipe at the skin under his eyes, wiping off the tears. "That's what your brain is telling you, but it's not true. As far as I know, you're a resilient rider who doesn't give up on his dreams. Anyone would be lucky to have you in their pack, and I can promise you that they all notice when you're gone."

He sounds so sure of himself. It's almost enough to break Cele all over again.

Hands shakes his head lightly. "Talk with them. Please."

He finds himself nodding. He has no idea what he'll say, but Marc looks like he really wants him to, and there's something inside of him that doesn't want to disappoint the man.

"I never properly welcomed you in the pack, by the way. I'm sorry."

And I'm glad you're here.

Marc grins. "I was starting to think that you didn't like us joining you."

Cele chokes on his spit. "No! Of course not! I'm sorry, I—"

"Stop apologizing, it's just a joke," the Spaniard laughs, hitting him lightly on the head. Cele knows that's a lie.

That's something he'll have to fix. He has a lot of things to fix.

"Hey, Marc?" He calls out when they part and the older man makes to stand up.

Marc looks at him curiously.

"Thank you," Cele says, feeling lighter than he could remember being in a long time. Hard conversations still need to happen, but that's a problem for future him.

"Always, Celestino!"

He cringes. That sounds wrong.

"We're packmates now, you know. You have to call me Cele," he points out with a wobbly smile.

Marc only blinks. "Sure, Cele."

Ah, that's better.

He looks at his hands. Talk to the pack, huh? He doesn't remember the last time he truly shared his feelings with them. He wonders if they care about his feelings at all.

(Marc said they did. Marc hugged him.)

It's worth a try.

*

"You've been hanging out with Cele a lot, you know," Marco points out, trying to look as unbothered as possible.

Ever since Cele came to them and ended up yelling how they were failing him, the Moto2 rider decided that Marc was his new favorite member of the pack without a single glance back.

Which...they deserve that. Marco still feels bad about the whole ordeal. They assumed Cele wanted space due to his less than perfect season.

As for himself, Marco decided to grovel the best that he could, which means that he has no right to complain about the truly unfair amount of time the man he's courting and Cele are spending together.

They assumed wrong. And now they'll spend a lot of time making it up to their pack member. He already knows Pecco is cooking the younger man's favorite food.

Marc raises an amused eyebrow. "Yes. I like him."

He pouts. "More than me?"

(And yeah, maybe it's dumb, but he misses when he was Marc's and Cele's favorite.)

(Pecco would call him greedy.)

Marc barks a laugh, slapping his thigh in amusement. "Are you jealous, Marco?"

He blushes, immediately turning away. He's not jealous, just curious. It's not the same thing.

(Yes, he wants Marc to give him racing tips too, yes he wants the man to spend so much time with him, too. Can he really be blamed, though?)

"I'm not!" He argues, still not looking at the omega.

Marc grabs his chin and turns his head so they can look at each other, a smirk dancing on his lips. The Spaniard smoothly settles on his lap, freezing him in place. "I like when you're jealous," he murmurs against his lips.

Marco feels himself give a growl, unable to control himself. He swallows the sound with a pang of guilt, looking up at Marc with wide eyes. He didn't mean to do that—

Except that Marc's eyes are as dark as the night.

Oh that's...that's something.

"Want to show me how jealous you are?" Marc purrs, the sound wrong and broken but so fundamentally Marc that it makes him moan. Fuck, he didn't expect this.

Saliva pools in his mouth, and he forces another odd growl down his throat.