Marc drops Valentino's letter unwillingly, the paper falling down on the table, his fingers shaking. He's not– Marc thought Valentino hadn't meant it, when he'd said he'd write a few days ago. Marc had nodded and had agreed specifically because he had thought Valentino wouldn't write. He had assumed Valentino would just let Marc go once again, like he had always done before – Marc never important enough to chase down, to hold onto, to apologize to.
Valentino has not apologized. But he has written, and Marc feels a bit of rage flare up his chest at the thought. It took Marc almost dying, then, for Valentino to care, and keep caring. Marc lets the barely there anger settle in his chest, unless hope and joy fester there instead.
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Interviewer: after everything you've experienced in MotoGP, which year of bikes would you stick with? Not a specific brand, but with the bike evolution where you go, this is the best combination of competition and my enjoyment on it. In what year would you stop evolving the bikes?
Marc: I'd stop, uff... 2017, more or less.
Interviewer: Right when the wings started to show up...
Marc: Right there, right there. And in fact, for next year they've limited it but, but... it's been limited, but little, I don't know, you almost don't notice it because they'll make them different and, in the end, it'll have the same effec. But there, I think I would stop it there because you could see rac... I mean, being behind a rider helped you. So that.., what did that mean? well, it was much easier to have group races. I mean, I remember in Holland, in 2017, being half a second from the pace of the one in front, but in the race, stick to his wheel and follow him. Now, no, now with the wings it's like a rally. You go out, either you have much more pace than the one in front or you don't... Or you don't overtake. And when he overtakes you with more pace, you can't follow him, you have your own pace and that's it. So, I miss that.
Interviewer: Yes, now you know it since FP, and it's like you're saying, this guy has this pace, you already know more or less how things are going to turn out.
Marc: You now can't expe... before you could exp... you'd say, well, if I'm tenths off the pace, before 2017, you'd say, with the slipstream, I can follow, you know, the way it happens in Moto3, which it's even more exaggerated, and in Moto2 a little. But now, if you don't have the pace in practice alone, no matter how much you get slipstreams, you won't get it...
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im still replaying this video of pecco getting up on his toes and i think he should be shoved on the floor comma sexually BUT yes i can do gentle pecco/luca imagines :,) This is set really early in kinky fridays.
Pecco shows up one humid night with a strange sound at his heels. When Luca opens the apartment door, the strange sound turns out to be the nervous scratching feet of Pecco's small dog. It stares up at them. Luca feels like the single mother's boyfriend who forgets about the baby: Luca's life come full-circle.
Pecco says, "Is it okay? He kept crying."
He must have come from home. Luca can't tell if he's been drinking or not, but it's safer to assume yes.
"It's okay," Luca says to the dog's sad eyes, liquid and barely visible in the dark. "Hi, Turbo."
Turbo ignores him and only comes in when Pecco gently nudges him, reassuring twice that he can go past the front door. Yeah, that's about what Luca would have done too if he were the tagalong baby.
The last two weeks were a double-header weekend and it's the first Friday night at home in three weeks. This is why Luca was for once pretty sure Pecco was coming, and why he maybe should have remembered the dog, who has also been ignored for two weeks even counting Uccio's cousin the dogsitter.
“Does he need to go for a walk?” Luca asks. He never turns the hall light on when Pecco comes over so he doesn’t now, even though they are having a normal conversation instead of sex. Luca wonders how long he can keep that going, his palms sweating. Pecco doesn't come over to chat like a friend.
The only light is from the glass doors to the small balcony, reflecting faint and blue from the living room and down the hall.
“A short one,” Pecco admits. His voice is strained. “I can do that later. I need—” he’s stepping closer, into Luca’s space in the dark. The leash clinks. Pecco is up against him, body-hot in a polo and shorts. He’s shaking but Luca thinks it’s only because he’s so impossibly tense, wound tight.
Luca grabs the back of his neck with one and and his crotch with the other. Pecco lets him and groans open-mouthed against Luca’s shoulder.
The leash jingles. Pecco is hard in his shorts under Luca’s hand. Luca squeezes, mean enough to make him relax and listen.
“You’ll get it,” Luca says to the dark next to Pecco’s pale ear. “Take him out now. I’ll come with.”
Pecco swallows twice. Luca thinks that if he takes it as a rejection and never comes back, that will really show Luca’s childhood baggage how useful it is.
But Pecco says, voice still stilted, “Okay.” His shoulders are jagged when Luca opens the door again and grabs his key, but on the landing he picks up his sleepy dog to carry him down the two flights of stairs.
*
They walk to the beach; there is not much else to walk to in Pesaro. Some of the bars are still going but far out the sand is open and clear and the night is black across the Adriatic. The wind is humid but brisk. The sea is like a roaring void.
Turbo is not as nervous as Luca thought he would be. He’s ranging at the end of his leash and Pecco is sticking close, elbow brushing Luca, until Luca puts a hand at the small of his back and then he stumbles closer. Pecco gets touched a lot by all their friends and colleagues so whatever skin-hunger this is, it’s not the type that friends can solve. Luca is trying not to think about whether it’s the type girls can solve; there’s a bad answer there, and a worse one.
But Luca always knew somewhere, didn’t he? That Luca was not soley a rock for Pecco to wreck himself on, aware that Luca didn't have it in him to say no and mean it. That maybe underneath it all this was Pecco trying to claw his way out of a pit, out of the void, the great big blackness that lives over the sea-- and touch someone. A man.
Turbo got his leash tangled around Pecco’s feet and Pecco swore and stopped and stooped down to untangle it. Luca is vaguely trying to figure out exactly where Turbo is when there is a soft despairing moan. Pecco had tipped onto his knees, face against Luca’s crotch. Luca looks around for Pecco’s sake, but no one is anywhere near them but the little dog, snuffling somewhere, low belly slithering on the loose sand.
Pecco’s mouth opens and his tongue presses against Luca’s mostly-flaccid cock through his sweats.
Luca cups Pecco’s face with something like panic. His hand is steady. He says, “I’ll take care of you at home.” In the front hall, where it’s close and safe.
Pecco nods, not happy but willing. Luca lets out a breath and looks at the haze of salt spray creeping in off the sea. He will have to pour water for the little dog, he thinks, once they get back.
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Marc drops Valentino's letter unwillingly, the paper falling down on the table, his fingers shaking. He's not– Marc thought Valentino hadn't meant it, when he'd said he'd write a few days ago. Marc had nodded and had agreed specifically because he had thought Valentino wouldn't write. He had assumed Valentino would just let Marc go once again, like he had always done before – Marc never important enough to chase down, to hold onto, to apologize to.
Valentino has not apologized. But he has written, and Marc feels a bit of rage flare up his chest at the thought. It took Marc almost dying, then, for Valentino to care, and keep caring. Marc lets the barely there anger settle in his chest, unless hope and joy fester there instead.
