#all things second

Throughout their short-lived tryst in the grand year of 2025, they spoke of Valentino only all of once, in Misano:

“Do you think he’ll say something about me winning the ninth?”

Luca was rummaging for his shirt on the floor, which Marc had ripped off him scarcely two hours ago. Media scrums sucked, especially in this circuit, Valentino’s home ground where he was persona non grata for as long as he was deemed outside of Valentino’s esteemed favor: Marc had wanted to let off some steam.

And, even if he would not say it aloud, it gave him a private, perverse sort of pleasure to be fucking Valentino Rossi’s precious little brother here of all places.

Luca looked up, blinked, only once.

“No,” and he went back to looking for his shirt, as if he had not just knocked over Marc’s heart like it was a porcelain figurine perched on a fireplace mantle, intentionally or not.

“Anyway, I thought you didn’t care anymore,” added Luca, casually. He had found his shirt, and he put it on – Honda, that which was once Marc’s, and even longer ago, Valentino’s – unfurling to his full height, taller than his brother was, but his smile, the tinge of mockery, was all alike.

“I said I don’t care about the feud,” Marc said.

Unsaid, but which Luca heard all the same, I still care about him.

“My brother and I have a fairly strict agreement; he doesn’t tell me what to do, and I don’t tell him that he’s being an idiot,” Luca shrugged, rolling his shoulders back, but he was looking away now, not at Marc, “Good luck for the race, Marc.”

Opening the door now, leaving Marc’s motorhome and Marc’s heart seized a little, feeling like he’d made a misstep.

“I don’t need luck,” he called out, but Luca had already closed the door behind him.

—

Marc crashed in the sprint.

The crowd jeered in delight.

He was so angry he could’ve sunk his teeth into someone’s neck and ripped it out.

—

So, of course, it had to be this Saturday where Valentino sought him out.

He stopped short to find Valentino lurking in between the motorhomes, the one next to his being Pecco’s – plausible deniability if anyone had spotted him there. He looked like a hunchbacked troll under bridges in fairytales asking for toll payments.

“Valentino,” he said, the word long and ugly-fitting in his mouth. It always used to be Vale. And he used to smile, saying Va-le. His mouth felt stiff and broken, held tight like this, jaw clenched, as Valentino jerked his head around to look at him.

He could feel the scorch of Valentino’s ire even through the sunglasses, the acridity of his scent souring in between them. Marc was wearing a scent blocker; Valentino, no longer an active rider, did not have to.

“We need to talk,” said Valentino.

Once, Marc would’ve given a kidney – not a limb, but a semi-essential internal organ that had a spare – to hear those words from Valentino. He would leap headfirst into thoughts of a conversation where they would both say their piece and Valentino would finally see sense and accept that he was wrong. Now, well, now after a crash in front of this particular crowd, he couldn’t stop the swell of resentment in his chest, like puce.

“What do you want?” Then, only half sarcastically, “Here to explain your fans’ behavior?”

Valentino scanned the length of the motorhomes. No one had crashed out yet and security prevented the cameras from trailing Marc so closely – the security that his team had always paid extra for when on Italian soil. The reminder throbbed like another prickled wound. They were as alone as they could be in the paddock on a crowded Saturday, where everyone bayed for a sight of their god.

“What? Booing is part of the sport.” The surprise in Valentino’s was stark, honest: he had not expected the booing and cheering when Marc crashed to be an issue. “I’m not here for that.”

“Then?”

Marc looked past Valentino, at the steps leading up to his motorhome. Valentino was rake-thin, standing partially in his way, but a shoulder check from Marc would send him tumbling onto the floor if he forced his way through. That would give Valentino another tasty soundbite to share with the Italian journalists at least.

“Luca.”

Marc credited himself for not flinching, for weathering the use of Luca’s name, flung in the space between him and Valentino like a gauntlet. Valentino’s brows furrowed under the brim of his cap, mouth twitching at the imperceptible tweak in Marc’s scent. Marc thought of their half-formed – half-dissolved – never-bond and wondered.

“Whatever you’re doing with him,” Valentino grimaced at the imagery crossing his mind, “you need to stop.”

Maybe he should’ve deflected. Lied. Said, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but Marc’s blood simmered with frustration and fury, and he hated the look on Valentino’s face: some attempt at aloofness that did not come naturally to the one of the most expressive men Marc knew. The contempt, carefully curtailed to give Marc the impression he was no more than dung on the road Valentino happened to come across.

Blood throbbed hot in the pulse veining his temple.

“It’s none of your business,” said Marc. He surged forward, made to shoulder check Valentino out of the way but the alpha didn’t budge, and when they collided, he stood his ground. Marc weathered the impact to his right arm stoically; if anything, he was surprised that Valentino, who these days acted as if Marc had hyper-contagious leprosy, hadn’t backed away to avoid physical contact.

He hated the tingling that spread from the second’s touch.

“It is my business,” Valentino’s voice was flat, “that’s my brother you’re screwing.” Well, at least this left no room for misunderstanding.

“Luca’s an adult,” said Marc, inconsequentially, knowing non-answers like this would annoy Valentino the most and annoying Valentino was all he seemed to know to do lately.

Yet he didn’t expect the way Valentino’s arm shot up, catching him by the elbow of his right arm. Pain, well below his usual threshold, ricocheted up his arm. He did not let it show.

“Let go,” he told the older man, unafraid.

“What do you think you’re doing with Luca?”

“Not a school project for sure.”

Valentino’s fingers dug in, like screwdrivers, always stronger than he looked on the outside; more capable of inflicting physical pain than anyone would’ve cared to guess. Marc twisted, trying to get himself free, spitting, “I don’t know.”

“You know,” said Valentino flatly, “you already know. You don’t love him. You’re just fucking with him because he’s near and convenient and he is the closest thing you have to me.”

It couldn’t have been any worse if Valentino had said that with a smug smile, rubbing it in Marc’s face about his infatuation – the nakedness of his ugly, all-consuming want for his idol – like he enjoyed how enamored Marc was still, but the cold, matter-of-fact manner made Marc flinch. Like Marc’s lingering affection was as clear and plain and unnecessary as the squeaky loose hinges of the backdoor. You’re reminded of it every time you come to face with it but it doesn’t really matter to you, really, certainly not enough to do something about it.

Valentino’s brow furrowed, and he took a step back, letting Marc go.

“He deserves better than you. You don’t think about anyone but yourself.”