#i..am..so..in..love with everything from the vale chapters

You do not turn at the voice. Eleanora drifts into the edge of the window’s reflection, every curl in place, every line of her pale rose gown already settled and smoothed days ago. Her confidence has never been the loud kind. It is something inherited, worn the way other women wear a coat in cold weather: simply, and without thought.

“I am excited.” Your chin stays in your palm; you do not turn from the window. “I am vibrating with anticipation, in fact. Can’t you tell?”

Her laugh is soft and quick, and the cushion sinks gently as she lowers herself beside you. “Mother is convinced I shall have a proper proposal by the second ball.”

“That is rather optimistic of her.” You hadn’t meant to say it quite so flatly, but the words leave you that way all the same.

“She is not wrong.” Eleanora’s fingers tug at a thread on her sleeve, more for something to do than because the thread is loose. “There is already talk of it. Lady Whitcombe swears the Duke of Ravencourt will be at the Astor Ball, and he, well...” She give you a sidelong glance, a small tilt of her brow. “You know how long the arrangement has been in place.”

Ah, him.

The name goes through you like a draft from a door you hadn’t realized was open. Rafayel Vale, the future Duke of Ravencourt, promised to your sister since the two of them were small enough to need help into their chairs at the dinner table, in one of those quiet family agreements made over wine glasses and sealed with handshakes and signatures and fortunes you have never been shown. You have never met him. You have never even seen him. You have only ever heard of him, year after year, the way one hears of distant places one will likely never visit.

He rarely comes to town, they say. He has been abroad for years. He is peculiar, brilliant but peculiar, and collects old paintings and refuses invitations and has shown no interest in courtship at all, except for the one chosen for him before he was old enough to object: your sister’s.

The thought slips out of you before you can soften it. “I wonder if he is dreadfully boring.”

Eleanora’s laugh is half a snort, half a sigh, and her shoulders give a small, amused shake. “He is a Duke, darling. I am hardly expected to love him. Only to keep myself from embarrassment over the soup.”

You turn toward her then, resting the side of your face against the window frame, and look at her the way you sometimes do when you forget to arrange your own expression.

“Do you mind it?” You hear how soft your voice has gone, and you do not try to correct it. “That you have never met him. That it has all been arranged.”

For a moment her composure holds. Then it slips, very quietly, only at the corners of her mouth and the edges of her eyes.

“I mind being married off like a trinket.” Her gaze drifts down to the gloves still folded in her lap. “And I mind not having a choice. But choices, these days, are only afforded to girls who marry well.”

After a delicate pause she straightens in her seat, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, the smile she finds for you almost bright, and reserved only for you. “You shall have more freedom, you know. You are not promised to anyone.”

No, you are not. Not the eldest and not the heir-maker, only the afterthought in pearls. And yet freedom feels a fragile thing inside this house, wrapped as it is in expectation and powdered into rouge and fastened at the back by hands that are not your own.

A knock at the door interrupts the quiet between you, and the door creaks open on a maid mid-curtsy.

“The carriage is ready, Misses. Madam says the ball waits for no Lady.”

Eleanora rises in one practiced sweep, all silk and perfect posture. You follow more slowly, smoothing your skirt against your palms because your palms need something to do. In the mirror by the door, your rouge sits too pink against your cheeks, and the smile you offer the girl in the glass arrives a half-beat late, as though she had to be reminded of it.

Somewhere in the city, a man you have never met is also dressing for the evening. You step out into the corridor, and the carriage is waiting in the drive, and your gloves are too tight at the wrists.

And with that, the Season has begun.

—

The ballroom glitters like a dream dipped in gold. Chandeliers bloom overhead, throwing crystals of light across silk gowns and polished floors; laughter curls around the violins, and perfumed fans flutter like butterfly wings in time with the slow rise of the orchestra. It is the first ball of the Season, and every eligible family in London has come to play its part.

Your mother insisted on white for your debut: soft chiffon, pearl beading at the waist, sleeves cut just off the shoulder. You feel like a porcelain doll being moved across a chessboard, and you keep your shoulders very still so the feeling does not show on your face.

Eleanora is art. One glance at her, and the suitors flock like moths to a flame; her rose-colored gown shimmers with every turn she takes, her laughter falls into all the right places, and she dances as though she had been born to do it, which she likely was. You do not particularly mind. You sip your champagne near the edge of the floor, offering a polite nod to a young gentleman who has only just tripped over his own shoes trying to reach her before the next waltz.

“She is rather enchanting, your sister.”

You turn. A tall, freckled young man stands beside you, his cheeks faintly flushed with wine, his smile a little crooked at the corners. “Though I confess I find myself rather more curious about the other debutante at her side.”

Your brows lift. “Curious, My Lord? Or drunk?”

His laugh comes easy, with no offence taken at all. “Both, perhaps. May I have the next dance?”

You hesitate only a moment before placing your hand in his. The music rises, and so do you. You dance twice, once with the freckled gentleman (Lord Daniel something, you think), and again with a kind-eyed Viscount who fumbles through his small talk but smiles handsomely when you turn one of his fumbles into wit. You laugh. You curtsy. You do everything you are meant to do.

It is impossible, however, to ignore how the room revolves around your sister. She has not left the floor since the first chord struck. A new partner with every song, an admiring audience wherever she pauses. You catch glimpses of her between the turns of your own, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks faintly flushed, her posture as perfect now as it was on the carriage cushion hours ago.

And then, somewhere just behind your shoulder, an intrigued whisper.

“Did you see? The Duke of Ravencourt is here.”

The name slips between fans like a small kept secret.

“I thought he would not attend.”

“He never does. But this Season, well, everyone knows why.”

“He is to marry the Everleigh girl, isn’t he?”

“The older one, yes. They say it was arranged when they were five.”

“And is it true he…”

You turn too quickly, a little louder in your own bones than you would like, looking for the voice and the source of it. But all you find are swirling gowns and smiling mouths and the soft, indifferent glitter of the chandeliers. No sign of him. Your heart gives an unexpected flutter beneath the silk of your bodice, a small, uneven kick you cannot quite explain to yourself. You have heard the name all your life, and yet he is here, somewhere, breathing the same air as you, and somehow that is a stranger thought than you would have guessed.

Eleanora laughs again, that musical sound carrying across the dance floor as she turns in the arms of a dark-haired gentleman you do not recognise. Perhaps it is him. Perhaps not. You watch, you listen, but Rafayel Vale, the Duke of Ravencourt, remains as elusive as his reputation, still nothing more than a name and a whisper.

Another glass of champagne is pressed gently into your hand, your third of the evening, perhaps your fourth. The effervescence prickles pleasantly against your lips, the sweetness fresh but not quite cool enough to settle the flush that has climbed into your cheeks after so many turns about the floor. You have danced with no fewer than six gentlemen by now, each perfectly polite, each thoroughly forgettable.

“You dance with such elegance, Miss Everleigh.”

“Your sister is fortunate to have you at her side.”

“Might I call on you this upcoming week?”

You smile. You curtsy. You return civility for civility. But your mind has long since drifted elsewhere, pulled by curiosity, by the soft, persistent weight of a name that keeps brushing past your ear like a breeze you cannot quite catch. Rafayel Vale. The Duke of Ravencourt. And still, no one points him out. No introductions, no dramatic arrival, no parting of the crowd. You are beginning to suspect he has not come at all, despite the whispers, despite the excitement that had rippled through the room earlier like a pebble dropped into still water.

You are about to take your leave from the floor when you catch the flicker of it. A subtle change in the air. The orchestra has not stopped, nor have the conversations, and yet for a single breath the room itself seems to hush, the way a forest goes still when a hawk passes overhead. You turn, and there, just beyond the far end of the ballroom, near the top of the grand marble stairs, stands a man dressed in midnight black.

No one announces him. He does not need announcement. He stands with one hand loosely gloved, the other resting against the gold edge of the balustrade, and surveys the ballroom below with an expression that does not demand attention so much as quietly require it. He is beautiful in the way storms are beautiful: elegant, distant. Dangerous. His hair is of a beautiful, striking purple and long enough that the soft waves brush the collar of his coat. And his eyes, even from across the distance, are sharp and watchful, mesmerizing as two pools of blue and pink, his jaw cutting cleanly beneath the candlelight.

You do not need to ask who he is. You already know, deep below your ribs, where things that you just know settle.

Just behind your shoulder, someone leans toward someone else. “Ah, there he is. The Duke.” Only confirming what your pulse has already done.

He descends the stairs unhurriedly, greeting no one, walking with the easy disinterest of a man who is not in the habit of trying to impress, and yet every head in the room turns toward him as he moves. Even Eleanora’s. You watch her gaze snap upward, watch the moment his eyes find hers, only for a breath, only long enough to acknowledge what is already understood between two families. Then, with an unflinching grace, he crosses the ballroom and offers your sister a bow.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice is low and refined and controlled, like water flowing over stones.

Your sister curtsies, perfect as ever. “Your Grace.”

And for the first time in your life, you are standing only a few feet away from the man who has, without ever having known your face, been promised to your family since before you could spell his name. So that is him, at last. The man whose name has been stitched into the fabric of your family's future like gold thread, the Duke your mother speaks of in hushed and reverent tones, the one your sister was destined for before she had even learned how to flirt or curtsy properly.

You do not linger on the sight of them. You watch only long enough to see Eleanora extend her hand, and to watch him take it with a bow that is too shallow to be entirely respectful, and yet too quietly attentive to be entirely proper, which is interesting, you think, but it is not your concern. You turn away.

“Miss Everleigh.”

You face the gentleman waiting beside you with a smile sharpened just enough to cut through the soft fog of champagne. “Lord Renswick.” A small dip into a curtsy. “Have you finally decided to brave the dance floor?”

His grin is sheepish at the corners. “It is hardly bravery, when the reward is a turn with the loveliest debutante of the evening.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Flattery, My Lord? We have not even danced yet.”

“I am hoping to improve your opinion of me before I embarrass myself entirely.” He offers his arm, his brow lifting in hopeful invitation. “Shall we?”

You allow him to lead you into the next waltz, your slippers barely whispering against the marble. You dance, and you laugh, and when he stumbles, you tease him gently for it. Another gentleman approaches you before the music fades, and then another, and the evening passes in a soft haze of pleasantries and compliments, of silk gloves and careful steps and smiles that never quite reach your eyes.

You are being seen, properly seen, not merely as Eleanora’s sister but as yourself. And yet somewhere beneath the swirl of figures and the murmured invitations, you keep catching the soft, persistent sound of his name.

“The Duke has not danced with anyone else as much as he did with her.”

“He spent nearly the entire evening in conversation with Miss Everleigh.”

“They are to be married before summer, I hear.”

You do not seek him out, not deliberately. But you notice all the same, how he does not hover near the punch and does not court attention, how he simply exists, like a line drawn in darker ink than the rest of the room. Eleanora has his company almost exclusively; they speak often, their heads bent slightly toward one another, and she laughs in that polished way she perfected during her finishing school years. You catch him smile only once, perhaps twice, or perhaps you imagine it. He offers his hand to two other ladies for a dance, both times out of a clear and impersonal courtsy, and both ladies look slightly dazed when he returns them to their chaperones.

By the time the final waltz begins, you have found your way back near the windows again. A gentle breeze drifts through the open panes; the sky outside is deep and velvet blue, dotted with the soft promise of rain. You press your fingertips to the glass for the cool of it, and behind you the ballroom glitters on. Your sister is still dancing with him.

So that is the man who will be her husband, you think again, and you do not envy her, not truly. He is distant, unreadable, a mystery, but not a mystery that is yours to solve. You are only a little curious, after so many years of hearing his name in whispers, and curiosity is a small enough thing that you can put it down again whenever you like.

The ride home is quiet at first. Outside the carriage window, London twinkles beneath the night sky, the gas lamps glowing like stars caught in glass, and the wheels clatter softly over the cobblestones in the rhythmic lull that always comes after a long evening of dancing. Inside, you sit across from your sister, your gloves resting delicately in your lap, your fan still tucked in your hand more from habit than from any continuing need of it.

Your mother sighs for the fifth time in as many minutes, fanning herself furiously though the carriage is hardly warm.

“Well, I should say that was a most successful beginning to the Season.” Her voice carries all the breathless theatre it always does after an evening she considers a triumph. “Eleanora, darling, you were radiant. Simply radiant. And you, dearest,” her gaze moves to you, soft with the kind of approval she reserves for unexpected moments, “you were charming. I heard Lord Pelham himself compliment your wit, you know. Wit, my love. Not merely your appearance. A rare thing, that.”

You offer a faint smile. “How generous of him.”

Eleanora’s quiet chuckle is half-lit by the carriage lantern, and there is a strange softness in her expression, a contentment you do not often see outside the privacy of moments like these.

Your mother lifts her fan again. “Six dances. Four requests for calling hours. And, oh, did you see Lady Renswick watching your every move?”

“I did.” Eleanora’s voice is low and amused. “She nearly dropped her fan when the Duke took my hand.”

Your mother’s fan stops mid-wave, her expression shifting into something very nearly reverent. “The Duke. Good heavens. I still cannot quite believe he came. I had truly thought we should have to drag him out of some crumbling estate by force.”

“He was…” Eleanora pauses, her gaze drifting briefly to the window, the lamplight catching faintly in her eyes. “Unexpected. Not at all what I had imagined.”

You look at her then, with quiet intrigue. “What did you imagine?”

She tilts her head, the consideration moving slowly across her face. “Someone older, perhaps. Someone colder. Less sharp than he is. He does not speak much, but when he does, it is never empty.”

You hum. “And?”

Her smile is small and knowing. “He pays attention to everything around him.”

You raise a brow. “Even you?”

A shrug, the smallest lift of her shoulder beneath the silk. “Especially me.”

Your mother gives a delicate gasp of delight and resumes her fanning with renewed vigour. “Well, then it is settled. We shall expect him to call within the next two days. Perhaps even sooner, given how much time he spent at your side this evening.”

“I do not think he is the sort of man to follow expected schedules.” Eleanora’s gaze does not leave the window.

You do not say it aloud, but you find yourself agreeing with her. You lean your head against the inside of the carriage wall, watching the lantern light flicker softly over your gloves.

The Season has begun. Your sister’s future, the one stitched in gold and promise, is unfolding in front of all of you. And somewhere in the shadows of it, a man made of whispers has finally stepped into the light.

—

The garden smells of lilacs and early rain. Sunlight spills over the hedgerows in gold-tipped strokes, catching on the rim of your teacup as you sit beneath the shade of the wide ivory parasol. Bees hum lazily between the roses. A soft breeze stirs the hem of your skirt and carries with it the faintest, fading echo of music from last night’s ball, as though the violins have not quite let you go.

You swirl honey into your tea absently, listening to the soft murmur of your sister and your mother seated nearby. They are reading from The Society Pages, their lips twitching with every name mentioned.

“Lord Eastmere danced four times with Lady Henrietta. That will certainly be remarked upon." Your mother’s nose lifts in delicate disapproval.

“And here, oh, listen. ‘Miss Eleanora Everleigh glowed in rose silk and grace, receiving the attention of none other than the elusive Duke of Ravencourt.’”

“They flatter.” Eleanora’s eyes gleam over the rim of her teacup, despite the lightness in her voice.

You do not comment. You let the sound of the page turning fade into birdsong and breeze.

The first caller arrives before noon. The butler appears at the edge of the garden with the perfect composure his post demands. “Miss Everleigh. Lord Renswick requests a moment of your time.”

You rise, smoothing the folds of your skirt, and offer a pleasant smile as the young Lord is shown through the open doors and into the dappled green of the garden.

He bows. “Miss Everleigh. Might I say, the morning pales in comparison to your presence.”

You do not roll your eyes, though it is a near thing. “Good morning, My Lord. How kind of you to visit.”

He speaks of the ball, of your dancing, of how he had hoped to see you again. You answer with grace, with interest even, but something inside you stays carefully unmoved. He is not unpleasant. None of them are. They simply lack a thing you cannot quite name and have not yet decided whether to name at all.

A second gentleman comes not long after. A third arrives in the late afternoon with a bouquet of spring blooms and an awkward compliment about your voice. Each caller is welcomed; each is given your attention, your politeness, your laughter in the right places. And yet, with every charming smile and gloved hand pressed briefly to yours, you find your thoughts drifting elsewhere, slipping out of your own garden and toward a pair of eyes that have not yet sought you out, and that you have not quite admitted to yourself you are waiting for.

By the time the sun begins to lower, streaking the garden in amber, the butler reappears once more at the edge of the lawn. You glance up, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. “Yes?”

He clears his throat gently and bows. “No further callers for the day, Miss.”

You nod, not disappointed, not expectant, only thoughtful. “Thank you.”

You return to your tea, now gone cool. Across from you, Eleanora has set aside her book and is absently turning the stem of a rose between her fingers, slow as a clock that has forgotten the hour.

“He has not called.” Her voice is soft and unbitter.

You look up. “The Duke?”

A small nod. “Not that I expected him to arrive the next morning with a bouquet and a poem. But he did say he would be in town this week.”

You sip your tea. “He does not seem the type to rush.”

“No. He is not.” Her tone holds no bitterness, only plain observation. Eleanora has never been a girl who chased affection. She has always expected it to arrive on its own terms, in its own time, and she has rarely been wrong.

You glance toward the garden gate. The warm breeze rustles the hedges, but no footsteps come. Still, it is early. Much too early to assume anything.

By evening the callers are gone, your mother is content, and your sister is thoughtful in that quiet way of hers. You are content to watch and to listen and to wait for the Season to unfold as it always does, slowly, elegantly, and with its own peculiar sense of order. If the Duke is to be part of your sister’s story, he will arrive in time. And if he does not, well, that, too, would be telling.

—

The gown is periwinkle this time, threaded with pale silver and pinned at the shoulders with clusters of tiny sapphires. You say nothing as your maid fastens it, only watching your reflection in the mirror with a mild detachment while she smooths the folds. Eleanora has gone through three dresses before settling on one.

“Do you think he will be there tonight?” Eleanora’s voice is carefully even, her gaze fixed on the curls your mother is arranging at the crown of her head.

You know who she means. “I imagine so. It is Lady Warwick’s ball.”

It is the third time she has asked this week. He has not called once. Not even a letter. After all the glances and the evening spent in her company, the conversations near the card tables, the dance the rest of the room could not stop noticing, there has been nothing. Even the Ton has begun to murmur about it. The papers have commented, their tone careful but curious.

Your mother is trying to stay composed, and almost succeeding. “He is a Duke, darling. He is dreadfully busy, I am sure of it. Arrangements, estates, affairs of business. Men like him do not spend their days penning sonnets and waiting in parlours.”

But it is not poetry Eleanora wants. It is certainty. And he, with all his poise and polish, has offered her none.

Lady Warwick’s ballroom is suffused with gold light and the scent of blooming orange blossoms. The crowd is lively, the musicians sharp and practised, and by the time you arrive, the dancing has already begun.

You make your greetings, you smile when expected, you allow a young baron to compliment your hair. You even laugh once, genuinely this time. Eleanora remains composed beside you, her gown elegant, her posture perfect. But you know her well enough to read the small flicker of restlessness in her eyes. Where is he?

You see him the moment he steps into the room. He is dressed in dark navy and silver this evening, a sapphire brooch pinned at his collar. He does not linger at the entrance and does not pause for greetings. He moves straight through the ballroom, parting the crowd with nothing more than presence, and then there he is, standing in front of your sister.

“Miss Everleigh.” His bow goes deeper than the one he offered last time. “I owe you an apology.”

Your sister blinks once, the surprise quickly tucked away. “Your Grace.”

He reaches into his coat. From his gloved hand, he draws a small, velvet-wrapped box and places it delicately in her palm.

“For my absence.” His voice is quiet and measured. “I assure you, it was not meant as discourtesy.”

You do not look away from them, but you do not move, either. A quiet statue at your sister’s side. Eleanora opens the box slowly. Inside is a brooch, silver filigree shaped like a crescent moon, a pale gemstone set in its centre. It is not extravagant, nor loud. It is tasteful, and rare, and very beautiful.

“You needn’t have.” Her voice has gone softer.

“I did.” A small, deliberate pause. “May I claim a dance, if you have not promised it to another?”

She hesitates only a moment. “Of course, Your Grace.”

You step back as he offers his arm. She takes it. They move to the floor once more, the crowd subtly turning to watch, and you remain at the edge of the dance floor, untouched by the small drama of it, your fingers gently clasped in front of you, your thoughts still clear.

You do not watch them dance. Not because it hurts, because it does not. Not because you are jealous, because you are not. But because watching feels unnecessary. It is predictable. Rafayel Vale has returned, and he has returned to your sister’s side as he was meant to, as he has been for years, in name if not yet in affection. So you turn away, and you smile when another gentleman bows before you.

“My Lady.” His voice is smooth and warm, like polished amber. “You have been standing far too long without a partner. Might I correct such a tragedy?”

You lift your eyes to the gentleman before you. He is striking, but not in the brooding, storm-swept way the Duke is. No, this man wears charm like a perfectly tailored coat: light brown hair elegantly curled, a golden signet ring on his right hand, a smile that curls ever so slightly at the edge as though he knows something you do not. And his title?

“Lord Wessex.” His bow is elegant. “Second son of the Marquess of Clarendon. Though I am told I am the more tolerable of the two.”

Your brows lift, amused. “You have quite the opinion of yourself, My Lord.”

His grin is unrepentant. “Only when it is justified. May I?”

You place your gloved hand in his.

Lord Wessex is a skilled dancer. Not just in form but in conversation. Where the others have asked the same tired questions (what are your hobbies, do you enjoy embroidery), he asks instead about the books you read, the places you wish to see, the way your eyes light up when speaking of the sea, despite the fact that you have never once seen it in person.

He keeps you laughing, and thinking, and on your toes. And when he leads you to the refreshments table, he does not hover or smother. He offers you a glass, nods warmly at your appreciation, and keeps the conversation moving like a current pulling you along beside him.

“They speak of your sister and His Grace as though the match is already sealed.” His gaze drifts toward the couple in question, his smile still in place but quieter now.

“It was arranged.” You keep your voice light. “A long time ago.”

“Arranged." He turns the word in his mouth like a pebble, considering. “Such a word leaves so little room for choice, doesn’t it?”

You glance at him. “Do you not believe in arrangements, My Lord?”

“I believe in lightning strikes.” His eyes find yours. “Not family bargains.”

You tilt your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Then I suppose the Ton must frustrate you endlessly.”

His laugh is warm and unforced. “You have no idea, Miss Everleigh.”

By the end of the evening you have danced with him twice more, once by his request and once by your own quiet invitation, and both times have left your cheeks flushed and your thoughts pleasantly tangled. And while your sister ends the night with the Duke at her side, the talk of the room once more, it is not his presence that lingers on your skin as you step into the carriage. It is Lord Wessex’s voice still echoing in your ear, unhurried and certain.

Lightning strikes when you least expect it, Miss Everleigh. I do hope I am standing close when it happens.

—

The sun has barely settled above the rooftops when the butler appears in the parlour, his expression neutral, his voice carrying just enough weight to make the room pause.

“Lord Wessex and the Duke of Ravencourt have both requested to call this morning.”

Your mother nearly drops her embroidery. Your sister freezes with her teacup held in midair.

You simply blink. “Both?”

The butler inclines his head. “They await in the front drawing room, Miss.”

For a moment, no one moves. Then your mother claps her hands together as though summoned by divine will.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Eleanora, you look lovely, that gown is ideal. And you, dear, yes, you will stay. It would be rude not to.”

You almost laugh. Rude, of course.

The drawing room has been polished to near-blinding shine. There are fresh flowers in the vases, just slightly overdone. The maids have barely finished arranging the tea service before the two men are escorted in.

The Duke enters with the same quiet command he carried at the ball, dressed in a dark coat with silver cufflinks, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. His bow is effortless, and his gaze settles on Eleanora with a soft nod.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice is low and even. “Thank you for allowing me the visit.”

Eleanora curtsies, serene as ever. “You are most welcome, Your Grace.”

And beside him, light where Rafayel is shadow, stands Lord Wessex, smiling, charming, all pale waistcoat and sunlit presence. His gaze finds you almost immediately.

“Miss Everleigh.” His warmth is unmissable. “I confess I feared you might have forgotten me since last night.”

You raise a brow. “That would have been quite the feat, My Lord, considering how many times you stepped on my slipper.”

His grin only widens. “A bold accusation. Perhaps I should call more often, in defence of my honour.”

Tea is served. The Duke sits beside Eleanora; their conversation is soft and low and careful, words about estates, about travel, about the architecture of Bath. You and Lord Wessex, on the other hand, drown in laughter and playful remarks: a small joke about your mother’s over-watered lilies, a question about your favourite poet that, unlike the others, he actually listens to the answer of. He watches you speak with a kind of gentle interest that is easy to receive, and easy to enjoy. The Duke, for his part, never once looks your way.

The next party is held on the sprawling estate of Lord and Lady Pembroke, beneath cream-coloured canopies and strings of flowers that flutter like silk ribbons in the breeze. There are games set up on the lawn, and plates of sugared strawberries, and lemon water and delicate ices passed on silver trays. You walk beside Eleanora, both of you fresh-faced in pastels: a lilac gown for her, a pale blue for you. And they are there, of course, as they always seem to be now.

The Duke stands tall and composed in a dark grey coat, close beside your sister beneath the shade of an old ash tree, listening as she speaks, offering a quiet smile when she makes some soft remark. And across the lawn stands your suitor, Lord Wessex, lounging like he belongs in every summer painting ever made. When he catches sight of you, his expression lights up at once.

“Miss Everleigh.” He rises with one graceful movement, his voice warm and unfeigned. “You have saved me from the tortures of idle company. Walk with me?”

You glance at your sister. She gives you the faintest nod. And so you do. You walk the gardens with him, speaking of travel and philosophy and music you are not strictly supposed to enjoy. He plucks a wildflower from the hedgerow and offers it to you. You laugh and tell him it clashes terribly with your gloves.

And when you pause to rest beneath the roses, you find yourself glancing across the lawn. The Duke is still there, though he has shifted, standing now a few steps behind your sister as she speaks to another couple, and his posture is not what it was. His gaze is no longer on Eleanora. It is on you. Not direct, not rude, but unmistakable in its direction. A flicker of awareness. A moment caught like a breath held between pages of a book. And then, as though realising it himself, he looks away, just as Lord Wessex turns to say something clever that pulls another laugh out of you.

The grand hall is glowing. Every window has been draped in silk, every chandelier lit to bursting. The air shimmers with perfume and warm anticipation, and music pours from the raised platform where a quartet plays its first waltz of the evening.

You have barely stepped two feet beyond the threshold when he appears.

“Miss Everleigh.” Lord Wessex stands handsomely turned out in dark green, his cravat pinned with a gold brooch shaped like a fox, his smile brighter than the chandeliers themselves. “I was hoping to steal your hand before some other poor soul got the chance.”

You lift your chin. “You assume I would say yes, My Lord.”

His bow goes low and theatrical. “I rely entirely on hope and your mercy.”

You let out a soft laugh and extend your gloved hand. “Very well, Lord Wessex. Just this once.”

His expression turns triumphant. The dance is effortless. You move together as though you have done it a hundred times before; you know he will make a joke right before the turn, and that he will lean in slightly before the dip, just close enough to make your skin warm but never improper, never forward. He is a gentleman with a wild spark.

Afterward, he offers his arm and guides you to the refreshment table, refusing to let a single foppish lordling cut in. You spend the next hour beside him, talking and sipping chilled wine and laughing once so hard that you have to hide your face behind your fan. He makes it easy. He makes you feel seen.

Across the ballroom, the Duke is at your sister's side once more. They speak in quiet tones. He escorts her to a dance, then to another, though that one is not hers but another lady's, partnered with him out of expected courtesy. His face remains unreadable, his words careful. But every time your laughter rings out, or your gown brushes past the edge of the room, his eyes find your silhouette, just for a second.

Lord Wessex offers you another dance before the night ends, and you accept without hesitation. The Duke, for his part, asks for none of you. But he does watch, just once more, as you dance away with another man, your laughter drifting like perfume behind you.

—

The bell above the door gives a soft chime as you step inside. It is cooler here, and dimmer, the thick scent of paper and aged wood pressing gently around you like a familiar shawl. Shelves tower around you, heavy with worn spines and leather bindings, a world apart from ballrooms and fans and powdered smiles.

You pull off one glove and tuck it beneath your arm as you wander. Most ladies prefer the modiste, the milliner, the tea room on Hanover Street where the windows let in perfect sunlight. But here, in the dust-warm hush of a bookshop, you can breathe.

You find yourself in the poetry section, of course, your bare fingertips brushing the titles, your brow slightly furrowed as you search for something half-remembered, alone with your own thoughts.

Until a soft shift of leather soles catches your ear. You turn, expecting a clerk, and freeze.

He stands not three paces from you, dressed in deep blue, no cravat, no gloves, simpler than you have ever seen him and no less composed for it. The Duke of Ravencourt. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The absurdity of it makes your lips twitch faintly, of all the places, of all the afternoons. He regards you with that same unreadable expression of his, as though he were trying to make sense of something.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice, when it comes, is low and measured. “This is unexpected.”

You curtsy, very slightly, regaining your composure. “Your Grace. I might say the same.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the book in your hand: Keats, you realise, only now. Then back to your face. “Do you favour poetry?”

“On quiet days. And on rainy ones.”

He nods, almost to himself. “A fine choice.”

You wait, wondering whether he will say more. He does not.

“And you, Your Grace?” There is a touch of amusement laced through your words, in spite of yourself. “Are you here for poetry, or for politics?”

His lips curve, only just. “Neither. I prefer philosophy. Or anything with weight to it.”

Your brow arches. “Is that so, Your Grace?”

He looks at you for a long moment, still distant, but not unkind.

“I did not expect to find you here.” His admission comes after the silence has stretched long enough to mean something. “But I am not displeased.”

Your heartbeat ticks once, then twice, soft and uneven beneath your bodice.

“Nor am I, Your Grace.” You keep your voice quiet. “But I shall let you return to your… weighty thoughts."

He inclines his head. “And you to your verse.”

You curtsy, slight but proper. He bows in return. There are no lingering glances, no breathless goodbyes, only a few pleasantries exchanged, two minds acknowledged, and a silence between them that somehow says more than the words have.

—

It is one of those warm spring afternoons when everything feels too golden to be entirely real. The garden terrace is full of soft laughter and the rustle of silk gowns; ladies fan themselves under the shade trees, while gentlemen cluster near the wine table, discussing horses, Parliament, and who had worn what at last Thursday’s dinner. You arrive beside your mother, your carriage late by fifteen minutes for a wheel that needed adjusting.

“Smile, darling.” Your mother adjusts your glove without asking. “Your sister may be absent, but you mustn’t let that reflect poorly on the family. A touch of colour in your cheeks would not hurt either.”

You smile. You nod. You adjust. Eleanora woke this morning feeling unwell, no fever, but pale and weak, and your mother would never permit a less-than-perfect appearance at a public affair. Her instructions earlier had been gentle but firm. You will attend in her place. Just be seen, dearest. And speak kindly if anyone asks after her.

So now you stand in your sister’s shadow, only without her beside you to cast it. You move through conversation with practised ease. Three ladies ask after your sister. One older gentleman mistakenly calls you by her name, and you correct him gently, no sting in your voice. And then you excuse yourself, drifting toward the edge of the terrace where the rose-covered trellis offers a moment of quiet. You are just reaching for a glass of water when a familiar voice drifts behind you.

"Miss Everleigh."

You turn. There he is, the Duke, alone. Not at your sister’s side. Not deep in conversation. Not scanning the crowd for another Lady to dance with. He stands a respectful distance away, one hand loosely clasped behind his back, the other holding a glass of white wine.

“Your Grace.” You offer a curtsy, calm as you can manage. “I am surprised to see you without company.”

His lips twitch at the corner. “It seems the pattern of surprises between us continues.”

His eyes study your face, not in a way that lingers, but in a way that makes you feel slightly restless beneath the skin. “Is your sister not attending?”

You shake your head. “She is unwell, Your Grace. Nothing serious, only a passing fatigue.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” His voice is quiet, and smooth as ever, though beneath it there is something unreadable once again, something that does not quite settle.

“I hope you do not feel… obligated to entertain me in her absence, Your Grace.” You add it carefully, watching his face.

“I do not.” The reply comes quicker than you expected, not curt, only honest.

Your brows lift, amused despite yourself. “Then what brings you to my corner of the garden, Your Grace?”

“Curiosity, perhaps.” A small pause, and then, almost like a confession, “You have a talent for appearing where I least expect you.”

You blink, and a small smile finds you. “I assure you, Your Grace, I do not do it on purpose.”

“A pity.” His voice has gone quieter. “It is becoming a habit I rather look forward to.”

You do not have time to answer, because somewhere across the terrace someone is calling your name, Lord Wessex, of course, waving from the far end with that signature grin of his. You turn back to the Duke.

“If you will excuse me, Your Grace.”

He inclines his head. “Of course.”

You curtsy again. He bows. And you walk away, toward the man who wants you, and away from the one who has only just begun to wonder whether he should.

“Was that the Duke I saw you speaking with?” Lord Wessex offers his arm as you return to the centre of the terrace.

“It was, My Lord.” Your fingers brush the embroidered edge of his sleeve as you accept.

“And how was His Grace this fine evening? Did he frown at you with poetic intensity?”

You smile. “He was polite. Curious, perhaps. But there was no frowning.”

He clicks his tongue, mock-disappointed. “How dull. I had hoped for at least a glower.”

You laugh, soft and warm, as he guides you toward a quieter corner of the garden path, where lanterns hang low and glowing between branches of wisteria. You walk together in companionable silence for a moment.

“You always find me easily, My Lord.” You keep your tone light.

“That is because I always look.” There is no hesitation in him at all when he says it, and that is what stills you, just a fraction, the unguarded sincerity of it.

The conversation drifts easily after that, as it always does between you. He asks about your favourite lines from the bookshop. You ask about his childhood summers spent on a windswept estate in Devon. He makes you laugh with an imitation of a distant cousin who once proposed to a woman mid-faint.

It is easy, this thing between you. Not dull, not predictable, but certain, somehow. And when he asks you for a dance under the stars, you say yes without thinking twice. You dance in the soft evening breeze, the music from the terrace drifting down like petals from above, his hand steady at your waist, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You are quiet tonight.” His voice is low at your ear as you turn.

“My apologies, My Lord. I had not realised.”

“Quieter than usual. Not unhappy, I hope?”

“No.” The answer is honest, and easily given. “Just enjoying this moment.”

His smile is small and pleased. “Then I shall consider myself fortunate.”

Somewhere on the terrace, the Duke is dancing with another Lady. He does not fumble, does not charm, does not smile too wide or step too close. He is composed, as always, fulfilling his role and bowing when required and saying the right words at the right times.

But when your laughter drifts once more across the lawn, his eyes, just for a second, turn toward the sound and linger there again.

© zaynessbeloved 2026. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

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Principal Dort’s office was something… Lyra considered it to be unnecessarily large, so much so that even the darker walls and decor did not seem to make the space diminish how grand it appeared. Her gaze was stuck on the medusa shaped fireplace for longer than it should have been if the slight glare she got from her stepmother was anything to go by. 

“This place is very lovely, Principal Dort. The fireplace is a real,” she searched for the most appropriate word to say, “showstopper.” 

She wasn’t sure if it was the compliments or the literal award-winning smile she told them with, but both the Principal and her stepmother seemed pleased enough with her performance and  after a proud “Thank you.” from the man, went right back to what they were in the office for in the first place. 

“Please,” Dort said sitting on his chair, indicating to the two other chairs placed before his desk. “Sit.”

Vivienne took the lead, sitting herself down on the chair like royalty would sit upon a throne. She kept her back straight, crossed one leg over the other and folded her hands together on top of her legs.  Her face still stuck on that soft brightness that made everyone just a tad more agreeable. 

Lyra stood just inside of the door for a moment longer. With her phone still in hand and her bag strap digging into her shoulder. Despite its size the room felt heavy to her, and cold in a way that didn’t help the chill still in her bones.  

“Principal Dort,” Vivienne said as Lyra moved to the other chair, ”Thank you so much for personally welcoming us here. I am aware that the circumstances of Lyra’s enrollment are particularly unusual, but I strongly believe that all of that just gives us more reason to do this correctly.”  

Lyra lowered herself into the second chair beside Vivienne and took the time to arrange her skirt so that the ruffles lay just right. 

The principal nodded. “Oh no, no need to thank me for that Mrs. Dusk-Vale, after all, we here at Nevermore are all very thankful for the trust you are placing on us. I’m sure that in your line of work you understand how important optics can be, especially after the scandal we suffered last year. I have personally gone through everything you’ve sent us.” His gaze flickered to Lyra who still smiled up at him and then returned to Vivienne.”Our mutual goal here is to make sure Miss Dusk integrates into the student body in a way that sets a positive example for all others to follow.” 

Vivienne’s smile grew just slightly. “Exactly, and I trust that a shared dormitory has been arranged for my little star?”

Lyra kept her face still, even if the words hit her like a punch in the stomach, the muscles on her face were too well trained after years of acting classes and slightly inappropriate questions in interviews to allow news like that to make her drop her smile. There goes her privacy.  The principal, unaware of the thoughts in Lyra’s head, seemed extremely pleased. 

“Yes, of course. That has been approved and handled. I also find that sharing a living space with her new peers will encourage cooperation and help us all mend some destroyed bridges.”  He laced his fingers together at the last word. 

“It most certainly will,” Vivienne agreed. “ I feared a private room would send the wrong message. Lyra definitely understands that being part of a community means being present in it.” Her hand settled heavily on Lyra’s shoulder. What would be interpreted as a loving gesture by others was read as the threat it was by Lyra. 

“Yes,” Lyra interjected, “I can’t wait to meet my new roommate, we’re going to be best friends.” Her tone came out bright and cheery, with a cadence she’d not only spent hours perfecting, but also used hundreds of times before.  Inside she just shoved the disappointment she was feeling into a little drawer and used all her metaphysical weight to slam it closed. 

“Good, good,” Dort said. “One little correction though. Roommates. You’ll have two. We figured that, considering we are doing all of this to improve the normie and outcast relationships we figured that there was no better placement for you than with two of the people responsible for saving our beloved Nevermore. So you’ll be staying at Ophelia Hall with Wednesday Addams and Enid Sinclair. 

“That’s great!” Lyra said. “Can’t wait to meet these two extra special roommates.” Extra special freaks. She corrected in her mind but the two other people in the room only saw her excited smile. 

Vivienne seemed satisfied. “Wonderful. There is also the matter of the uniform. Consistency is important and my little Lyra does have a certain image to uphold.”

“Oh, yes,” Dort cleared his throat, reaching for something behind his chair. It was a garment bag that had been hung on the top of the chair. “Your team provided very detailed specifications that we followed to the dot. We have made this one for you to double check if you need any alterations they will be done, if everything is alright they should have a few more uniforms sent to her room within the next few days. 

Lyra and Vivienne watched as Dort unzipped the bag. Overall it did look similar to the uniforms she’d seen on the other students on the way to the office. She would fit in but not blend in. 

The blazer had the school’s black and purple pinstriped pattern but the waist had been drawn in and the sleeves were a little tighter and shorter. The blouse was white and made of a light fabric that wouldn’t add bulk to her frame and the sleeves ended in small lace ruffles that started at the place the blazer ended around its neck was a silk ribbon bow. The plaid skirt would end well above her knees and held a second layer that gave it some shape, the hem ended in more silk ruffles. 

The principal reached under his desk and placed two things on the desk besides the opened bag. The item on top was a pair of knee-high socks that also ended in some ruffles, which she thought she’d be able to avoid by wearing a uniform. They always make the back of her knee itchy. Below the socks were platformed black shiny Mary Janes. 

“It remains within code.” Dort said. “Barely, but yes. I expect proper conduct from Lyra whilst in this uniform.” “The uniform is perfect and she already knows what is expected.” Vivienne replied before Lyra could. It suited her fine, she was already past done with this conversation. 

The uniform was laid on the table and the end of the blazer fell onto Lyra’s and Vivienne’s side of the desk. Lyra reached out to feel it. It was soft at least and she didn’t find it ugly, at least it had some color unlike all the other clothes her stepmother had chosen for her. However Lyra was not under the delusion that this would simply be another stage outfit. Just another set of clothes chosen for her to play the character they need. 

“One more thing, As we discussed little Lyra has a standing appointment in town every other Tuesday.The first one will be tomorrow, there will be a driver at the gates to pick her up and she will be brought back by a driver as well.”

“Ah, yes, we did not forget that. With the tightened restrictions that was a little harder to obtain, but Lyra does have permission to leave the grounds on Tuesdays and is excused from classes. It would be better if we did have a time frame to adhere to.” 

Vivienne’s left eye did a slight twitch at the last part. “I understand that fixed hours would help you, however, I can not provide them. You must understand our side here. These Tuesdays are for her to have a few classes to make sure she doesn’t lose her talent, she may also need to record a few things. Some days she may be done earlier than others, some days she may need to stay until later in the night. Unfortunately without that it would be impossible for her to attend this prestigious academy.” 

“Well, we’ll have to make do then.” He took a laminated piece of paper from the folder in front of him and handed it to Lyra. “You shouldn’t need this but if you are caught by someone who isn’t properly informed of the situation just hand them this and everything will be fine.”

Lyra took the pass and smiled at him. “Thank you, Principal Dort.”

“Yes, thank you. We appreciate what you are doing to make sure this works out for everyone.” 

Dort closed the folder. And stood from his own chair. “With all of that being taken care of, allow me to properly welcome you to Nevermore, Miss Dusk. We will have a student bring you back to your dorm where your luggage should already be waiting. Orientation materials are in this packet, including the rule book.” He slid a slim binder across the desk towards Lyra. “Your mother and I will finish up here with contracts and signatures, then meet you at the entrance as soon as you finish up a school tour. Vivienne rose first and bent down to press a gentle kiss to Lyra’s hairline. “Make me proud.” She whispered. 

Lyra stood up from the chair. The lace of the knee highs she was wearing brushed the back of her knee. She put her smile back on and held it.

“Thank you, Principal Dort,” she said, ”I’m glad I get to experience this school.”

The lie settled around her next to all the other ones she had had to say. 

The phone at his desk rang and he answered it, having a short conversation before hanging up. 

“Right on time,” he said, zipping up the garment bag and giving it to her. ”Your tour guide is just outside, I’m sure you’ll get along great.”

Luca showed Vale his locker, while making sure he wasn’t tripping ver his own feet while staring around the ranch, taking everything in and trying to get a glimpse of his future.

It was only when Cele started laughing that they realized that maybe things weren’t as simple. He pointed at Vale. The boy hold the significantly wider racing suit in front his lean frame.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” he asked and turned around to the other who were already chuckling. “Why is that thing so big?”

“Do we even have leathers for kids?” Marc asked, his voice audible teasing him. “Maybe from the workshop from the 15 year olds.” Bez added.

“I am not a kid!” he argued back. There was an unhappy frown on his lips.

Luca didn’t even join in on the argument. Instead he just rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t change the problem that these leathers are drowning him.”

“Doesn’t Vale has his weird shrine cellar? Maybe there’s still some 125cc leathers?” Franco suggested. At least he was trying to help.

“What?” The now youngest Italian said out loud, taken aback by the word shrine cellar.

“Vale has some of his old racing equipment stored in the cellar” Luca explained. “I’m pretty sure he has some old 125cc suits too… They are 30 years old though. You think they are still useable?”

He turned to the Spaniard who just shrugged. He was looking over the grown men mostly already half in their leathers. “You get ready, I’ll show him.” Marc said, giving Luca the go to finish getting ready.

The Italian nodded. He trusted Marc… But he didn’t trust Vale. At least not this Vale. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he started to have a really bad feeling.

Shortly after, the two reached the cellar with the racing equipment.

“Wow… This is so much stuff” the younger one said, his eyes darting around, from the suits to the helmets and the trophies and back. He was visible impressed by his own collection.

Marc smiled gently, knowing it was barely a fraction. Nonetheless, he could only agree with the other boy. “Yeah, it's really a lot”

 he said. His own eyes wandered around. They remained on the blue Yamaha Leathers. Those hold the most memories for him.

They hold so much heartbreak and love, he couldn't even describe it. He remembered seeing them on track and off track and feeling the love and the hate, the frustration, the sadness and everything else he couldn’t even place properly.

He couldn't help but reach out.

He touched the collar of the suit. His hands playing with the zipper.

He remembered being angry about how his brother was treated just because of Rossi. He had been so furious he couldn’t just sit back anymore. So he had been shoving exactly these Leathers against a wall and some random packed paddock.

He had yelled. Cursed. He had begged Rossi – back then still his husband because both of them were too prideful to file for divorce, thinking it meant they lost . to at least keep Alex out of things.

He remembered desperately trying to get the zipper off. He remembered the yearning, the need and the desperation that had fuelled his shaking hand.

He remembered the love that had buzzed between them. And he remembered the hurt that he had experienced from these letters.

All these emotions were in these leathers.

“You had a long career.” Marc said absent minded. He turned slightly around, noticing that the younger man was currently staring at him.

His eyes were focused on him. He was looking him up and down like he was currently realising something he hadn't understood before. Like a whole train of thoughts was currently running through his head. It was making the Spaniard almost uncomfortable.

“Did you find some letters in your size?” he asked quickly, shifting from one foot to the other, hoping to distract whatever was going on in his head.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know whateber this young boy seemed to have just realized.

“Yeah.” The other replied simply and shrugged. “But I'm curious. These leathers-“ He pointed to the 2016 yamaha leathers that were still lingering between Marc’s fingers. “They seem to be quite important to you.”  

“All these letters are quite important to you. Or they will be.” He said gently, hoping to diffuse the situation a bit.

“Yeah, but from all the letters that are hanging around here, you chose those. Why?”

2016.

It had been a year of begging, of fear, of hate. He had been on the edge of his sanity.

He looked at Vale, his blue eyes so young and innocent.

He didn’t want the first thing he’d find out about their marriage was that they had a 5 year on-off period where they had more hate fucks than honest conversations.

“Memories.” He replied instead.

“What memories?” “Memories with my husband.” The Spaniards said with a pointed look. He really hoped it’d shut him up for a moment.

“Memories with your husband.” Vale repeated and slowly got a little bit closer. “I am your husband.” He said.

His voice was carrying a confidence that was certainly the confidence Valentino Rossi. It felt so familiar, so much like him, that Marc couldn't help but chuckle.

He had always wondered if his husband always had that confidence or if it had been forged by the countless winds and championships. He had always wondered if he had always been like this or if all those news articles and news had gone to his head over the years. Now he knew.

“You're a kid.” Marc said. There was no heat in his voice. No hate or accusation. Just a statement. “You're not my husband. I married my husband when he was 35 years old. You are not half the man he was when we got married. And you are certainly not the man that I am married to right now.”

It might be a bit harsh but he wasn’t sure what he’d be up to if he wasn’t a bit harsh.

To Marc surprise, the young Italian chuckled. It was an honest chuckle. Like he had just accepted a challenge. Like a plan had been forged into his mind. Like he had just realised how to play the game.

And when he tilted his head to the side, leaning down and looking up out of his young blue eyes, Marc realised he was doomed.

“But it wasn't your husband that kissed you this morning, now was it?” He asked.

His voice was laced with a seductive tone. Every word carried the pride of an 18 year old realising that he was the one able to make a 32 year olds play like he wanted.

“It was me. And I think you liked it…” He didn’t get a word of disagreement. “So tell me, if I'm not your husband, then what am I? Your boyfriend? Your mistress? Your little boy toy on the side?”

He leaned closer. He was now fully in Marc's personal space. Vale's hands were resting on Marcs left and right side. There were only a little gap currently separating the two. Vale's lips were slightly opened, tilted to the side to be able to be on the same height as mark.

“Because I can be whatever you want me to be.” He continued. “I would be whatever you want me to be. From husband to boy toy, I can be yours. I'd be anything to be yours.”

His hands wandered more towards the Spanaird, gripping his waist.

“I could drop to my knees right now and suck you off around all these things that mark my career. Do you want to imagine it? Your cock against my lips. You're cum on my face. Or down my throat with all these reminders why I will be the greatest are watching us. Is it that what you want? Because I'm down for it.”

His voice was low while Marc felt the breath getting stuck in his throat. He forced himself to swallow to calm himself down. He took a deep breath.

And then looked straight ahead in those fascinating blue eyes that were now so much younger than he had ever seen it.

He reached out. Almost gently, he put his hand on his cheek. He felt Vale move his lips a little bit more towards his hand. He kissed the skin he could reach.

“I can kiss you too if you want you.” He said. His voice sounded more begging now. More asking. More like something he wanted.

But before it was a question that he had to answer, the door was only opened. And Luca stood there.

Marc froze, his eyes falling on the younger Italian. He looked pissed. He looked angry.

“Luca” Marc said. “I swear-“ “Valentino. Take the fucking leathers and go back outside.”

“Luca.” He replied sounding whiny. “Fuck off. Can't you see we're a bit busy?” “Stop thinking with fucking dick and get on a bike you asshole.” “But I-“ “No discussion. I'm not getting paid enough to deal with you being a whorey little 18 year old.”

Valentino let out an angry sound. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest. But when he saw the angry look in his brother's face, he decided that he did not want to argue.

He realised that he did not actually know Luca. He didn't know how he'd react to what. He didn't know what he’d think of what.

But he knew that he was his brother. He cared about his reactions and his thoughts.

And right now, his brother was angry at him. Furious, even.

And he didn't want to make it worse. So he took the letters and left, leaving Luca and Marc alone.

“He’s 18 years old.”  Luca said low. It sounded like a threat.

“You think I don’t know that” Marc hissed. “But – respectfully, Luca, you’re 18 year old brother is a whore.” “Doesn’t mean you have to sleep with him!”

The Spanaird rolled his eyes. “I was barely older than he is now when we started hooking up!” he shot back.  

“You think that’s making it better?!” “I’m just saying because you’re making me feel like a creep!” “Then don’t flirt with a kid that’s barely legal.” “He is flirting with me!” he argued back.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if this is how Vale felt in their early days. If Vale had the same conversation with anyone. That he had to justify flirting with a 20 year old?

A few hours later, Valentino was still angry.

By then, he had already been racing. Just like Luca. Pecco had told him that Mark wouldn't be racing due to a shoulder injury.

He had been sad about it. He wanted to race Marc. He wanted to see how good he was. And maybe tease him on track a bit.  

Instead he had raised against the boys, and honestly, it had been fun.

At first it had been difficult since he didn't know the track and they seemed to know it like the back of their hand.

They had teased him about it. They had been making jokes about him, nagging him, asking things he did not quite understand that.

They seemed like a group of people that had known each other for years. Like a bunch of kids that had grown up together. And he was happy to be part of that group. He was happy that he had been able to create this group.

It was something that he would look forward to when he grew up.

When he went back in for a break, he saw Luca was sitting on a bench. He was currently focused on his glove, trying to get it back in order.

He looked at him hesitantly. He still remembered his angry look from a few hours ago. He had looked like a parent scolding a child. He sighed.

He didn't want to get scolded by his younger brother. He knew he probably should act a little bit more mature. But he didn't want to. He had never learned how to act mature.

It felt weird. Somehow, he thought that his younger brother had grown up the same. The same reckless, uncaring parents. The same casual responsibilities. The feeling of being more friends with his parents than being actual child and parent.

He had assumed that it would be the same. That Luca would grow up the same as he did.

But as he looked at the man that his baby brother would grow up to be, he realised that he had been wrong. And that was what made it so hard.

He wondered if the 18 year old Luca was anything like him.

He doubted it.

So he was looking at the older man, wondering what he was thinking about him. He wondered if his little brother thought of him as a pathetic child. Still, he couldn’t change his behaviour. He had tried yet… Nothing.

“You’re boring” Vale muttered as he said down next to Luca. He had a pouty look on his face. The combination with his long hair just made him look even younger. “Marc is really hot. I like him. Why are you ruining this for me?”

“Vale, in your world – in your time, Marc is busy eating dirt in some small Spanish city. He is 4 years old in your time.” He said, his voice firm but gentle.

“He doesn’t look 4 years old to me right now.” “No, but you look like you should be in school.”

“And you sound like an overprotective parent.” He shot back. “Maybe because I had to parent you my whole life!” he said. He hadn’t mean to say it but the words just slipped out.

“What is that supposed to mean?! I’m literally older than you!” “Nothing-“ Luca hurried to say and sighed quietly. This Vale had no idea and it wasn’t fair to blame a kid. Or lash out on him.

This Vale didn’t know about all the times Vale had fucked up and Luca had quietly fixed it. He didn’t know about all the times, Luca had comforted Vale while he had been crying about Marc.

He didn’t know about every time Vale had too much to drink and it had been Luca making sure his brother got safely into a bed and wouldn’t choke on his own spit during the night.

“Look, I’m just trying to look out for you, okay?” he said gently. “I mean… Hell, you’re not even supposed to be”

“By cockblocking me?” he asked.  

Here's a little snippet of the next chapter from Simon's POV:

*Also apologies for any typos or grammatical errors, I've been hiding my work away from the incomparable Jenny because I hated everything I was writing so much but I'm a new person now (as of 1 hour ago.)

I called on Baz, as I was in the habit of doing daily at that point, and he asked if I would mind moving our socialisation to the park. I had agreed until I realized he intended for us to go on horseback whereupon I flatly refused. “But you ride when you’re in the country, do you not?” Baz asked, his expression discerning but with the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do not. Why would I?” I responded. “Why would you not?” “I repeat. Why would I? Horses are God’s most horrible creatures,” I said and he laughed, the sound so bright and genuine, it sent a spark through me that I’ve still not been able to shake.

I love that Simon canonically doesn't like horses. It's hilarious.

Okay, now for a little treat.

I sew most of my clothing. I sew a LOT. It's one thing that I know I can do and am proud of. I love sewing. I love clothing. I love making physical objects. That being said, my style is a lot more Simon Snow. My style is not at all like Baz's style. My body type is not at all like Baz's body type. However, I yearn to dress Baz. So here's a tiny Baz outfit for you.

I pressed his trousers and everything. His shirt has no buttons but I think Simon would prefer it that way ❤️ I would make a matching Simon outfit but I already have a full scale version of it and I wore it today (jeans, trainers, and a Pitch Watford football shirt that I switched out for a white t-shirt after I spilled pad thai on myself.)

I am starting to work on a Watford logo to embroider onto a shirt or sweatshirt but more to come on that when I actually do something...

Anyways, I hope you had a lovely pride month 🌈 (and if not, I hope tomorrow is fucking amazing.)

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She’s seen everything. Knows everything.

My scars. My past.

My real fucking name.

Everything I’ve killed to keep buried. Gone to lengths no one could imagine to keep this persona intact—custom suits, no labels.

No record.

No trace.

But her—this beautiful, broken doll—she sees it all. All.

And still—she reaches for me.

She knows what I’ve done. What I did to her. The manipulation. The cruelty—

And still she wants me. Says I’m the only thing that makes her feel real. Alive. Like someone finally gave a shit.

Fuck.

Do you know how many times I just watch her sleep now?

Hours. Like a lunatic.

Trace the curve of her hip with my eyes until I’m hard, burning and desperate.

Until the hunger is enough to break me.

She shifts and I stop breathing.

She sighs and I almost lose it.

One soft sound and I’m gone.

She doesn’t even know what she does to me.

I could hold her forever. Could press my mouth to the back of her neck and stay there, still and silent, pretending the world isn't rotting outside that moment.

The noises she makes in her sleep? Those little sighs, the unconscious whimpers?

They’re mine.

My lullabies.

I’d slit a thousand throats just to keep hearing them.

And the sounds she makes when I fuck her?

Jesus.

Those soft little gasps—the way her back arches and her fingers dig into the sheets like she’ll come apart if I sink any deeper—

They fucking undo me.

She lets me take her like I own her. Like her body’s mine to fill, to bruise, to break open ‘til there’s nothing left but me.

And she loves it.

Worse—she makes me love it too.

Makes me need it.

Makes me want to linger. Makes me want to listen. To give instead of just take—

And that’s where it all goes to hell.

Because I don’t just want her body.

No.

I want her warmth. Her breath.

Her fucking smile.

I want to know what makes her laugh.

I want to hear her cry and know I’m the only one allowed to wipe her tears.

I want to be there.

I want her to want me even when I’m not inside her.

Fuck.

She knows.

She knows how obsessed I am.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

She’s the one pulling the strings now.

And me—me—the guy who used to be ten moves ahead. The so-called Agent of Chaos. The big bad. The one they warned you about...

I’m a fucking puddle at her feet.

And the city knows it.

That shiny-haired bastard on the news made damn sure of that, grinning like he cracked some uncrackable code—

Saying I bent my own rules.

That I hesitated.

That I let her live.

A single slip. A quiet mercy. One goddamn moment of humanity...

And suddenly everyone’s guessing.

Whispers about softness. About weakness.

About her.

About how maybe I kept her.

About how maybe I care.

And now... now I’m paying the price for that weakness.

And the worst part?

They’re not wrong.

And I’ve never hated myself more for it.

So I tried.

Tried to pull back.

Tried to withhold warmth—use her only when the need to lose myself inside her became unbearable.

Let them be wrong.

Made myself the monster again—

Just to prove I still could.

I ignored her.

Stopped asking questions.

Stopped teasing.

Stopped stroking her hair to sleep.

Stopped hanging her art—

the only thing that ever made this tomb feel like a home.

I turned the anger I’d spent my life aiming outward back in on myself.

Not to punish—

To warn.

I thought maybe...

Maybe if I notched it deep enough, carved reminders into my skin,

Pressed the old ones until they screamed,

Left the blood in the sink to crust instead of cleaning it away—

Maybe then I’d fucking listen.

Maybe then I’d remember who I’m supposed to be.

Every new cut was a ritual.

A line in the sand.

A vow etched in red.

But it didn’t work.

Because she makes me weak in ways I don’t know how to kill.

I thought I could have the best of both worlds.

Keep my doll tucked away—To look at, to touch, to fuck when the hunger got too loud.

Keep her close… without letting her in.

I thought if I held her at the edge, I could keep my center intact.

But the distance didn’t sharpen me. Didn’t bring the mission back into focus.

Didn’t return me to the man Gotham fears.

Instead, it blurred everything.

Until the sound of her silence was louder than my pulse.

Until she stopped looking at me like I was still in there somewhere.

And that—

That broke me in ways I didn’t see coming.

And her?

She didn’t beg.

Didn’t scream. Didn’t rage. Didn’t cry.

She just…

Went quiet.

The doll I’d ruined with affection went still. Silent.

Even her paints dried up—cracked in their trays, abandoned to rot.

Just like I’d abandoned her.

The canvases stayed leaning against the wall, half-finished—like even they couldn't stand to look at me anymore.

The color she used to pour into this place—into me—just stopped.

And I let it. Like a fool too stubborn to admit I was destroying the only person that ever treated me like I was worth a damn.

Eventually, she left.

Slipped back into the little stone cell I carved into the wall when I first brought her here.

The one I built for a prisoner—

Not for her.

She didn’t slam it shut. Didn’t say a word.

She just disappeared.

Like I’d taught her how.

And I tried.

Tried to stay away. Tried to let her have her silence.

Thought it was better this way—cleaner, safer.

Thought the hunger would dull. That distance would kill the need.

But it didn’t.

It only sharpened it.

Every second I spent away, it festered—twisted—turned me inside out.

So I tried to go back.

Back to the beginning.

Back to the nights before I touched her. Before I kissed her.

Before she curled up against me and said she wanted me like it was safe.

Back when I had control.

_

I used to watch her sleep in her little apartment.

Slipped in through the window, quiet as breath.

Stood by the edge of her bed in the dark and just... watched.

Her lashes fluttering. Her mouth parted. One bare leg kicked free of the sheets—

My cock would twitch. My pulse would race, breath gone shallow.

I'd imagine it, imagine her horror at waking and finding me there. Gotham’s monster in her most intimate space.

Sometimes I’d unzip. Just enough to ease the pressure. I’d stroke slow, teeth sunk in my lip, eyes fixed on her mouth, those perfect tits pressing against her nightgown, the curve of her hips as she turned in her sleep.

Could’ve finished right there.

God, I wanted to.

But I never did.

Because even then, right at the beginning—it was like some part of me knew.

She wasn’t just a girl.

She was an altar.

And if I came there—if I let go like some desperate creep in the dark—

it’d ruin everything.

It wasn’t time.

Not yet.

So I’d stop. Swallow it down. Stuff myself back into my pants, cock still twitching. Teeth grit, jaw locked, control barely intact.

Then I’d walk out slow.

Leave her there, sleeping—untouched. Unknowing.

And only when I was home—alone, behind steel and shadow—would I let myself finish.

Grinning.

Untouchable.

Her name torn up in my throat like a secret.

That was control.

That was power.

That was me, still running the game.

But that was before.

Before she looked at me like I was worth something.

Before her voice started living under my skin.

So when she went quiet—when she left our bed—

I tried.

Tried to go back to the beginning.

Laid in the dark alcove with my hand around my cock, like old times.

Pictured her asleep again. Alone. Far away.

Pretended I'd never touched her.

Pretended I'd never kissed the hollow of her throat.

Never dragged my tongue across her ribs like I was starving.

Never tasted her when she trembled.

I tried.

Gripped harder. Closed my eyes. Bit my lip. Forced it.

But it wasn’t the same.

Because I used to come to the thought of her fear—

The way she’d freeze when I stepped too close. The way her breath hitched, like she knew what I could do.

That power made me feel immortal. Like a god.

But now?

Now it’s not her terror that gets me off.

It’s her fucking mercy.

The way she stopped fighting. Stopped running. How she just looked at me—shaking, torn wide open—and still didn’t turn away.

That quiet.

That stillness.

The unbearable warmth in her eyes, like she saw something worth saving buried beneath the filth.

That’s what I come to now.

That’s what I fuck my fist to in the dark.

Not her fear.

Her forgiveness.

And it fucking destroys me.

Because I used to be the storm. Unfeeling. Unshakable. The nightmare everyone feared—

Now I’m just some freak in the dark, fisting myself to the memory of the girl who pitied me.

The girl who should’ve run.

Should’ve put a bullet in my skull when I handed her the gun.

But instead—

she reached for me.

Like I was something worth saving.

And when it was over—when I came with her name half-bitten between my teeth, spilling out like a prayer I didn’t deserve—

I didn’t feel victorious.

I felt hollow.

Because now that I’ve had her—now that she knows me—nothing else touches me.

Nothing else matters.

Not the chaos.

Not the screams.

Not the fucking city on its knees.

Only her.

Her warmth.

Her arms.

Her kiss.

The way her body takes me—soft and aching and pure—like holy water soaking into the cracks of something long dead.

She doesn’t just let me in—she cleanses me.

Washes the filth off my soul with every pulse of her cunt, and doesn't even know she’s doing it.

And when I came crawling back—when I couldn’t stand another goddamn second pretending she meant nothing—

She let me.

Like I hadn’t gutted her.

Like I hadn’t earned every ounce of her silence.

I slipped into that dark, stone prison and sat behind her like a man crawling through broken glass—

And she didn’t fight me. Didn’t even turn around.

She just lay there.

Quiet.

Still.

Breathing like the night itself.

I thought maybe—maybe—if I was careful enough, silent enough, she’d let me touch her.

But then she turned.

And when her eyes found mine in the dark—it nearly tore me in half.

Because her eyes…

God.

All that pain. All that knowing.

She looked at me like I’d broken her. Like I was the reason she’d stopped shining.

And still—still—

she wanted me.

Not with words. Not even with touch.

Just with the way she looked at me, like she couldn't stop, even if she should.

And I think that’s what cut deepest.

Because even shattered, she still saw something in me worth reaching for.

And she let me.

Let me touch her again.

Kiss her... Take her like a trusted lover instead of the monster who'd stolen her life.

And afterward—

Me, wrecked and wordless—no idea what the fuck to say to this perfect, fragile thing who just gave me everything like I deserved it...

After she’d wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close like I was something worth keeping—

She said it.

The one thing she never should’ve.

The one thing that could damn us both.

I think she thought I was asleep. Thought I wouldn’t hear.

And that’s what makes it worse. Because it means it was real.

Not performance.

Not survival.

Not some desperate plea offered up to soothe the beast.

No—

Just truth.

Her truth.

So soft it barely formed sound.

But I heard her.

Of course I did.

"I love you."

She said it like it was safe. Like I was worth saying it to.

And I wanted to rip the words out of the air just to stop them from sticking to me.

Because I don’t deserve them.

Not from her.

And yet—

I’ve never wanted to hear something more in my goddamn life.

Never wanted to say something back more than I did right then.

But I didn’t.

I just lay there.

Like a fucking coward, playing dead. Pretending I didn’t hear her.

And now…

If we weren’t doomed before, we sure as hell are now.

Because I can’t survive that.

Not that kind of love.

Gentle.

Pure.

Undeserved.

Not from her.

Not when it burns like guilt and fits like grief.

Because it doesn’t make me feel whole—

it reminds me of everything I’ll never be.

Everything I've lost.

Everything I've ruined just by touching it.

Reminds me I was never made to carry something beautiful without crushing it.

—

I should’ve left her in the dark.

At the bank. Back when she still looked at me like I was a monster.

Should’ve walked away the second she started seeing things I didn’t show her.

But I didn’t.

I stayed.

I let her touch me.

And now I don’t think I could forget her if I carved her name out of my own goddamn skull.

She’s made me feel things I didn’t give her permission to find.

And now look at me.

Chasing my own tail. Losing track of time. Of purpose. Of Gotham.

She made me soft.

Not in the way people mean when they say sentimental.

No. Rotten-soft.

The kind that turns something dangerous into something ruinable.

I don’t even remember why I started this anymore.

She was never supposed to matter.

Just a bystander. A witness. Background noise while I gutted the city and strung its entrails from the rooftops.

But then she looked at me.

Not the paint.

Me.

Touched the part I buried deepest—the part I left behind with the ashes and the razors and whatever scraps were left of the boy they tried to burn out of me.

She reached in.

Found him.

And held him like he was still worth something.

And that’s the real joke, isn’t it?

Because—he wasn't.

—

I can’t keep her.

I know that.

She makes me hesitate.

Makes me want.

Makes me hope.

And that’s not what I’m made of.

I’m not some broken man who gets better because a girl whispered stay.

I’m the end of things.

The reason people run.

And she—

She makes me want to stay.

So I have to end this.

It’s mercy.

For her–

For me—

For whatever’s left of this goddamn mess.

If I keep her, I’ll ruin her.

I’ll ruin myself.

If I let her go, maybe—maybe—I’ll remember who I am.

And if I don’t?

Then maybe everything ends in ashes anyway.

—

She loves me.

And I stayed anyway.

That’s the real crime—the final sin.

Because the second I heard her say it—something in me answered.

Quiet. Final.

The kind of truth that settles deep in your bones.

And suddenly, nothing else mattered.

Not Gotham. Not the Bat. Not the mission.

Just her.

Just that moment.

And if that’s love—

if this feeling is what love is—

...this thing that feels like my soul is being flayed alive inside me—

If—

If I love her.

And I do.

Fuck. I do.

Then I have to let her go.

And I only know one way to do that.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

A/N:

Oof. That was a lot. I hope you’re okay—because I’m definitely not 🥀

The next chapter will mark the end of Part One, and I honestly can’t believe we’re here. I’ve been planning what’s coming for nearly a year, and now it’s right in front of me and I'm absolutely TERRIFIED. Still debating whether to keep it all in one fic or start a separate one for Part Two—we’ll see what feels right.

Okay so like…

Do I know he’s a violent, unhinged, voyeuristic creep?

Yes.

Does the fact that he watches her sleep and jerks off in the corner of her bedroom make him a terrifying, morally bankrupt monster?

Also yes.

…Does that turn me on?

YES.

Might as well call me Alina now because I’m beyond cooked. And he... He’s depraved, sick, insane—but also like… weirdly lovable?? He’s a monster, yet somehow he’s the most tender thing I’ve ever written.

But enough about me—I wanna know:

How are YOU feeling right now?

Do you think he truly loves her? Or are we just looking at obsession dressed up in prettier words?

What broke you? What made you ache? What made you question your morals?

Please, fuel my feral little heart with comments so I can spiral into a writing frenzy and actually finish this next chapter—because I can already feel how much it’s going to take out of me.

Thank you, from the bottom of my strange little heart, for being here—especially through the dark, messy parts. Your support, your reactions, your screams-in-the-comments are what keep this story alive.

Hold on tight. It only gets more unhinged from here.

— JesterFairy 💜🖤💚

P.S. I want him to touch me and throw me in a cell. Thanks for understanding.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)

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--

Pecco kept his duplicitous secrets to himself during training. He raced against his friends, they worked out and showered together, and they broke bread with Vale.

The days were stained with a tint of melancholia, slow and languid even as he turned his bike into a fast corner on the track. He committed every detail to his considerable memory, aware that even if things remained good, they would invariably change. Change had come upon them before, when friends left to seek different paths. They always weathered them together, but Pecco had never been the catalyst; never been blamed, never been other.

Bez sprayed water at him in the shower, because he was a joker, and Pecco thought he would miss this simplicity most. He loved Bez, and Bez loved him, and Bez loved Vale. Bez loved faithfully, and he would surely be challenged when he found him himself confronted with a friend who had grown complicated.

But then Bez slung am arm over his shoulder, joyful with friendship, mindless to the towel falling lower on his hip or Pecco's meandering worries, and Pecco thought - hoped - that in some way or form, they would always be alright.

--

The team was to make the pilgrimage to Marc's ant monument in Aragon to take photos for the team socials before the weekend started. Only Marc was supposed to go initially, but Pecco expressed that he didn't mind joining, in the name of respect between competitors, and a quiet refusal to be eclipsed by Marc.

"Davide thinks you are an angel," Marc said, crossing over to Pecco's side of the box to speak with him before they set out. He strolled about as though he owned a place, once he was comfortable enough. "I think you are trying to be sly."

Pecco's crew chief, Christian, overheard and raised an eyebrow. "He is no angel," he said.

Marc smirked in a way that could only be interpreted as devious. "I know," he said.

Maybe he referred to the on-track actions, or maybe things that had nothing to do with the track. Or both.

"I'm learning from you," Pecco said, mustering all of his innocence to peer up at him.

"Very romantic," Marc said.

Cristian's eyes shifted slowly from Marc to Pecco and back. "I missed something," he realised. Pecco typically told him everything important.

Marc had always been happy to leave mysteries unexplained, and Pecco struggled to find words that suited their situation. It was half in secret, half in the open, and not yet defined or committed because a commitment felt a little bit like giving up, and he couldn't.

He quirked a small smile at Cristian. "It has been this way all year," he said.

--

Pecco scrolled through Marc's camera roll as they laid in bed that night. Marc was sweetly pliant, and handed over his unlocked phone without thinking twice about it. Just over a week ago, Pecco had fought against the curious urge to break into it, but it turned out that all he had to do was ask.

Their colleague had gone trigger-happy in taking the team photos earlier that day. There were rows and rows of still pictures of Marc standing next to Pecco, as they squinted into the camera in the sunny distance. The earlier ones were normal-looking, and one of those would probably end up on their team account.

The rest looked quite private. It was a little bit embarrassing to think that members of their team bore witness to them acting this way. In one, Pecco rested his hand against the small of Marc's back. He could tell from the angle of his arm when this was happening. On the camera roll, Marc was grinning so widely that he his mouth couldn't possibly stretch any further, as though life could not be better for him. Pecco should have worn sunglasses. His face read as wistful.

In another, Marc squeezed his ass, then there were several off-focus shots as they pushed each other and laughed, and Pecco patted Marc's hip to get back at him.

"Can you send me all these?" he asked Marc.

Marc hummed. "You can send them to yourself. I don't mind."

Being given the free reign to explore Marc's phone when he was too sleepy to watch seemed to be a more significant step than Marc was treating it. Although, given the fact he was still awake, maybe he was aware of the importance too. He closed his eyes, but he was alert, and his muscles were tense.

"I will only open WhatsApp to send," Pecco assured, and averted his gaze from everything else. He attached the entire string of photos as files in their original quality. Then he locked the phone and returned it to Marc.

Marc lifted his eyelids to half-mast to take his phone, and put it on his bedside table. He snuggled in closer to Pecco.

"Do you think they know anything? Our team," Pecco asked. He would have to look at the photos more closely, but it seemed so obvious. His feelings were on his face. He'd allowed himself to be compromised.

"No," Marc said.

Pecco let the answer lie in his head. He hadn't seen any obvious signs from them either. It was just that he looked so blatant to himself.

Marc nudged him and opened his eyes. "You're thinking," he stated.

"Do you want people to know?" Pecco asked. He'd been trying to imagine how he could bring up the subject to his friends, to Vale, and to everyone else who supported him in the academy, but he had been drawing a blank. He wouldn't be able to keep this a secret forever if it lasted, but what if he didn't?

What if his pride stopped being able to take the beating of having sex with the person who was casting a shadow on his career? What if he could never make peace with it? Or what if Pecco started winning again, and Marc had enough of him?

He hadn't asked Marc on a second date yet.

Marc pushed himself up on an elbow, and looked watchfully at Pecco. He was too intelligent to be fully oblivious to Pecco's turmoil.

"I would like for people to know," Marc said eventually. "Only our people, not the journalists. But I am in a very different situation from you. You are in the middle."

It was true. Pecco had been increasingly aware throughout this whole arrangement that he was becoming an accessory to making Marc's good year even better, while he stood at the precipice of potentially losing everything that mattered to him. Not sleeping with Marc wouldn't fix his place in the team, but at least he would have a clear conscience with his friends.

But he still liked Marc, which was the problem.

"I will have to tell Vale," Pecco said, who was the only person who would affect them both. He dreaded this most of all.

Marc stroked the hair on Pecco's jaw softly. He had taken to doing this. "I don't have any relationship with him anymore, he already hates me. You can decide how is best for you."

Pecco didn't say anything. He allowed Marc to touch him gently, and let his thoughts crowd and uncrowd themselves. It seemed that neither of them would be well rested ahead of the race weekend.

--

Marc won Aragon, but Marc regularly won Aragon. Pecco could only look forward. Mugello and Assen were up next in very quick succession, and he basically had to win both of his favourite races. A clean sweep of the points still wouldn't chase down the point gap completely, but would return him into contention. He needed to show that he was still capable; that there was still a winner within him.

While Marc was usually shamelessly celebratory about his victories, he showed some unexpected sensitivity in dealing with Pecco that Sunday. He let Pecco lie there and spoiled him with indulgent touches, and kissed him so sweetly when he fucked into Pecco that Pecco could have cried.

Marc kissed Pecco's skin with a worshipful mouth. Traced the lines of his veins up his arm with admiration. Smoothed the creases of Pecco's brow, and smiled at him to induce a smile in return.

They were in Pecco's bed, and it felt like home. Pecco's heart was full enough to burst. He nearly told Marc he loved him, but he wasn't sure of it yet. Though if this wasn't love, then what was?

They still didn't use condoms; still were exclusive. Pecco could have whatever he chose with Marc if he could bring himself to put a label on it. It felt that way anyway. Marc had been agreeable and waiting all along.

He liked having Marc with him. He liked having Marc near him, in him, around him. He believed that Marc had a big heart and deep feelings. He just wished that he was winning, and that everything else was simple.

--

In all honesty, Pecco had been tempted to cancel on Marc when pre-race Wednesday arrived at Mugello. He had gone through academy commitments, then team commitments, and probably a hundred photos had been taken of him since the start of the week. All of this meant that he'd been working more vigorously to commit to his lie by omission than ever before, and dishonesty didn't come naturally to him.

When he stopped to evaluate, he realised that he still felt mostly good. A healthy pressure weighed upon his shoulders to perform well as he was beloved at home, but this pressure was born of faith and expectations. Still, the pressure drained his energy, and he wasn't sure that spending time with Marc would help alleviate it.

He procrastinated. However, as it wasn't like him to renege on an agreement without warning, he went to Marc's motorhome eventually. He had been given a key to their door several weeks ago.

He was greeted by the sight of Marc and Alex sitting cross-legged on the sofa, exchanging dialogue in rapid-fire Catalan. Marc saw him first and beamed.

"Pecco! Do you want to sit with us?"

Sometimes, spending time in the Marquez motorhome really meant spending time with the Marquezes. It would mostly be Marc talking to Pecco, then talking to Alex, while Pecco and Alex attempted to show interest in each other. Putting Marc in the same room as Carola had similar results.

Pecco hesitated. He wasn't really in the mood for working through sibling standoffishness. He caught Alex's eye and wavered.

Alex gave his brother a light shove. "Go away, he's only here for you," he said.

Marc looked between them, and hugged Alex around the shoulder. "Good night," he said. He took Pecco's hand and led them to his room, shutting the door behind them.

There was a pattern to break again, because Pecco wanted to follow a whim. He pulled Marc gently by his uninjured arm and sat down against the pillows. "Can we just talk and sleep today?" he asked. He felt a soul-deep tired from conserving every bit of energy he had to push for a win.

He needed this win. Vale had sat him down earlier that day and told him that he was doing a good job when he didn't deserve it.

"Of course," Marc said. "You know we don't have to have sex every time, right?"

Pecco nodded. He didn't think that Marc would be the type to be pushy, but they had clearly defined patterns and he was pulling out of it. He now knew that Marc enjoyed his patterns with people he liked, which was probably why it had been so easy for them to fall into this. After every race, rain or shine, Marc would call his mother to tell her he loved her and let her tell him off.

He smiled at Marc, close-lipped and polite. "I'm going to win this week," he said.

"You should think that every race," Marc said.

"Sometimes I know what is likely," Pecco said. Try as he might, he didn't dare to approach Marc's favourite tracks with too much optimism. There was aiming high, and there was flying so close to the sun that he crashed to the ground. He would know - it had lost him one championship already.

He couldn't see Marc's face, but he could imagine his smile. Marc would never admit to such weakness.

Marc smoothed his hands through Pecco's slightly damp curls. His fingers hit a snag, and he pushed through the knot with care. The slight pressure tickled the base of Pecco's scalp and sent a tingle down his neck.

"I'll comb your hair," Marc said, getting up to retrieve a wide-tooth comb.

It was nice to have his hair combed by someone more caring than himself - instead of sharp tugs, there was a gentle scraping of wooden teeth against his scalp, and a light pressure against his head. Coming over was a good decision after all.

"When I win, I want to spoil you," Pecco said. Like Marc had done for him in Aragon, and like Marc was doing now.

Marc scoffed, blowing a puff of air that was warm against the back of Pecco's neck. "You haven't won yet."

"But I want to," Pecco said.

He could feel it - a similar serene confidence to perform which had carried Marc seemingly through the season. Marc might take the world by storm, but Pecco would keep his home. Then this- this wouldn't be giving in. If they were fighting as something closer to equals, Pecco could ask Marc for a second date.

Marc patted the side of his face in a way that would be patronising if Pecco hadn't been fond of him. Or, it was patronising, and Pecco was fond despite it.

"What type of spoiling?" Marc asked.

Pecco had thoughts. He had fantasies that even he was too ashamed to voice out. "You will see," he said. He looked over his shoulder, and for once it was him with what he hoped was a mysterious smile on his face, while Marc looked on with intrigue.

--

Pecco had to confess that he had never put his mouth anywhere proximate to an asshole before Marc. The idea of it used to make him squirm a bit.

But Marc kept his entire self so tidy and clean and hairless that it seemed appealing. The temptation had crept into his mind when he was opening Marc up the last time, and he slipped his fingers into his tight, pink warmth, and Marc whimpered. He couldn't seem to banish the thought. This had been his idea of "spoiling".

It was so strange to him. Pecco would have thought that this was the type of self-indulgent yearning that one would have to be done to themselves, but instead, he really wanted to taste. The thought of being eaten out himself made him feel flustered.

When he put forth the idea to Marc, Marc's eyes darkened, and his eyelids fluttered. "You would do that?" Marc asked softly.

"I want to," Pecco said, feeling terribly exposed. He knew he wasn't supposed to. There was being too soft to a rival, and there was- this. He shouldn't. He already had done for months, and found excuse after excuse for it.

He wondered what Marc thought about it. There had to be some form of conflict in his mind when it came to who Pecco was. Maybe both of them were exercising terrible judgement. Maybe both of them were exercising great judgement, despite all of the emotional hardships in their way.

Marc pulled him in to kiss deeply, for so long that they gasped for air when they pulled apart.

"Nobody has ever done this for me before," Marc said, emotion thick in his voice.

"But you've done it?"

Another unhappy, secret smile. "When you are young, you can be eager," he explained. "But rimming is not bad, it's not so weird when you're used to it."

Pecco had put himself in the mire of caring a little too much. Marc's love life sounded as though it had been unfulfilling and quite unbalanced, but he had Pecco now.

He glanced at his first-place trophy, placed conscientiously on his bedside table. Then he looked at Marc, beautiful on his bed, still in a soft T-shirt and loose shorts, and very much his to take if he wanted.

He did want.

He undid the drawstring of Marc's shorts with shaky hands and paused. This would be a terrible time to ask, but it was what his heart told him to do, and sometimes he followed. When he was younger, he'd presented his report card of As and Bs to his parents and said he wished to drop out of his studies to be a racer. They'd been concerned, but his sister had followed him, and not for one second had he felt that he made a mistake. He had decent instincts too, sometimes.

Again, the draw of sweeping emotions and a bigger future than he could imagine pulled him in. He was not a dreamer, was Pecco, but he wasn't arrogant. He knew that there were things within his reach that he had not known to consider.

Marc watched him curiously. "Everything okay?"

"Fuck...Marc, after Assen, let me take you out for dinner," Pecco said.

"A date-dinner?" Marc asked.

"Yeah," Pecco said. "Then we'll be teammates who are dating," he clarified, for all the good or bad that might bring them.

Marc was trembling, a little. "I wasn't sure if you would ask," he said evenly. Then he was smiling widely, as though - for once in his life - it was alright that he had lost a race, because there were other prizes that mattered as much.

--

4 months later.

The Ducati Corse socials posted a photo of Marc and Pecco leaning against each other, half asleep while transiting in an airport. It was last in a carousel of ten photos, and the only one where they weren't in team colours.

"Our team champions," read the caption, together with a celebratory paragraph.

Pecco showed it to Marc when they were packing up on Monday. They were back in hotel rooms, which had its perks, foremost of which was that Marc seemed to be partially allergic to clothes again.

"I wonder when we'll wrap up the riders' championship," Marc mused. "Sepang? Portimao?"

Pecco gave him a withering look. He was certainly not mathematically in the running to lock up a championship in Sepang or Portimao. "What about Valencia?"

Marc cackled brightly. "Maybe Valencia."

Pecco made Marc look at the photo again. "Do you think they know?" he asked, repeating a question from several months ago. It was even more blatant this time - a distressingly sweet symmetry in their body language, softly comforting.

"No, or they wouldn't post it," Marc said.

"Should we tell them?" Pecco asked, although it had always been his choice to make. He would muster up the will to tell Vale too, but maybe after the season, when everyone had the time to calm down and avoid Pecco for a while if they needed.

"That you are my boyfriend?" Marc asked, eyes wide and gleaming. Well, that was rather simpler than the explanation Pecco would have come up with, but he could live with it.

"Yes. We are each other's boyfriends," he corrected. He couldn't help himself sometimes. "We should put a heart rate monitor on Davide when he tell him," he added, remembering his missed opportunity for a joke.