#luna.writes

He pulled away. Roger was never one to shy away from his feelings, sometimes overshadowing your own with his staggering presence. Somehow that never bothered you. You were content to hide in his shadow as long as he was yours and you were his. As long as it still felt like you were a unit taking on the world together. 

“I want a family,” he’d said suddenly one night after spending most of the evening locked in his studio sullen. 

“We are a family. You, me, the cats…” 

“I mean children, you know that.” 

Your brows furrowed as you took in  his words. Sure, the topic had come up before. You both wanted children eventually, but the time didn’t feel right for you. 

“Roger, this is kind of sudden,” you said finally. 

“Everyone else has children.” 

“In the band, you mean.” 

“Of course,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His jaw was tense and a dimple showed in his chin. 

“I-I just started working on my album, and you’re going on tour in a few months. I won’t be able to go if I’m pregnant.” 

“You don’t have to follow me on every tour,” he sighed. “And we have a home studio. You can comfortably work on your little project.” 

You took a deep breath to ground yourself. His words were always venomous when he was emotional, and obviously this was something he’d been pondering for a while. So, as usual, you made your feelings smaller to accommodate him. 

“Maybe after the tour—” 

He didn’t let you finish before standing up so quickly his chair crashed to the floor. You’d never considered that Roger might hit you before, but in that moment you found yourself flinching anyway. He wasn’t the pensive bassist you’d fallen for anymore. You didn’t recognize the eyes staring into yours. 

“You’re not coming on the tour,” he growled. “You’re going to stay home like a proper wife.” 

Something snapped in the air at those words. The tension dissipated as Roger, for once, realized he’d gone too far. He saw your eyes widen, the tears welling up in them. Tears he put there. 

“Shit,” he mutters before bending down to pick up his chair. He stands awkwardly, starting to reach for you only to stop just before touching your shoulder. 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he said finally. Never apologizing, not really. Always stopping just short of the words ‘I’m sorry’ just as he’d stopped short of offering a comforting touch.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” you said softly, pushing your dinner plate away as your stomach soured. “I’m going to go upstairs.” 

That night he waited until he knew you were asleep before tiptoeing to bed. He undressed and crawled beside you, reaching in the darkness to wrap his arm around you. You stir as he pulled you close and pressed a soft kiss to the back of your head. He half expected you to reject him, but instead you rolled over to tuck yourself against his side. 

“I love you,” you whispered sleepily. 

══════════════════

The Spring rolled around, and Pink Floyd was busy getting ready for their tour. Their first show would be in London, and so you arrived at the sound check just like all the other wives. Ginger was happily sitting on David’s amp, cradling their baby in her arms while he tuned his guitar. You felt a stir of longing in your stomach, although the topic hadn’t come up again with Roger. You planned to tell him tonight that you want to start trying. You could fly out to some of the shows, since you had opted not to come on tour after all, and maybe during breaks the two of you could slip away somewhere to try to conceive. 

“Where’s Rog?” you asked as you approached David and Ginger. David wouldn’t look at you, which was odd for the guitarist who was usually so friendly. 

Ginger passed him a look before smiling up at you nervously, “He’s in his dressing room.” 

“Thanks,” you said before kneeling down to greet their little one. 

That’s where you were, doting happily on the little baby that Ginger had passed to your waiting arms, when Roger comes to the front stage. He looks dumbfounded when he sees you, guilt rising into his chest at the sight of you. 

“Sweetheart,” he calls softly as he comes to your side. 

David promptly gets up to walk away, and you pass the baby back to Ginger so she can follow. The whole thing was odd. 

“I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” Roger said as you leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I thought you had to record.” 

“I wanted to surprise you,” you smiled up at him. 

“I-I see,” he forced a smile. “I am surprised. Very surprised.” 

“In a good way, I hope,” you said shyly. 

“Of course, darling,” he kissed your cheek. “Damn, I’ve got to call Mum. I promised her I’d call before we went on.” 

“Oh, alright,” you smiled softly. 

As he walked away, something felt wrong in your gut. You wanted to vomit. Looking around the stage at the other band members and their wives, you can feel their pity. The walls were closing in around you, and you tried with all your might to seem calm as you walked backstage. 

You were trying to calm yourself down when you entered the long corridor lined with dressing rooms and leading to the small lobby area. You heard Roger’s voice. Tender and quiet as he whispered to someone on the phone. You tiptoed down the hall, stopping just out of his sight. He was using a payphone, his lanky frame leaned against the wall. 

“I didn’t know she was coming tonight,” he said softly. “I know…I know, love. Listen, I’ll be in New York by the weekend. You can fly out to see me, alright?” There’s a silence as he listened to whoever he talked to. “No, no. They won’t tell her. I know their secrets too.” 

“What secrets are that?” you asked loudly as you rounded the corner. “That you’re a filthy fucking liar?” 

“Baby,” he gasped and slammed the phone to the receiver. “Shit, baby, listen. It’s not what you think, alright. Just listen to me—” 

“I’m fucking done listening to you! I’m done! All I’ve done for seven years is fucking listen to you and make myself small for you!” you yelled. 

“Don’t get hysterical now,” he pleaded, embarrassed at the idea of someone overhearing. 

“Hysterical? You think this is hysterical?” you laughed mockingly. “Fine, I’ll be small and quiet. Would you like that?”

He didn’t respond, only watched as you came closer to him. You were in his face, close enough to kiss; your breaths mingling for what you knew would be the last time. 

“Is this better?” you asked in a delicate whisper. “You can go and have your little affair. You can marry her and fuck her and fill her up with as many babies as you want. But you will never forget me. You will hear my voice in your dreams. Every time you turn on the radio I’ll fucking be there. And in the middle of the night when you’re laying next to your ‘proper wife’ you’re going to wish she was me.” 

His eyes were wide, and for the first time since you’d met him he was speechless. You backed away, tears streaming down your cheeks yet your posture showed strength instead of defeat. 

“I loved you, Roger Waters. With everything I had. And when all of this is gone, when you’re not Mister Rockstar anymore, you’re going to realize you threw away the only person who loved every bit of you, the good and the bad.” 

══════════════════

The divorce was quieter than his affair had been. Despite the warnings he’d received from his lawyers and everyone in between, you didn’t try to put  him through the ringer. In fact, the last time he saw you sitting across the table at the lawyer’s office, you hadn’t even looked at him. 

“I don’t want anything. I just want this done,” you’d said coldly. Your lawyer had argued he wanted his fees paid, and Roger had agreed to that much. You signed the agreement without hesitation, then placed the small velvet box holding your wedding ring on the table. 

“Alright, if that is all…” his lawyer had wrapped up awkwardly. 

You’d stopped at the door, only turning your head slightly towards him, “I wish you nothing but the best.” 

Two weeks later, Roger had been getting into his new shiny car with his new shiny love to go for a drive. She wanted to look at a new house, something bigger and fancier than the quiet cottage the two of you had called home for the duration of your marriage. 

When he started the engine, your voice rang through the speakers. It was gentle and sweet. For a moment, he was frozen in his seat. With each lyric he saw your lives together play through his mind. Every smile you shared, every night spent curled in bedsheets. His hands trembled on the steering wheel. His oblivious new lover changed the station. 

“I hear that song every time I get in the car, I swear,” she said with a sigh. 

He spots the motorhome as he rounds the corner, getting closer, closer, heart jumping in his chest with every step. Up the stairs, stomach tight. He knocks, and prays, prays no one answers. He just wants to talk. Pecco shouldn't be here. He knows this, and yet--

The door opens with a click, and Marc blinks at him, hair wet, dripping in his eyes.

"Pecco?" Marc asks, squinting. "Is everything alright?"

Pecco nods, frozen in place. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, trying to think of something to say, but words elude him. He shouldn't be here, but he has a duty to fulfill. He's seen the way Marc rides when the bike listens to him, a hound chasing its pray. If Pecco thinks too long about it, he'll get scared. He can't. He wants next year to be good, for him, for both of them. Sweat drips down the side of his face in the humid Indonesian night.

Marc leans against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. Pecco follows the movement with his eyes. Marc doesn't take his eyes off of Pecco. "Can I help you?"

Pecco shouldn't be there. "Can I come in?"

Marc raises an eyebrow as if he's waiting for a continuatio, but when he gets nothing, he steps aside. Pecco follows. The door closes behind him. Pecco is inside. He shouldn't he here. He doesn't want to be here. His brain doesn't register the space. Couch, armchairs, a towel on the backside of a chair. Marc behind him, breath like thunder in Pecco's ears. Pecco must say something. He wants to leave.

He turns. "I wanted to thank you."

Marc smiles, and it strangely resembles a cat. "Did you now?"

Pecco nods, stomach tight. "For helping me." Marc steps closer. "During practice," Pecco continues. "I didn't realise I was low on fuel." It's a lie.

Marc stops in front of him, too close. Too far away. "Things can get confusing on track." They both know it's a lie. "Speed gets to your head." They both know it's true. Pecco feels its song in his veins still.

"Certo," Pecco says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. The movement cuts the distance between them, and Pecco finds himself looking down at Marc. Yet, he's never felt smaller. "You didn't have to do that."

Marc raises one shoulder in half a shrug. "We're going to be teammates next year." He looks up at Pecco, takes another step. "We're going to be riding the best bikes on track." He takes another step, fully in Pecco's personal space now. With all the space around him, Pecco doesn't move, can't move. Marc leans in and drops his voice. "We'll be the fastest on track."

Pecco should leave. "It will be interesting, especially with Jorge at Aprilia. He might win this year--"

"You should believe more in yourself, Pecco." Marc's lips almost touch his ear, his cheek almost against Pecco's cheek. Hands hover over his hips. So close. So far away. Marc smells like coconut. Pecco has never liked coconut.

Pecco swallows. "I am. I won two years in a row. I'm a world champion." And he'll get the third one.

"You'll get the third one as well," Marc laughs. "Jorge loses control too easily." His breath is the only thing that touches Pecco's skin, sending shivers down his spine.

"The fourth one will be more difficult." Pecco closes his eyes. Marc keeps a calculated distance from himodand Pecco is pretty sure Marc is standing on his toes to reach his ear, but he can't move. His nostrils flare with the smell of coconut, almost choking him. He never understood people who liked food-scened skin products.

Marc turns his head. "You'll be riding against me." His lips graze Pecco's ear, making him sway in place. Marc's fingers close over Pecco's hipbones, pressing through his shirt, finally, finally. Pecco shouldn't be here. Doesn't want to be here. He--

"We need to behave, or Ducati won't have any champion next year."

Pecco wants to devour him, coconut smell and all.

Marc smothers his laugh against Pecco's neck. It takes everything in Pecco to stand tall, to not melt against Marc, to keep the distance.

When he speaks, his voice is not his own. "Will you?"

Marc stops laughing, kisses lower. "Mm. What will you give me to play nice?"

Everything. Pecco doesn't say that. "I might let you win."

Marc bites his neck lightly. "What would Dall'Igna say? His golden boy giving up his win for me."

"I have only two. You got eight."

"You brought glory back to Ducati."

"And you're one championship short."

They don't speak his name, but it's like someone dumped cold water over their heads. Marc steps back, removing himself from Pecco. The look in his eyes is weirdly lucid for how out of his mind Pecco feels.

"We should both get some sleep. It will be a long day tomorrow."

Pecco knows a dismissal when he sees one, so he agrees. He shouldn't have said that, and yet Marc got to him. He shouldn't even be here, and yet he is. He doesn't want to leave. "Thank you, again." He wants Marc to kiss him.

Marc leads him to the door, the same unreadable smile on his face. Pecco feels stripped bare, with nothing left to hide. Marc smiles at him. Two seconds ago, those lips were on Pecco's neck.

Marc smiles as if he knows what Pecco's thinking about. "Tell Vale I said hello," he says and closes the door in Pecco's face.

It bugged him that it was you who occupied his mind 24/7 when it should have been his studies. Lately, he gets on his bus every day thinking if you would attend today or not and can’t help but get a little disappointed when he notices your absence. 

Something is wrong with him, but what? It’s the question that messes his mind the most. Doyoung angrily stabs the paper with frustration, his mind running a thousand miles per second, trying to figure out what could be the possible cause of his sudden curiosity and then his face suddenly drops. A tiny voice in his head whispers: You couldn’t like her back, could you?

Doyoung shakes his head violently, trying to shush the tiny voice. Through the corner of his eye, he looks at you for a split second. Right, there was no freaking way he possibly could.

Fine, Doyoung takes back whatever he said a few hours prior. There might be a possible, tiny, tiny chance that he might like you, romantically. 

He stares at your laughing figure for a little longer than he would before tearing his eyes off you, gulping soon after. God, why wasn’t he able to look away? Sure, you are attractive and kind but does he really like like you? Like as in a boy liking a girl? That type of like? 

He presses his lips into a thin line and steals another glance, soon feeling his cheeks burn up. Shit, have you always been that pretty?

“I don’t think this tragic piece of literature is supposed to be making you blush, Doyoung.” Kun squints his eyes at the younger male sitting beside him, noticing how Doyoung looked completely taken aback by his comment. 

Wait, Doyoung was blushing? BLUSHING? Now, that was unexpected. Doyoung cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. It’s just the weather. You know how hot it can get in summers here.”

Kun squinted his eyes, not satisfied with the so called answer. There was no way he was buying the “reason” Doyoung was beetroot red. It was a white lie. Sure, he agrees that summers are hot in here but with all the fans and air conditioners present and just a simple black t-shirt thrown over him, Doyoung couldn’t possibly be reddening because of it.

“Are you sure you were not checking out someone and blushing?” Kun asks with suspense laced through his words, crossing his arms and giving a look that indicated he was ready to hear the tea. 

“Jesus, no!” Doyoung responds immediately. Hey, it was the truth. He wasn’t checking you out or something, he was just glancing at you. Glancing. There’s a difference, okay?

“Sure.” Kun shrugged, not convinced and continued his explanation, hoping Doyoung would get whatever he was trying to make him understand. Doyoung slumped down on the table, Kun’s words becoming white noise to him. With his head resting on his arm, he dragged his eyes towards you. Hell, you look absolutely breathtaking—

Here he goes thinking about you once again, not like he could help it.

TWO: YOUR EYES ALWAYS SEEM TO SEARCH FOR THEM.

Considering that he thinks about you most time of the day, it should have been natural for Doyoung to accept that he likes stealing glances at you. It would have been easy if that was the case. But it’s not.

Every single time he is reminded about you or glances at you, Doyoung tries to convince himself that he does not like you. It is tiring, very tiring since he thinks about you so much that it makes him frustrated.

If he would tell someone about this train of thoughts running through his head, he is one hundred one per cent sure that it would conclude he likes you. 

The thought that he might have harboured feelings for you, for unacceptable for him.

He chose to ignore those confusing feelings, shoving them aside. But what he couldn’t control was the way his eyes always gravitated towards you, taking his time to adore you like you were his love interest in some cheesy romance novel. 

You looked so ethereal in his eyes, so beautiful that he believed you were the most beautiful person to exist. 

He sneaked glances at you now and then and most of the time, you were already looking at him. So when he looked back to admire you out of nowhere, you both were caught off guard and turned away in a beat at being caught.

 Kun, who observed this quite often, found it pretty cute and enjoyed teasing Doyoung about this. Doyoung would shake his head, saying he was just spacing out and it was not what Kun thinks. But Kun could see how just two seconds after calling him out, Doyoung’s gaze was fixated on you once again.

THREE: YOU RANDOMLY START PICKING UP THEIR HOBBIES.

Seriously, painting and Doyoung? 

Doyoung looks around helplessly in the room filled with what seemed like skilled and passionate students. They all seemed so focused and determined, unlike him who stood there awkwardly, face laced with confusion.

Doyoung should have been studying in the library for the upcoming exam, or doing his laundry that has stacked up for about two weeks now. He should have been anywhere but here, occupied with the set of brushes he has no idea how to use.

Painting never once intrigued Doyoung, so why was he here? Answer: For you.

Through his secret source obviously Kun, he found out you liked to paint in your free time. 

To Doyoung, painting was something uninteresting but since you liked it, he was adamant to try it out as this would mean him finally having a common topic to start a conversation with you.

In the past two months, Doyoung got so frustrated with himself that he accepted he liked you, and yes, romantically. He disclosed this to Kun, who didn’t waste a single second to tease Doyoung by revealing he already figured out his “secret” long ago by the way he gawked at you.

And the more Kun teased him, the more Doyoung’s feelings grew and so did his desire to get to know you.

He wanted to start a conversation multiple times but the blush on his cheeks whenever he was with you prevented him from doing so. Doyoung did draft the convo scenes with you in his head, preparing different things to say based on your supposed replies in his imagination.

But to actually start a conversation with you was hard. His mind just goes blank whenever he decides to start a small talk with you, and the script he had prepared for weeks in his head, gets blurry. He stammers, and he blushes. 

You too, wanted to talk to him and spend some time together but you didn’t have the courage to. He made you feel so euphoric, it was hard to focus on anything else, including your words.

FOUR: YOU GET FLUSTERED AROUND THEM.

Doyoung’s standing behind you. You are standing in front of him. The proximity is so close that Doyoung could catch the faint smell of your perfume lingering over him. 

Kun nudges Doyoung from behind, leaning in and whispering. “You are red like a tomato. Don’t be this obvious.” Doyoung nods. He could feel the loud thumping of his stupid heart and is doing everything in his power to avoid looking at you, not because he doesn’t want to glance at you, but because he knows his heart will beat louder the more he will look at you.

What Doyoung didn’t notice was the way you were being a mess too. Eyes roaming everywhere in nervousness, cheeks painted pink and your friends passing you a teasing look.

You are so sure that Doyoung knows you have a little crush on him, and that didn’t bother you— until now. Because he is behind you, just behind you. The prettiest and kindest man (with utterly attractive hands and a honey like voice) you have ever known is behind you. Your freaking crush is behind you.

It feels awkward, nervous and exciting all at the same time and the adrenaline rushing through your system makes you go numb. Do you look good? Is your hair alright? What about you back? Oh, you should have taken your roommate’s advice and done some back exercises so you weren’t regretting right now. And what about your perfume? Is it still there? What if Doyoung doesn’t like scents?

The train of thought was never ending, and Doyoung could relate too. He should’ve worn something more presentable. The tray in his hands was shaking. Why the hell did Kun pushed him to stand next to you?

“I hate you, Kun.” Kun raised an eyebrow at his words, a small smirk adoring his face as he answered back. “But you also love me for this.” 

Doyoung bit back a smile. Kun just knows him too well.

FIVE: YOU GET (UNNECESSARILY) WORRIED ABOUT THEM.

Doyoung has no right to worry about you but it’s the third day he hasn’t seen your pretty face and it’s making him nervous. What if something happened to you? Or what if you left the university?

Millions of baseless thoughts ran through his head, his body stiffening. You couldn’t have gotten sick, right?

But what if you did? Cold sweat broke out on his forehead at the mere thought. Doyoung’s ears perked up hearing the giggles of your friends and he looked at them curiously. 

Maybe he should ask them, but wait, wouldn’t it seem extremely suspicious when he would randomly ask about you? Screw it, he says to himself and marches towards your friends.

“Hi.” The sudden appearance of Doyoung made their giggles come to a halt and they were visibly confused. “So, I was saying that..” Shit, he can’t do it. 

“Do you have the notes from the previous lesson? I forgot to jot down mine!” He passes them an awkward smile, hoping they won’t catch his unusual behaviour. 

“Sure” One of the girls, which he vividly remembers seeing by your side the most, takes out a notebook from her bag, handing it to Doyoung with the same expression as earlier. “Here,” Doyoung mumbles a quiet thank you before completely disappearing. 

The girls, confused, shrugged their shoulders and decided to not think much, later joking about how you should have been there.

Doyoug gave Kun his best puppy eyes. “Please.” Kun sighed and asked, “Why can’t you do this?” 

“Because it would seem weird.” Kun raised an eyebrow at the reply. “And it wouldn’t when I will? 

“No, because even if it will do seem that way, you are not me. That’s why.”

“Your logic is so…….baseless.”

Doyoung clung onto his arm, swinging it in an attempt to persuade him. “Oh come one, please, please.” 

Kun closed his eyes. “I am deaf, I can’t hear anything.”

“Please, only you could save me from this misery.”

“Misery? Misery? You not being able to find out why Y/N has not been coming for three days has driven you into misery?” Kun’s voice was laced with sarcasm followed by an eye roll. “And FYI, I don’t even talk to Y/N that much.”

“Well, you can ask just out of curiosity. I am sure they would understand.”

“Then why can’t you do it?” 

“Because it feels weird!” 

“Just say you are shy.” 

“I am not!” 

“You are.”

“I am not, okay!?”

“Liar.”

“So?” Doyoung asks in anticipation, eyes full of hope darting at the tired Kun. “She is at her grandma’s. No big deal.” 

“That means she is okay, right?” Kun slumps down beside him. “Yeah, I guess.”

Doyoung glares at him. “What do you mean you guess? You didn’t ask?”

“Obviously dude, I am not her boyfriend or something!”

“You had one job. One.” 

“Not again.”

SIX: YOU PICK UP THEIR HUMOUR.

caution ▸ cringy dad joke ahead

Doyoung has been observing you every single time so it wasn’t long before he picked up your humour. You were the dad jokes type and while Doyoung wasn’t interested a bit in them, the humour grew on him and now he has made Kun’s life a little harder than it was before.

“Wanna hear a knock joke?” Doyoung grins at the annoyed Kun. 

“It’s not like I have a choice.” He mumbled. Doyoung cleared his throat, “Knock Knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Nobel.” There was still that grin on his face when Doyoung waited for Kun to respond. “Ask Nobel who?”

Kun rolled his eyes. “Nobel, who?”

“No bell so I just knocked.” Doyoung bursts into fists of laughter and smacks Kun’s shoulder. “Be real, isn’t it funny?”

“It’s not—” Kun pauses sensing a glare thrown at him  “It’s so hilarious, I can’t even laugh!” Kun sends Doyoung a small, scared smile and releases a sigh of relief when Doyoung takes the comment as a positive one.

If Kun is going to stick around Doyoung who will find humour in dad jokes because of you, you both better get married for his unthinkable sacrifice. 

SEVEN: YOU IMAGINE A FUTURE WITH THEM.

Doyoung grasps the bouquet of flowers tight in his hands. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and calming his nerves down. 

You can do this, Doyoung! He says to himself, glancing at the flowers in his sweaty palms. He is finally doing this, Kim Doyoung is finally asking you out. Seems unreal, right? For Doyoung too.

He had never imagined he would ask you out, but here he is. 

He was smitten over you, everyone knew. You were referred to as his crush but that label soon was ripped away when Doyoung started seeing you in a new light. When everything about you seemed more lovely than it could ever be. When your flaws, which he had previously ignored seemed so perfect to him. When instead of getting all nervous and excited, he felt warmth and comfort from your presence.

The tag of a crush got removed and replaced by the one called love.

He imagined doing everything with you, going out on dates, meeting your family, late night celebrations, unexpected calls and what not. It become clear Kim Doyoung was in love with you. 

He had finally mustered up the courage to ask you out, for real. His heart was beating a thousand miles per second. He doesn’t know if you were ready for this, or even if you still had feelings for him but he was going to do it. It’s now or never.

Doyoung had called you in a cafe near by, and as much as you were puzzled, you were internally screaming. You were attracted to him, no doubt. He was kind, he was cute. He was everything you looked for in a man. So when you met Doyoung with a bouquet of flowers in his hands and cheeks flushed red, your heart beat synced with his, uncontrollable and messy. Your palms become sweaty as you sat down opposite him.

“Hi, how have you been?” You asked, a smile spread across your lips. The talk started off great. It seemed so pleasant and comfortable with Doyoung and you wished you could stop time. The moment felt surreal. 

Doyoung cleared his throat before scratching the back of his nape. “I don’t know how to say this, but I um….I…..like you.” Wait, he what??? “What?” 

“I like you.” Your eyes were about to pop off. Are you dreaming? Doyoung noticed your reaction and was quick to say, “We will pretend this never happened if you are not comfortable.”

“No—. Well, I— oh, god. I like you too.” Dooung blinked a few times. Okay, what should he respond with now? 

“Here,” He handles the bouquet with utmost gentleness and care. His cheeks you red, and so were yours. 

“What I was saying is…..how about we get to know each other first? This would help us to decide if we want to become official or not.”

“Like, get to know each other on ‘dates’?” You asked with a broad smile.

“Yeah, small dates.” he smiled back and finally made eye contact and was washed over with the warmth that spread through his entire body. His shoulders relaxed and leaned in, ready to hear all about you. “So tell me about yourself, Y/N L/N.” You chuckled, the smile never leaving your lips.

You both were over the moon, and the memory easily become your and his favourite.

Doyoung smiled as he closed his diary. Reading his old entries, he felt nostalgic and happy. He glanced at your sleeping figure beside him. One thing that he had never ever regretted was loving you. He was grateful to have you by his side. 

You were his first love, and now, his wife. 

The diamond ring on your finger sparkled every so slightly in the dim light of your shared bedroom. Doyoung lay down on the bed beside you, staring at your sleeping face with a silly grin on his face.

It was your third wedding anniversary today and you being all excited and proud drank a little too much than you could handle,  knocking out soon after. Doyoung, being a smitten man for you found it hilarious, and adorable.

He tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear and continued to look at you with fond eyes over flowing with love. He kissed your forehead. He loves you so much, and nothing can ever change that.

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luna’s note ▸ congrats for making it to the end of the story, i hope you enjoyed reading! thank you for taking out your time and giving a chance to this work ♡ as always, feeback is much appreciated! please share your thoughts as a a small feedback can change my day for the better and give me motivation to bring more of such stories to you.

you can find more of my posted works here and fic ideas here!

Valentino shrugs again. Doesn't even look up. Marc grits his teeth. He breathes in and remembers his agreement with Fabio, his love not finite, but so abundant he feels the need to share. At the end of the day, Fabio returns to him no matter what, but as Marc looks at Valentino, he is not so sure anymore.

Marc tries again. He always did. For Fabio he will always try. "Can you tell Fabio I looked for him? We had something planned. He…he knows why."

Valentino looks up at that, finally putting his phone away.

"I speak Spanish, you know?" He smiles, Spanish words rolling easily on his tongue. "I'm not sure when blondie will be back, but--" His eyes glint, and Marc bites his tongue to keep himself from snapping at Valentino. Valentino smiles like he knows this. "Can I help you with something?"

"It's fine," Marc replies in stilted English. He needs to get out of here. "I'll talk to him later." He needs to go before--

"I can help you with the arm."

Marc wants to scream.

"No, thank you." Marc had enough. He turns to leave before--

"Marc."

Before something happens. Something like this.

Marc freezes, ignores the stirring in his veins. Valentino hasn't called him by his name in so long. For fuck's sake.

"What?" Marc's Italian has always been harsher than his native tongue, than English. It's a blade sharpened to cut. He spins on his heels, feels his nostrils flare as he looks at Valentino, at the unreadable expression on his face. "What do you think you can do?"

Valentino gets up from the couch, hands raised slightly as if he is facing a rabid dog. Marc feels like one, heart pulsing on his ears, in the back of his throat. He searches Valentino's eyes and doesn't find hostility, nor mockery.

"Fabio has told me he massages your arm sometimes," Valentino continues in Spanish. "Whenever the weather changes. When it gets cold. Whenever you injure it." He doesn't mention the accident in Sachsenring.

"The Netherlands have always been cold."

Valentino sighs and stops a few feet away from Marc. "I'm trying," he says, still in Spanish. It grates on Marc's nerves. "We--"

"You don't need to do anything," Marc says. "I don't care what you do with Fabio as long as he's happy. Just leave me out of it." Marc pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm down. He doesn't want to yell. He did that enough when they still told each other i love you in Spanish. Now, they're strangers, and Marc wants to keep it that way. "It's not like you can change anything."

"For Fabio," Valentino continues as if he didn't hear Marc. "We should at least try for him. At some point we're all going to be in the same room. He deserves more than-"

Marc raises an eyebrow.

"This." He gestures between them. "More than us yelling at each other."

Marc raises the other eyebrow too.

"We won't be friends again, Rossi."

"We don't need to," Valentino says. "Just let me massage your arm. You have to race tomorrow."

Marc keeps close to the door as he watches Valentino, waiting. They both know the massage won't do jack shit for him. That's not why he asks Fabio to do it. But Valentino wants something and uses Fabio as an excuse. Marc can ignore everything but that. So he nods, smiles, and closes the distance between them, brushes against Valentino as he sits down on the couch and unzips his jacket, revealing his arm. Indulging, inviting. Holding his breath. Valentino follows.

Valentino's hands are cold on Marc's skin. He tenses his whole body, forbids himself to give even the smallest of tremors as Valentino's callused fingertips run down his biceps, pressing into the ridges slowly, as if Marc is made of glass. As if Valentino cares.

Marc scoffs. Side by side on the couch, he sees Valentino looking up from the corner of his eye. "You can press harder," Marc says. "I won't break. The scar tissue is dead anyway."

Valentino doesn't say anything. He keeps working the muscles, prodding and kneading the arm, breath warm against Marc's skin. If Fabio or Tom came, Marc doesn't know what his explanation is going to be. He mulls over words inside his mind, willing time to go faster, willing his heart to beat slower. Treacherous body, always acting erratically around Valentino. Marc focuses on keeping a steady hold on himself, so he doesn't notice when the air around him shifts, when the couch dips next to him. He snaps back to attention when Valentino presses his lips against Marc's scar, where healthy skin meets the dead tissue.

Marc's breath hitches.

"Vale--"

Valentino kisses down his arm. Slowly, reverence held in the corner of his mouth. He shifts closer, fingers closing around Marc's wrist, around Marc's thigh, caging him in, as if he is afraid Marc will spurt wings and take flight.

"Vale, what are you doing?" His voice breaks, a strange tune he doesn't recognise. Or one Marc chose to forget, reserved only for the nights when Valentino took him apart in the humid Spanish nights.

Valentino's mouth slips down his arm like silk, dry lips catching around Marc's scar, hot breath living goose flesh in its wake.

Marc shivers, leans towards the heat, head turning to see where Valentino is kissing his skin, so strange, so familiar. Valentino looks up at him through his eyelashes, the blue of his irises a whisper around his blown-out pupils. They breath in unison. Valentino leans back, reaches up, and Marc tilts his head down, thinking, thinking-- They haven't kissed since 2015. They haven't touched since 2016. Valentino caresses the edge of Marc's jaw, careful, careful. Marc pushes his cheek against his fingers, thinking, thinking-- is Valentino the same with Fabio? Careful, because he could break? Or rough, the way sometimes Marc is, pushing Fabio against walls, biting under his ear to get him to shiver, because that's how Fabio likes it, because Marc loves--

Marc wrenches himself away before Valentino can kiss him. He pushes himself to the other end of the couch, almost heaving, still looking at Valentino, at the flush on his face that probably matches Marc's own.

"Marc--"

"I'm done here," Marc says in English. "We're done." He leaves without looking back, door almost slamming behind him.

Marc announces he won't race after he leaves Assen early morning on Sunday, and doesn't see Fabio before that. Not in the morning, not the night before, after his duties are done. The only thing Marc gets from him is a text.

"I thought a deal with the devil meant glory," Carlos says the night after the race in Melbourne. "I thought the car would be strong. I thought--" the voice catches in his throat "--I thought I'd be strong."

Charles is motionless next to him, eyes a blue so dark and deep, no shadow disturbs them. Carlos is a little afraid to look at him.

"It will come." Charles presses his mouth against Carlos' shoulder, heat sipping through the shirt. He inhales, long and deep. He's just like a dog sometimes, Carlos thinks, a little amused, a little fond. Protective and possessive.

"Easy for you to talk." Carlos shakes Charles off. The artificial light of the hotel room slants in his eyes, and for a second, Charles' irises are not deep blue, but milky white. Carlos' heart seizes in his chest. He blinks. Charles' eyes are back to normal. "You were Senna in the past life."

Charles rolls his eyes. "I made a deal with you, not with Ferrari. I can't help them if they're not ready to pay the price."

"And I am? Paying the price?"

Charles smiles, crooked, lopsided, dimples popping, and kisses him into quietness.

*

It gets better until it doesn't and Carlos has to retire his car in Spa halfway in. It's Charles' turn to be on the podium, and Carlos is so angry he can barely stand to look at him.

"It's just a third place, Carlos. Nothing to stress over."

They go back to the hotel right after Charles finished his media duties, and Carlos wants nothing more than to be alone. He thinks slamming the door would have gotten the message across, but when he turns around, Charles is already there, by the bed, waiting, hands in his pockets, eyes a dull grey.

"A third place and three championships," Carlos sneers now, looking over Charles' shoulder. He can't stand the look in his eyes. "Nothing to stress over."

Charles sighs, exasperated. "I existed before you, Carlos. I will exist after you. My life now is nothing but a moment, painted in a different color. I don't choose my lives, the same way you didn't choose to be bound to me. If I could, I'd always be a king, a winner, but my life is defined by the contracts I make the same way yours is defined by things outside of your control." Charles stops, an angry breath hissing through his clenched teeth. He doesn't talk about his life, his existence as a being outside of the human realm, if he can help it. "You know what you got to do if you wish to never see me again."

Carlos finally looks at Charles. His eyes shine like marble in sunlight. Outside is dark, a starless night.

"And if I do? Will the old Charles be back?" Carlos still remembers the days before he made his pact. The sweet Charles, the shy Charles. The one that blushed around Sebastian Vettel.

"You drivers always think you're so different from one another, but you're all the same." The Charles in front of him gives him a sad smile. "There is no old Charles. It's always been me."

Carlos suddenly feels nauseous. He stares at Charles, at his eyes, at the grey melting into blue. "I think…I think I need to be alone." A pause. "Please."

Charles tilts his head to the side, watching Carlos. Carlos blinks. Charles is gone.

Later, they will be fine, as fine as a demon and human can be. They will fall into bed again, and Charles will let Carlos touch him, slide into him raw, make love to him. Charles will let Carlos wrap his hands around his throat, kiss him breathless, mark him. Charles will let Carlos believe he has power, and Carlos will let it happen, accept it. He will accept anything, everything as long as he gets to enjoy this for a little while longer.

*

The win in Singapore comes with a bang, and Carlos doesn't have time to think if Charles gave him this only to appease him. He is yelling over the coms, yelling as he gets out of the car, as he embraces the team. He sings every word of Fratelli d’Italia up on the podium. Fred pours champagne over his head, down his overalls. Carlos accepts everything with the biggest smile on his face. He won. He won for Ferrari. With Ferrari.

A tiny voice in his head tells him, you won before Charles this year, before Il Predestinato. It's delightfully mean. Carlos shoves it back where it came from.

He doesn't spot Charles anywhere until after his press conference, when Carlos is pulled into a desolate room, a hand on his mouth to silence him and a cheeky smile greeting him in the dark.

"Hi, champion."

Carlos grins against the fingers. "Hi back," he mumbles, pulling Charles into him by the waist.

Charles' eyes are a kaleidoscope of red-pink-purple, a sunset trapped in his irises. "My beautiful champion," he says and then he kisses Carlos hard on the mouth. Carlos parts his knees, Charles steps closer, pushes his hands underneath Carlos's shirt, fingers on his stomach, skin against skin. Carlos shudders.

"Bebe," Carlos mutters as Charles kisses down his neck. "Not here. Hgmm." Charles bites at a particular sensitive spot on Carlos' neck. "We don't have time."

Charles' eyes glimmer as he looks up at Carlos. "Is that a challenge?" He asks and drops to his knees before Carlos can get a word in.

Ten minutes later they're sliding into their chairs as the debrief starts, and if Carlos fixes his pants and Charles wipes the corner of his mouth, no one bats an eyelash. After all, they were only a few minutes late. No one scolds a Ferrari champion.

*

The manhole blows up underneath Carlos' car in Las Vegas. It brings the first practice to an end and rules him out of the second one. Because of the damage, he will most likely get a penalty on Sunday. It’s a mess. Charles is fuming.

Carlos watches as Charles paces the length of his hotel room, threat dripping from his tongue like a thunderstorm, and he speaks in French and sometimes in Spanish. Other times in languages that are not familiar at all. Carlos would laugh about it, would pull Charles into his arms, tell him not to worry, kiss the frown off his face. He’d do that and more if it weren’t for the shackles shining bloody red around Charles’ neck, around his wrists, eyes matching as they flare up with every new word.

Charles’ threats are not something to laugh at. They’re real, and if Carlos doesn’t do anything about it, Charles will level the city.

“It’s what they deserve,” Charles spits. “If there is something the humans have been constant about- it's money. It’s always about money. They’d risk everything for it. I should cut their fingers off, one by one. Make them choke on money. Teach them the consequence of greed.”

Carlos sighs. He doesn’t think too much about it and grabs Charles by the arm, pulling him into his lap.

“Cariño,” Carlos soothes, pressing a kiss underneath Charles’ right eye. He puts his fingers on Charles’ neck and doesn’t think about how it burns. “You’re older than mankind. Why are you still surprised?”

Charles growls low in his throat. “They messed with what’s mine.” Surprise and pleasure zip up Carlos’ spine. He drops his hands around Charles’ shoulders, pushes and pulls until Charles gives in and melts against his chest. “I am fine, really. I am here, aren’t I?”

Charles huffs. He grips the hem of Carlos’ shirt and presses his cold nose against Carlos’ neck.

“You could’ve lost your legs,” he mumbles.

“Not for long,” Carlos says as he draws lines on Charles’ back. Up and down, left to right, as soothing as he can make them. “I have you.”

“Yes,” Charles relents, finally, fight going out of him all at once, shackles fading until they leave only unmarred skin behind. “Yes, you do.”

He presses a kiss under Carlos’ ear. If Carlos senses a hit of teeth, too sharp to be human, he doesn’t mention it.

“Will you leave the city and its people alone?”

Charles smiles against his neck. “For now. For you. They owe you a life debt.”

“Yes, yes, my fearless demon,” Carlos says and then tightens his hold and flips them on the bed, Carlos on top, Charles splayed underneath him. For the next several hours Carlos makes sure Charles doesn’t have time to think about decimating the world. Charles lets him.

Carlos is not superstitious, never been, not in the way Charles is with his red-quali pants and good luck bracelets, but Carlos pays attention. Still, he doesn’t recognise the crossroads until it was too late. He thought he was better prepared.

“What do you want?” “To win.” And now making it 150th start from pole position, is gonna take victory and for the first time in Formula 1, Carlos Sainz is victorious! He wins the British Grand Prix! His crossroads comes in the shape of the rampant cavallino. His devil has dimples. He spills blood for only one of them.

Carlos didn't know what to expect once he asked, once he said yes, once the kiss sealed the deal, but whatever was on his mind involved the burning pits of hell, pain so intense he’d forget anything else. The devil feeds on your soul. His devil gives him massages when Carlos is jet-lagged

In Melbourne, Charles is already in his hotel room when Carlos gets there. For a moment, Carlos sees double, two devils sitting on his bed, set ablaze by the sunset washing Melbourne in molten red, his ruby shackles glowing around his neck around his wrists and ankles. The heat his Abu warned him about runs in Charles' veins, pumps his heart, makes his eyes glow in the dark. Carlos wants to touch. He's never been afraid. He also wants to sleep. Maybe he should eat first or take a shower. Maybe—

"Sit," Charles says, voice soft, eyes unnerving, a predator watching his prey. He moves and the illusion disperses. Charles’ skin is smooth and unmarked. He’s human.

Carlos sits. All of his strength goes out of him the minute his ass hits the mattress, a puppet with its strings cut off. It takes everything he has to not slump sideways and go straight to sleep.

Charles’ fingers are in his hair between one blink and the other. Carlos doesn’t see him move, but there is heat all around his back, a puff of breath against his ears and Charles cards his fingers through his hair, tugging at his roots.

“How was your day?”

Carlos tries to say something but it translates into unintelligible sounds.

“Words, cariño.”

Carlos snorts. “Aren’t you supposed to understand every language on earth?”

“In the life before this, I spoke Portuguese. In this one, I’m speaking French and Italian.”

“Poor English too.”

Charles nips the tip of his ear with his teeth. Carlos hisses and moves away from him, but Charles is faster, arms strong, pulling him in, back against chest. Charles nuzzles his nose in the crook of Carlos’ neck, pressing his lips to the exposed skin.

Carlos squirms. “Hey. I’m sweaty.”

Charles makes a show of dragging his tongue all the way up to his jaw before he grabs his chin and presses a hard kiss to Carlos’ mouth.

“Take this off,” Charles purrs.

A moment later, Carlos is on his stomach, shirt off, Charles straddling his ass as his fingers work the kinks in his muscles. He’s not afraid to moan, melting into the mattress, feeling the long hours spent on the plane, the squash session, the time spent with Lando on the golf course. Charles does something wicked to his shoulder blades. Carlos moans louder.

“Dios mio.”

Charles snorts. “Try again.”

“You’re such a brat,” Carlos grits out.

Charles bends, peppering kisses up his spine until he reaches his ear. “You love it, mio tesoro.”

“Do I have any other choice?”

Charles presses a kiss under his ear. “This was your choice,” he says, fingers skimming down his ribs. “Spending time with Lando is also a choice.”

Carlos turns his head, cheek bumping into Charles’ nose. “Jealous?”

Charles grins, wicked. “That would be a sin, wouldn’t it?”

Once upon a time, his Abu warned Carlos that the devil is everything you wish for and more, the horns merely a display of power. Carlos has never seen Charles’ horns. He’s not sure he has any. He is not sure if this is what he wants either, but now that he has it, his life before seems incomplete.

Carlos falls asleep that night against Charles’ chest, relaxed and safe with a pair of arms around his neck and a fresh string of bites on the inside of his thighs. Maybe a deal with the devil is not that bad. Maybe having Charles growling in his ear as he comes that he’ll protect Carlos is not that bad.

It’s a constant feeling nestled between his third and fourth rib, but the intensity varies. On a good day, Valentino simply ignores Marc. On a bad day, Valentino wants to get his hands around his neck and squeeze until the tendons crack under his knuckles. He got a taste of it in 2014. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since. What would have happened if there were no cameras around them?

Marc’s bad luck starts in 2020 and it doesn’t stop. A bad day for Marc means a bad day for Valentino. A bad year for Marc translates into a bad year for Valentino. It’s worse than 2015, more difficult to swallow than 2018. Valentino wants to scream until he runs out of breath and chokes to death.

2022 is the worst of it all. Marc moves to Madrid to speed up his recovery, and it leaves Valentino baffled and a little irritated. The big city won’t be able to replace the things he gets for granted in the countryside: the quiet, the nature, the clean air.

Marc moves to Madrid and Valentino follows against his better judgment. Madrid is fucking insane, but so is driving 20 hours from Tavullia. At least, when Marc doesn’t answer his phone, he is a 20-minute drive away from Valentino’s place in town, close enough to reach before Valentino’s desire to strangle him subsides.

+

Valentino can’t stand Marc when Marc doesn’t answer his phone. Sometimes Alex picks up when he’s around, saying that his brother is sleeping, eating, exercising. Marc is busy and he can’t come to the phone. Those are the days Valentino drops the car keys back into the glass bowl and gets back to his life. But Alex is not always with Marc, so Valentino gets in his car, he drives with fingers gripping the steering wheel until he parks a little crooked in front of Marc’s house.

When Marc doesn’t answer his phone it means he didn’t get out of bed in the morning, so Valentino has to do it for him. He is annoying like that. Valentino knows where the spare key is, hidden under a fancy pot with fancy hydrangeas around the corner. Of all the windows the house has, there is only one door. Valentino grabs the key and unlocks the door, lets himself inside.

“Sono a casa,” he yells to the empty hallway, the empty living room and the empty kitchen.

The air smells like dust and engine oil, things thrown hazardously around. Valentino stands in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the big couch and the big table, and looks around with his hands on his hips. He’s listening. The house is quiet.

“Brat,” he mutters under his breath. He gets to work. He opens the windows, lets the fresh air in. He gathers the clothes and redbull caps and puts them in one place, fluffs the pillows and loads the dishwasher with dirty plates and cups of coffee. Il dottore turned housemaid. If this is what retirement is about, he doesn’t want it.

When the place looks less like a dumpster and more like a place designed for humans, Valentino sends a prayer to whoever is listening and goes looking for Marc in his bedroom. He opens the door, steps inside. It’s dark, claustrophobic. This time, Valentino doesn’t pull the curtains apart, doesn’t open the windows. He makes his way to the bed, where the blankets sit still, a bump in the middle the only indication there is a person underneath it all. Valentino sighs.

“Sun will do you good, moccioso viziato.”

Marc’s head pops up, unruly curls and unruly smile. “Vale?” His voice sounds hoarse. It hurts Valentino’s brain just hearing it.

“Shhh,” he says as he climbs in bed, slipping under the blankets. Marc is on his good side, his injured arm placed carefully on top. Valentino settles behind him, head tucked into Marc’s shoulder, arm around Marc’s waist.

“Sono qui,” he says before he presses a kiss to Marc’s neck. Marc melts in the embrace, breath stuttering out of him in a hiccup.

“Vale.”

They will stay like this for a while. Then, Valentino will pull Marc out of bed. He will clean this room too, and take a walk with Marc in the garden, force him to a light run because only his arm is broken, not his fucking legs. Valentino will help Marc stretch his muscles, wash his hair, and at the end of the day he will ask for a hefty compensation because he is Il dottore, not a fucking maid.

+

Valentino hates speaking Spanish and he hates Spanish food, but when Marc refuses to eat, Valentino cooks for him. He speaks in stilted phrases to the women at the market, Tias and Tios that have no idea who he is because this country worships a different kind of God. He learns how to cook escudella and callos a la madrileña because Marc is a spoiled brat and doesn’t want to eat unless it’s his grandmother’s recipe. One phone conversation with Juliá about Marc’s favourite dishes is one conversation too many. But he makes the call anyway and he listens to Juliá’s guidance over the speaker phone as the stew bubbles on the stove. The house smells like meat and vegetables for a long time after, rich and savory that it almost makes Valentino’s mouth water. He’d eat a bowl if it wasn’t for the soft texture of the carrots he despises so much. Marc stops being annoying for a second, he eats two bowls of escudella sitting with his legs crossed on the wooden floor, Valentino next to him munching on a piece of bread. When he’s finished, his smile kicks up a notch before he lunges for Valentino and presses his sticky mouth to Valentino’s cheeks and neck and mouth, wherever he finds skin. His giggles rattle Valentino’s ribcage where they are pressed together.

“See if I ever cook for you, brat,” Valentino tells him when Marc runs out of steam, slumping against his chest on the couch.

“You will,” Marc smiles at him, chin resting on his hands, feet kicking up in the air. Marc is tolerable when his arm behaves and he forgets about the pain for a while. Valentino doesn’t want to break too many things if Marc offers him his smile constantly.

Valentino gets his hands into those curls, tugs at the roots until Marc’s eyelashes flutter. He doesn’t say anything, because they both know Valentino will break his promise the next time Marc refuses to eat. He will cook for Marc again. It doesn’t matter if he hates the process when he loves the result.

+

Marc is the most infuriating when he can’t stop talking. Valentino doesn’t think Marc is aware of it. It happens when he least expects it, when they’re doing the most mundane shit.

They’re running around the track in Tavullia, and between one ragged breath and another, Marc says. “Maybe if I trained harder, maybe if I worked harder, I’d get better. I’m not doing enough. It’s never enough.” It’s random and unexpected and it distracts Valentino so that he almost trips over his legs and face plants the ground.

It happens when they’re cooking when Valentino is making fresh pesto and Marc is dicing the zucchini. It goes well until Marc tries to dice his fingers too. He nips the tip of his index with the sharp blade, starts swearing up and down, “You can’t do anything right. Idiota.” Valentino almost sticks his own hand in the boiling pasta water because self-inflicted pain is easier to bear than whatever shit Marquez is saying. He doesn’t. Instead, he grabs the first-aid kit and tends to Marc’s tiny wound.

By now, Valentino learned to expect this kind of talk from Marc, but he has yet to learn how to deal with it. He either gapes like a fish as Marc smiles through his horrid words or Valentino leaves the room, fuming, because he can’t yell at a person who thinks they deserve to be yelled at. The crash in Jerez must have damaged more than Marc’s bones. There are enough doctors around Marc to take care of his injuries for him, but who’s taking care of the nasty voices inside his mind? Valentino doesn’t think he is equipped enough for it, not when he can barely stop himself from pressing his fingernail to Marc’s wound in an attempt to make him realise that maybe his way of dealing with the recovery process is not the best one.

“It’s just a scratch, Marc, not the end of the world.”

Marc shrugs, not lifting his eyes from the chopped zucchini. “Then what do you call Jerez 2020?”

Valentino raises an eyebrow at him. “An accident,” he says in English. “Un accidente. Un incidente. If they invented another word for it, I don’t know it. ”

“Only idiots make accidents.”

“Would you tell that to Jorge?”

Marc inhales sharply at that. Fabio would probably knock him over at the next race if Marc called Jorge Martin an idiot.

Valentino smiles. “That’s what I thought.”

Marc frowns. “Te odio.”

“No, you don’t.” And to drive his point home, Valentino grabs Marc’s hands and bites his knuckles until Marc’s face smooths into a laugh and he forgets how the word idiota sounds in his mouth. If Valentino still hears the echoes of that words weeks after, it’s his problem to deal with.

+

Everything comes to a halt when they are doing laundry and Marc looks at a pair of pants and says, “Maybe I shouldn’t be left out on the track if I keep crashing like this.”

Valentino sees red. He tries to understand most of the time, but his understanding has a limit too. Now all he wants is to scream at Marc to shut up, shut up, shut up. There must be something visible on his face because Marc takes a step back as Valentino turns toward him, hands held high in front of him as if Valentino will attack any minute.

“What?” Marc says, shoulders raised to the ears. “I haven’t seen you this angry since Sepang 2015.”

Valentino ignores him. He grabs Marc’s face in his hands and says, “Amore,” because Valentino never uses pet names unless he wants to distract Marc. It works well this time as well. Marc shuts up and blushes a pretty red, dropping his hands to rest in the crook of Valentino’s elbows. “I’m breaking up with you if you don’t win your ninth.” He says it in Spanish too to drive the point home.

Marc frowns, his brain registering the words. “In case you haven’t noticed—“

“Bodies heal, that’s what they do. Unless you’re dead, there is no reason for you to think otherwise.”

Marc’s frown deepens. “But—“

Valentino presses his lips against the wrinkle on his forehead, down at the corner of his eye, on the edge of his jaw. Marc shudders in his arms.

“You once told me you can be faster than me.”

“I am,” Marc says, eyes closed, breathing hard against Valentino.

“Faster than you, I mean.”

Valentino smiles. “Not sure I believe you.”

For the first time in months, Marc’s eyes twinkle with hunger. “I am. I’ll prove it to you.”

“Good.” Valentino kisses him hard. “You can start doing that, but after you’re done with the laundry. I’m not your maid.”

Marc does not finish the laundry. Neither does Valentino. The sunset catches them in bed, sheets draped all around them as Valentino presses his grievances into Marc’s golden skin until the room lights up with Marc’s giggles, with promises of being kinder to himself in the process of healing. Marc will probably forget come morning. He is infuriating. But Valentino knows where the spare key is and how to cook escudella and calçotada the way Marc likes them. If Marc forgets a thousand times, Valentino will remind him a thousand times.