#new pairing

Franci shakes her head. He didn't even notice. There's a wry note to her voice, something quiet about it. She stirs sugar into her coffee. Marc looks at it when the wry, rueful twist of her red-painted lips becomes too much to look at. Does it pierces her, sometimes, as it does him, when she sees Valentino with him, realizes how different a man can love someone else?

It had been a dull blow, stunning as it was, when it had happened the first time - waking up in a body that is too proportionally different, too free of pain, and too full in the front. He is shameless enough to admit that when he looked down and saw a woman's full chest, he gave in at once to the boyish impulse to look under the collar and went, damn. Then he'd looked around and saw the blue streak of a Yamaha M1, gleaming in a position of honor under the sun streaming through the window of a very familiar bedroom, even if it was one that Marc had not been invited to since 2013.

There were kids. He knew they existed, but to be suddenly called upon to handle them was - well, uh, a nightmare. Valentino had not been there. And when he did finally swan up it was evening, and Marc was half-dead on the sofa, having got through the day only after a frantic call to Francesca that finally went through to his own cell and he was, quite possibly, shrieking as the children shrieked even louder - and the girls were finally, finally put to bed.

But the girls, they knew at once, every time, says Marc, recalling the quiet look of stray doubt in the older girl's eyes and he'd tucked her in the first time: That's not my favorite story, she'd said, quietly, only after he'd finished. Marc had turned off the nightlight and excused himself.

Of course, says Franci.

But Valentino hadn't. When he came back and he'd said, I'm home! and all the spiteful thoughts Marc had about being a present parent -he would retire and not do anything but watch his kids, he promised himself then - had vanished when he sprang to his feet and Valentino came in, and his eyes had lit up at the sight of Marc. No, not Marc. It was his wife he thought was there.

I missed you, said Valentino, swooping over to press a kiss to his cheek.

Marc had said, over a rising lump in his throat, I missed you, too. All these years. Ten wrecking years of it. He couldn't have said that.

Valentino, never not percipient with the flickering change of emotions in others, noticed, Franci, is something wrong? In his eye shone care and concern that bruised.

Marc pulled him back, burying his face in Vale's chest, familiarize himself with the thump-thump-thump beat of his heart that he had fallen asleep to once in motorhomes and countries ago, Nothing, just - the kids were giving me a bit of a hard time today. Lying smoothly, because he was good at that.

Vale wrapped his arms - long, stick-thin, grasshopper arms Marc had teased once - around him, pressed a kiss to the top of his head, murmuring apologies. I'm sorry. Thank you. Words that Marc Marquez would not have gotten. That had hurt, almost as much as his arm without the painkillers, a persistent ache that rotted in the bones. Earlier, he'd told Francesca the schedule of the medication he had to take, and had heard the whispered, My god, when she opened his medicine cabinet.

Make it up to me, Marc said, shutting down his brain before it went down the road of moral superiority. Hooked his fingers - good lord, manicured nails - into the loops of Vale's jeans, tugged him onto the couch, sit, and he'd laughed, breathily, here? Right in the open? The kids -

Are sleeping, Marc interrupted with a bruising, searing kiss. If it was the first - and last - time, he wanted to make the most of it. Vale made a noise of muted agreement into his mouth, those long, long lashes fluttering, and Marc's heart gave a great wrench of longing, one that ultimately did not overrule the twist of need in his navel, the wetness pooling in between his thighs. He'd taken Vale into him and ridden him to completion on the couch which, he assumed, Franci would've had sent to dry-clean later.

It hadn't been the last time.

In fact, it happens often enough that it's become a matter of practicality for him and Franci to swap numbers, to talk about the girls for him to learn their likes and dislikes and extracurriculars, catch one another up on the minutiae of daily life, the logistics of arranging for things that you might not be there for. So far, they have been lucky. Marc cannot model (the one time he asked Gemma to teach him just in case, she'd laughed long and loud). Franci cannot ride. It hasn't happened yet to them on a race weekend.

Yesterday though, is cutting it. Marc had not swapped back into his body until after midnight. Fucking Valentino in his motorhome to take the edge off, curled up on his chest, tracing the shape of his turtle tattoo, trying to calm the huffing dragon of anxiety in his chest: Do you think Marquez will win tomorrow? Felt the vicious pleasure of feeling Vale stiffening under him, then forcibly relaxing.

Knowing that small fucking bastard, Vale had said, yeah. Unless he crashes himself out.

And Marc had laughed, his own laugh, the loud, honking one that people always point out - and he'd looked up right into Vale's startled blue eyes, horror-filmed recognition dawning -

And then he was back in his own body, alone, heart still racing.

I remembered to use protection last night, says Marc.

Franci laughs, and Marc is startled to realize only now that he likes her, in spite of everything. You better have! she says, I'm not ready for a third. Two are a handful enough.

Marc laughs, too, but chokes on it when he looks over her shoulder and sees the unmistakable presence of Valentino Rossi. The Ducati employees scatter. Fuck, he's here. The gossip mill has probably reached Pecco first then he'd gone and reported it. Vale's face is lightly stubbled, and though he has sunglasses covering his eyes, Marc can feel the thunderous roll of temper clouding the hospitality. If Valentino had super-hearing and heard that last part, Marc would be, well, he'll be leaving Italy in several pieces tucked into a shoebox. Even Alex and all of Ducati couldn't have saved him.

I better go, Franci says, noting his look, turning over her shoulder to see Vale just looming over here, a tick in his jaw. He's cute when he's jealous. She flips her hair over her shoulder, smiles cheekily, and reaches over to pat his wrist. Good luck out there today.

Yeah, Marc definitely likes her.

Oh, says Franci before she goes, and her hair swishes as she turns a little, smiling, gleam-eyed, tell Gemma I said hello; her Italian's getting so good now.

Maedhros refused to answer him. He simply picked up his sword and walked away. Perplexed by such behavior, Tulkas ran after him, something he was not accustomed to doing.

"Maitimo," he said, reaching for his student’s hand. "Something troubles you. Pray tell me what it is. Perhaps I can help you."

Maedhros refused to look at him. He did not want Tulkas to see the tears that sprang without warning. If he did, Tulkas would insist on an explanation, and Eru save him, he could be like a hound with a tasty bone sometimes. Tulkas would not let him be until he confessed.

Besides, how could he confess? How could he tell one of the Ainur of the feelings he harbored towards them? The pain he felt whenever they had to part? The sorrow that lashed at him again and again like a new whip whenever he thought about them seeking the hand of another?

"Tis nothing, my lord." Maedhros’ voice cracked, betraying him in an instant. He flinched. "I will be well soon enough."

Something was indeed troubling him. Tulkas knew it, could see it, even. He took a step closer, his voice barely over a whisper.

"What troubles you?" He entreated. "Talk to me, Maitimo. I will not be angry. I give you my word."

Maedhros opened his mouth once. Then twice. Tulkas did not let go of him. He was not going to let go of him, not until he had been given a satisfactory answer. Maedhros sighed and turned around, his eyes still full of unshed tears. Tulkas took note of his student, his slumped form, the wet, red eyes. He looked over his shoulder. They were still within the courtyard and exposed.  

"Come. Let us go somewhere where we can speak in peace."

It was not long before they reached Tulkas’ private chambers. The Vala pulled out a chair for Maedhros, offered him a cup of fine wine. Maedhros refused the offer of hospitality. His stomach was a roil. Tulkas came over and sat back on his haunches, his eyes never leaving his student.

"Now," he began, "you have been withdrawn, inattentive, and, unless I am mistaken, more than a little unhappy for quite some time. Has some new trouble come to life within your family?"  

That was one thing Maedhros could give a ready answer to. "No, my lord. Nothing is disturbing the peace within my family."

For now. Tulkas knew enough and more about the children and grandchildren of Finwë. There will be no true, lasting peace between them for long.

"Good," he replied. "Good. Then what upsets you?"

Maedhros tried to speak again. He failed. He looked away, to the window. He could hear the clash of swords, the clangor of armor, and above it all, the curses of other warriors fighting and winning and yielding. He would miss them if he had to leave, and leave he must, should he ever confess.

"Nothing." Maedhros turned his attention to his lap next.

Tulkas lifted his chin with a curled finger and forced him to meet his gaze. "Your eyes tell me another tale, Maitimo. What bothers you so? Is it your father?"

"No, my lord."

"Your mother?"

"Not her. Never her."

"Other kinsman perhaps?"

"No."

"A maiden then? Were you refused, by any chance? Is that it?"

"No. There is no maiden. I have no desire to seek their company."

"I see." Tulkas rises, his curiosity piqued. He turned to face the window, thinking and thinking, his arms folded across his chest. "Who then? Is it another ellon? Another lord?"

"No, and no," Maedhros answers quickly.

"Then who?" Tulkas insisted, more than a little frustrated. "Answer me, Maitimo. That is an order."

"I..." Maedhros dares to glance at his lord. What courage he has left attempts to flee him. "I... I... I cannot. Forgive me."

Tulkas clenched his jaw; his frustration was palpable now. True, he promised not to get angry, but this creeping about vexed him to no end. "Why?"

"Because I... I..."

"Yes?"

Maedhros pauses, hesitates. He steals a second glance. Tulkas was determined. Maedhros could see it in the squared shoulders, the narrowed eyes. There would be no escape for him, not through lies or refusal. Finally, he confesses. 

"The cause of my unhappiness is one of the Ainur." Maedhros hesitates again. "You. My lord."

Tulkas stood like he had been hewed out of stone, unable to move or speak for a long while. Realization dawned, bright and clear. The wistful looks thrown his way, the distance, the sadness. It was him. The cause of Maedhros' distress was him. 

"I am distressed because... because you hope to wed another." Maedhros continues in a rush, thinking that it would be best to reveal all now that a portion of his secret has been laid bare. "I... I do not wish for that... my lord. I... I desire you for myself. Forgive me, my lord, if my words offend."

He hung his head, strengthening himself for the chastisement that was sure to follow. Who was he, after all, to even think such things about one greater than himself? 

Chastisement may have been what he was expecting, but it was not what he received. Tulkas stirred himself. He dipped to his haunches once again, took a pair of trembling hands into his. He gave them a gentle squeeze. 

"I am not offended," he replied, hoping to soothe frayed nerves. The confession he heard, the courage it must have taken to even form the words... It stirred something within him, something he could not yet name. Tulkas needed to hear more. "But why did you not tell me sooner?"

Maedhros refused to look up, so fearful was he still. "Because you are Ainu. I am elf-kind. You would never set your eyes on one such as me. I was afraid you would spurn me, and then be lost to me forever. I could not bear that."

"I see." Tulkas considered his next course of action and then settled on the most direct path. He believed it would be best for both of them if he did. "Well. You need not worry about my seeking the hand of another. I may have made it known that I am looking to marry, but no one has caught my eye. Yet."

Maedhros did not know what this meant. Still, he held his tongue. Tulkas was not done speaking.

"I will make no promises, Maitimo, but perhaps, you and I can become better acquainted with one another? Right here, away from the others? Would you like that?"

Maedhros lifted his head with such speed that Tulkas could not help but smile.  "You mean... as more than just a mentor and student?"

"More than just mentor and student," Tulkas repeated, his smile spreading even more. It made his eyes sparkle. "So much more, if Eru wills it. But you have to say yes."

It was Maedhros' turn to question. "But why, my lord? Why?"

"Your confession," Tulkas said. "The courage it took to even tell me. That is something I value greatly. Now, dry those beautiful eyes, hmm? And join me for a meal. We have much to learn about each other, you and I."

“Mm, you taste good, human," she says in this euphonious version of the Elder Speech he only understands half of, if he understands it at all. However, it is so melodious and pleasing to the ear that she could say something like ‘I’m going to eat you neck and crop’ and he would still find it sexy as hell. Anyway, even if she were going to eat him alive, there is nothing he could do about it, mesmerised as he is by not only her exceptional beauty and her sing-songy voice, but also by what she is doing. He cannot really see it at the moment for her flowing, celadon green hair is all over his lower body - his very naked lower body - but he can feel it. And how he can feel it! Her lips are of the same light green colour as her nipples, and they are moving up and down his cock in a way that gives him the holy shivers. Who would have thought he would end up lying on the beach at dawn having his first time with a fucking mermaid? He definitely did not imagine anything like it when he rowed over to the island to have a look at the famous mermaid rock. Just for curiosity’s sake, of course, and because of the heartbreaking poetry of the legend, not because he believed for one second that mermaids actually exist. Now he does. And how they exist!

Continue reading on Ao3: 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46510078

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