Marc doesn't expect Dovi to corner him after the race.

They've not…talked much in the past few years. Marc could blame it on many things, but he knows the real reason.

He's been avoiding the Italian, truth to be told.

It's not that he dislikes him, or that they don't get along, god knows Marc is lucky to have shared a track with a rival like Dovi, but…

“Marc,” Dovi whispers from where he's leaning against his red motorhome. He's still in his Yamaha shirt, still looks like he's ready to go to work. Meanwhile, Marc can feel the weight of his leathers on his shoulders. They're heavy and damp, almost like shackles keeping him from moving freely. Every step feels like he's getting drained of the remaining energy in his body, and he wonders what he must look like to the older man.

Tired, probably. Maybe even on the verge of passing out.

(Marc sure feels like he is.)

“Dovi,” he greets back, flinching at the crack in his voice, severing the Italian's name in two. Marc lowers his eyes on instinct, something like shame building in his guts.

He's not used to feeling so…

The man pushes himself off his motorhome and takes a few steps towards him. Marc blinks and fights the urge to look away.

“Let's go inside, yeah?”

Dovi doesn't say anything else, taking his arm and leading him upstairs without a care in the world. They could be getting filmed right now, yet the Italian doesn’t seem to care the slightest bit.

Marc bites the inside of his cheek. He feels like he should say something, anything. But every time he opens his mouth to speak, something heavy gets stuck in his throat, begging to come out despite Marc refusing to let it.

He has no idea what about Andrea Dovizioso makes him want to bare his soul to the man, but it terrifies Marc.

The Spaniard doesn't remember the first time he noticed. Probably in 2016, when they were fighting for the win, and Marc accidentally let it slip that he felt lonely. It was such a stupid thing to say, but it rang truer than any of his other statements that year. Dovi simply looked at him without saying a word, and that night, he wasn't eating alone anymore.

Or maybe it was after the close call in 2017, when Marc and Dovi sat together after Valencia in an uncharacteristic silence. Or even after, when he confessed he was scared Dovi would dislike him after Austria.

“You race me like you want to kill me,” Dovi explained back then. Marc had bowed his head and tried to make himself smaller, already knowing where this was going. He didn't want to hear this from Dovi of all people.

“I—”

“I like it. It makes me feel special, like you think I'm a real danger to you. We all know you never rest when there's a championship to win, but you could go easier. You did it a few times already, but never against me.”

You're different, Marc didn’t say. But it's true.

Dovi's always been different. His biggest rival throughout his career will always be Jorge, but Dovi stays a close second for more reasons than one.

He makes Marc weak in a way Jorge never did.

(Marc doesn't know what to think about it, so he hides. He hides that powerlessness with lies and pretends like he can't meet up with Dovi whenever the man asks. He makes up excuses after excuses, even going as far as to stop responding to the Italian's text while he was injured.)

(The concern had made him want to cry.)

“Stay here, I'll make you a glass of water,” Dovi murmurs, setting him on the couch of his motorhome. He doesn't know why the older man bothers in the first place.

“Can you—Can you get me something with sugar?"

Dovi turns to look at him from where he's searching his kitchen for a glass. “Sure.”

Marc sighs. Sugar will be good. Maybe it'll help him feel less dead on his feet. Brno demanded more out of him than he was willing to give.

“Here you go.” Dovi settles on a chair next to him, watching as Marc tears off the plastic of his gel with his teeth.

(His hands are shaking.)

Marc hides a wince as he drinks, still avoiding looking Dovi in the eyes. He wonders what the Italian sees as he observes him. Does he see the same weakness Marc does?

“Does it still hurt?”

Marc looks up, his eyes locking with Dovi's for the first time this afternoon.

Yes.

“No—”

Marc clicks his mouth shut.

Dovi simply looks at him, his eyes calm, never judging, no matter how fucking undone Marc becomes in front of him.

“You look like you want me to kill you.”

“Do I? Well, it doesn't sound like the worst way to go.”

“Why are you saying all of this—”

“Because you won't. I trust you.”

Fool fool fool fool fool fool—

Marc, to his embarrassment, feels tears well up in his eyes. He chokes on a laugh and gives Dovi a smile that probably doesn't look much like one.

“Not as much as pretending it doesn’t.”

(He's never been able to lie to Dovi, has he? No matter how many years passed and how much they drifted apart.)

It always stunned him how…in tune with him Dovi's always seemed. When they were rivals, the man knew whenever he was physically hurt or when his mood was down. Nothing Marc could say would fool the older man.

He simply knew what to do.

Just like now, really. The Italian gets up and settles next to him without a word. He doesn't press Marc for answers or an explanation; it's as if he understands already. Instead, he kicks Marc's leathers away from him and crushes him into a hug.

“I'm here,” Dovi whispers against the damp curls of his hair, and Marc feels himself all but melt in the older man's arms. It's warm here, and he doesn't have to strain himself in any way. Dovi's hold makes every synapse in his brain exhale in relief, and he presses his face against the retired rider's Yamaha shirt to hide his tears.

Dovi won't care about them, but Marc can't help it. He's not used to baring himself like this.

“I'm sorry,” Marc can't help but say. He doesn't want to bother Dovi with this; it's the main reason he's avoided the older man for so long. Everything just seems to tumble down whenever they're alone.

“There's nothing to be sorry for. I told you before, no?”

Marc takes in a shaky breath.

“You don't have to come and ride, you know. We can just go have a drink after the day's over. You won't be in the way.”

It sounds unreal. And yet…

Marc nods and snuggles closer in the man's chest, allowing himself to let go for once.

“Okay.”

Davrin studies the hem of a long white skirt as it flutters around a familiar pair of ankles. It doesn't stop as she does, swaying instead with the wind that rolls in off the coast. It pools around her feet like a cloud as she kneels to take the hand of a little elven girl, not the first on to stop her on what was intended to be a relatively short journey.

Ventus is not as Davrin had thought it would be.

The city is built into the side of wave-worn cliffs, buildings painted in the colors of the coast itself, faded by the warmth of the sun and the endless sea breeze. The relentless beat of the sun is interrupted only by the feathered shadow passing over head, often to the delighted symphony of cries from children who've all decided to chase it though the winding streets. There are still scars here, cut into cobblestones and in parts of the city wall that are lined with scaffolding.

It's more than the weather that makes this place seem brighter.

Cyri stepped through the Eluvian and immediately seemed to take in the sea air as though it was some kind of tincture. Her face is turned slightly toward the sun, basking as though its a rarity—though in Minrathous, he supposes it is.

As she leads him through the streets as though she's walked them many times before, Davrin can't help studying this new version of her. He's gotten to know many of them, over the past several months.

Cyri has good days and bad, often in large swings of a pendulum. There are days she reminds him of the extremely charming, slightly-reckless woman he'd met in the Anderfels. Other times she seems more like a stranger. Edged and quiet. Most times she's someone in between, these days more of a banked flame than a raging fire.

The evanuris, the blight, the veil—all of it changed the world more thoroughly than any of them could have imagined. It only makes sense that it changed them, too. It took some time, but after a few more painful clashes, the two of them took to discussing scars that have cut deeper than skin. The ones that have come from fear and grief and loneliness.

He thinks that it helps, but sometimes he'll catch her drifting off to places he can't follow. Times he catches himself forgetting that his choices effect more than just himself.

They cross beneath a sandstone arch, passing through the city walls. The docks spear into the water off to the east. Even this far out, the shouting and the bells that accompany a bustling harbor. Cyri leads him in the opposite direction, pulling him by the hand down a well-beaten path, steep stairs carved from the dark cliffs themselves. Eventually, the rock gives way to sand, the trail opening into a sand-covered cove.

This beach is different than the white sands of Rivain, the bright turquoise waters. The water is a deeper blue, the waves that roll in edged in an impossibly frothy white that washes over gray sands dotted with other bodies. Its early enough in the spring that Davrin doubts many of them are yet willing to brave the wind-chilled waves of the Nocen sea, though the day itself is pleasant enough that the mild crowd is unsurprising.

Cyri pauses, stooping to remove her shoes. Davrin follows suit and straightens to a gentle blast of salt air rolling in off the water. It winds through his shirt and over his skin like lovers' hands. Next to him, Cyri's lips spread into a small, serene little smile as the wind dances through her skirts, twisting through her hair. His heart aches a little, at that expression. This is a Cyri he met at a hidden waterfall in Arlathan, damp hair and flushed cheeks, sunset turning the sky indigo and orange above the trees. One he doesn't see often enough, come to think of it.

A loud screech from overhead announces Assan's landing before he makes it, kicking up sand on purpose, Davrin is certain. Especially when he immediately flops on his side and starts stirring up even more of it with an almost obnoxious zeal.

Davrin sighs, shielding his own eyes against both sand and sun.

"Assan," he scolds after a moment, "That's enough."

The griffon has grown larger too, over the past year. Not large enough yet to ride, but on all four legs he comes almost to Davrin's hip. This has not been reflected in his discipline, a fact which Davrin never hesitates to grouse over.

He scowls, just formulating a new complaint, but she speaks first.

"We used to come here a lot, when I was younger." Her smile puts off as much warmth as the later-afternoon sun. Davrin can't help the arch in his brow. "Surprising?"

"Considering you couldn't swim when we met, yes."

"I never got in the water," she says, as though this should be obvious.

Davrin hums his amusement, "Would that be because—?"

"When I was eight, Priscilla Claude told me about the sea monster that lurked in the harbor. It'd been brought here to defend Ventus from Qunari invasions. But when they were over, the defenders no longer had anyone to feed to it. They couldn't keep it tamed any longer, so it went rogue. Started roaming these waters in this cove looking for children to feed on."

"Another child convinced you a sea monster lurked these waters who could swallow you whole."

She nods with a certainty that suggests this sequence of events makes perfect sense.

Davrin shakes his head, fighting a smile as he studies the waves rolling in, one on top of the other. "That's ridiculous."

Cyri scowls with fierce indignation. "You're a monster hunter and you're telling me that sea monsters don't exist."

"No," he counters, daring to smile in her direction. "I'm telling you that a sea monster couldn't possibly live so close to land. Where exactly in these shallow waters do you think any kind of sea monster—incredibly vague description—could sneak up on you?"

Her tongue probes somewhere between her teeth and her upper lip as she thinks this over. From experience, Davrin know she won't be so easily convinced.

"What if it has tentacles?"

Davrin gives the expected beleaguered sigh. "Sea monsters cannot live in waters this shallow—and even if they could," he goes on before she can interrupt properly. "there is no sea monster, tentacled or otherwise, that would be capable of sneaking up on you here."

Her scowl deepens, turning dubious in a new way.

"You're just saying that so I'll get in."

He arches one eyebrow, scanning over her once. Davrin shrugs, "Seemed like you were already planning that."

Her eyes narrow as she parses his intent—and then she's on her feet, taking off over shifting sand and darting between jutting rocks.

Davrin calls her name as he takes off after her, laughing as he chases her across the beach. He propels himself after her, heedless of the sand he kicks up in his wake. His thighs burn with the effort of keeping upright on the mutable surface. Still, he won't let that stop him.

In the end, he only catches her because she stumbles first.

She lets out a cry of protest that sounds a great deal like one of Assan's as he snatches her about the waist—but several moments later they're both laughing as he hefts her a little clumsily over his shoulder, both of their bodies covered in sand and heaving with breath.

"Davrin!" she complains loudly through her panting.

A few other patrons of this beach throw strange looks their way, and Davrin ignores them, marching purposefully toward the waves with his haul—who is admittedly not protesting as much as he thought she would. It's possible the escape attempt had taken it out of her. Either way, she seems surprisingly resigned to her fate as he steps into the tide.

It's freezing, but Davrin does his level best not to let it show.

Instead, he forges on until he's about waist deep, keeping Cyri safely above the waves. Well, until he isn't anymore.

Daniel is just making lunch when he hears a soft little sniffle, and he sets the knife down on the chopping board and peaks around the corner. Max is on the rug, wiggling his favourite toys head back and forth like he's speaking to him. His soft stuffed lion, the first one Daniel got for him, is very important to Max. He uses him to help process big feelings and to figure out what he wants or needs.

From this distance, Daniel can see Max crying quietly. He doesn't know the reason, but he can see that Lion is still talking, so he waits. He's found sometimes it's better to wait things out with his little boy.

A few minutes later as he's finishing cutting the veggies up, Max appears in his periphery. He still has tear tracks on his cheeks, and Lion is hugged to his chest.

"Hi baby boy," he says gently, "are you and Lion okay?"

"Feel bit sad today," Maxy says, voice barely a whisper, "Lion said is okay to tell daddy feeling sad,"

Wiping his hands clean, Daniel says, "that's right Maxy, you can always tell daddy about your big feelings,"

"Not know why," he whispers, coming closer to Daniel and tucking himself - and Lion - along his side, "just sad today,"

"Sometimes we feel sad," Daniel dips and lifts Max up, wrapping his boy's legs around his waist and carrying him to the sofa, "I think spending time with people helps the sad feelings a little bit,"

"Fink cuddles maybe help," Max hides his face in Daniel's shoulder, "cuddles and Lion and..."

He waits, but nothing more comes. Stroking his fingers through Max's hair, he asks, "what else might help, baby?"

"Maybe can have binkie?"

"You can have your binkie," Daniel kisses Max's forehead, leaning to root through the side table drawer for the binkie that would be stashed there, "here we go, Maxy,"

"Fankoo," Max mumbles around the binkie, "love,"

"I love you too, baby,"

-

"Thank you for yesterday, Daniel,"

He hums, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "s'alright, we all get a little bit sad sometimes. Happens,"

"You're so good to me," Max crawls back into the bed, breath minty-fresh, "to me and to Lion,"

"Love you, baby,"