#vanhalloween24

Whatever. It had faded fast. They’d been standing too close to begin with, and though Marc had accused Valentino of wanting him out of the weekend for Pecco's sake, he’d heard the fine edge of care to the words. 

Marc had raced. Valentino had kissed him in the dark gap between his and Pecco’s motorhome after, hand curled around Marc’s bruised rib cage, muttering, “you never listen,” into his mouth.

Going back to the ranch the next day had felt like leaping out of the frying pan and into the fire — and Marc had almost declined, only held back by the fear that this would shatter fairytale style: he’d say no and the carriage would turn back into a pumpkin, white horses to rats, Valentino to a distant, vengeful figure. 

The weather becomes despicable on the drive over, and Marc finds himself immensely grateful he’s not flying in it as the storm closes in around Valentino’s property. 

“It looks just like I remember it,” he says, voice lifted above the thunder. Valentino dumps his things on the floor by the couch, shucks his jacket off atop the pile.

“Allora, old men do not change past a certain point.”

Marc hums.

“You are not that old.”

Valentino turns a smile on him.

“No need to flatter me — you have made it this far. And you will see, maybe — when I can’t keep up with you the way I used to.”

A thrill rockets up Marc’s spine at the promise behind that. Valentino’s stare goes sharp, meaningful. He tips his head.

“Wine?”

Marc indulges. Valentino pulls out the same glasses he’d used in 2014, when the two of them had crept from their rooms after everyone else had gone to bed and shared a bottle of red on the couch. Vale had kissed the taste of it from his mouth, trailed his lips from Marc’s jaw all the way down. Marc had ended up with Vale’s shirt caught between his teeth, fingernails biting through the leather as he tried and failed to keep quiet beneath Valentino’s tongue and hands.

He swallows, face heating at the memory. It used to feel like aeons ago. Now, back on the same couch with the same heavy glass tucked into his palm, it feels like yesterday.

The plan isn’t to stay. In fact — there is no real plan, but Marc had told himself no — had firmly placed sleeping over in the ‘not allowed, too much too soon,’ basket the second Valentino suggested the visit.

A bolt of lightning turns the room stunningly white, and the pair of them drop the thread of their conversation to gaze out the window at it. He figures Valentino probably won’t let him leave, now. Might feign some sort of care — a ploy to get Marc between his sheets.

Except Marc had thought it fake in the garage, too. Almost wholly, until Valentino had pressed him carefully against the wall of a Ducati motorhome and breathed, “don’t let me hurt you, tell me if it’s bad.”

Valentino was talking about his ribs. Marc had read deeper. It’s not bad. It hasn’t been bad, yet, and Marc is stunned to find himself unsurprised. They’d been a razing fire for ten years now. How unlike them to cinder out right when things turn up.

“You do not want to drive back in that,” Valentino says, like he’s reading Marc’s mind. Marc can’t help the exasperated smile that pulls at his lips. The other man is terribly predictable.

“I suppose not.”

Valentino brightens at the absence of protest.

“We will see, then,” he shrugs, playing at casual. Marc knows that means I won’t offer you the couch, because we’ll end up in the bed. He rolls his eyes.

By the second bottle — something Valentino brought up triumphantly from his cellar, brandishing it like a trophy: “this is a $13,000 red,” said as they take first sips, to which Marc tipped his eyebrows up, feeling only slightly guilty for not even really enjoying it — the storm has whipped into something otherworldly. Every window rattles in its frame, and the conversation lulls with each nightmarish growl of thunder.

Valentino keeps them chained to the couch with a dim orange lamp that flickers threateningly every few minutes.

It sets Marc’s teeth on edge, raises the hair on the back of his neck — the storm, the heady swirl of alcohol in his head, how Valentino’s managed to inch a full thirty centimetres closer without him even noticing. He drifts his eyes down to where their knees are pressed together. Valentino waves a hand in front of his face and Marc huffs, peers up at him through his lashes.

“Do you like the storm?” he asks. Marc wants to say what a stupid question. He blinks his attention to the window, where he can’t even make out the moon for the clouds and the rain.

“No. I hate the noise.”

Valentino says, “ah. The walls are thicker in my bedroom, if you want.”

Marc laughs — head tipped back, uproarious. What a transparent attempt. When he can breathe again, Valentino’s smiling awkwardly, like he knows he’s been seen through. Except Marc shrugs his shoulders and peels clumsily off the couch, tongue heavy around, “you are funny, come on, then.”

He leads the way because he can, because he remembers the path — probably from walking it in his head a thousand times since the first, tracing the steps in some self-flagellating re-run.

Valentino catches up after a moment, hand coming to rest on the small of Marc’s back. It fits like it belongs there, warms right through the other side of him like a flame. They were going to end up here eventually, Marc figures. If it’s born from his own laughter, rather than a gored sense of need, maybe it can finish that way, too. Maybe Valentino will say goodbye to him with some sleazy line, rather than hot, festering Italian that will keep in his stomach like rotten fruit all the way back home.

He spies the bike, first, Vale’s M1 from 2004 — and curse him for knowing that. A giggle bubbles from his chest, because how ridiculous, and Valentino catches him, slinging over his back.

“Don’t laugh at her, Marc,” he admonishes, breath hot across the sensitive shell of Marc’s ear. He can’t help it — that starts him again, and then Valentino’s huffing against the side of his face and manhandling him onto the mattress. Marc helps only a little, slides himself up by his heels till Valentino’s got enough room to loom over him on all fours. All pretence immediately dropped; they aren't here because of the noise.

“I don’t feel like the most desired thing in this room,” Marc says, voice cut by his grin. Vale pulls a face, stifling a show of teeth. He leans to press an open-mouthed kiss to Marc’s neck, and then breathes, “no? Well, I will just have to prove it to you.”

Marc’s hard, he realises absently. Didn’t take much.

“Marc?”

He blinks. Valentino’s staring down at him, face still like he’s waiting.

“What?”

“Is that —?”

It takes him a moment to realise that Valentino is actually asking. God. They’ve gotten out of rhythm, and it’s been years, so it — it makes sense, but. Something pangs deep in his gut. Turns him soft and bittersweet. He relaxes his shoulders, brings his arms around till his wrists are pressed to the side of Vale’s planted palms.

“Yes. Please,” he adds, because he wants Vale to know he’s sure. No room for uncertainty in the parachute, not with a drop like this. Valentino’s lips part, and his eyebrows twitch together, such a minute motion that Marc only sees it because he’s looking.

Lightning sets them aglow — for a second, Marc mistakes the thunder for the growl of the bike, engine right by his ear. A shiver runs through him, and Vale presses forward, grinds them together, finally, and kisses him again.

“What do you want?” Vale whispers into his mouth, hand already working at his jeans.

Marc knows Vale knows, because they know this, and each other, and even though it’s been a decade and change, nothing is really different.

“You know, Vale,” he echoes, “like always.” Always, despite hundreds and hundreds of days between now and then. Vale makes a noise, and says, “yes, yes, I know — I have you,” and he does. Of course he does.

After what feels like an age — seconds at most, but Marc wants it too bad for sense or accuracy, Vale’s fingers brush against his dick. He doesn’t waste time, shoves his jeans down and pushes at Marc’s thighs till his legs drop open, till Vale can press a finger against the wanting heat of him. He pauses for only a moment, stretching for the nightstand and returning to his place, a bottle of lube already dribbling over Marc’s cock as he twists his wrist down.

Valentino pushes in with a long, slick finger, and Marc feels the breath punch out of him.

“Did you think about this, Marc?” Valentino whispers. His voice isn’t teasing, isn’t mean — he sounds like he genuinely wants to know; like he’s thought about it, and needs Marc to be on the same teetering point as him. A second finger strangles the reply in his throat, so he waits, blinks past the stars until the feeling settles like an iron rod in his stomach.

“Yeah, ‘course,” is all he manages, voice already so ripped with want. Valentino groans and folds over him, kissing the whine out of his mouth, fingers spreading him open. Marc knows it’s too soon, that he needs more but fuck, sue him, it’s been too many years and he needs Vale.

“Now, Vale, come on. Please.”

Valentino shushes him sweetly, peppering kisses along his sweating hairline.

“Almost, almost, baby. Wait, one more.”

Marc digs his heels into the mattress at the third finger, hands twisting in the sheets. That has to be enough — it must be.

“Vale,” he demands, trying to force something commanding into his tone. “Come on.”

Valentino laughs by his neck, pulling his fingers out and swatting at the inside of his thigh. Marc gasps at the loss, but the emptiness doesn’t keep, because Vale rolls into him in the next breath, filthy and big and fucking everything — Marc thinks he’s on the ceiling, through it, even, out in the rain and the thunder, somewhere a hundred metres above the ground.

“Fuck, Vale,” he gets out before his words melt into a long, shuddering noise. Valentino shifts his hips once he’s all the way in, breath coming out ragged.

“Got you, you are — fuck, Marc, like I remember. God, ten years, what were we doing.”

Marc blinks past Valentino’s angel-fine curls. He can’t — can’t decide if Vale means that right now, or if it’s the feeling talking, but he’s — God, God. What were they doing — what were they doing? Nothing’s ever felt better than this. His eyes roll back into his head. Absently, he thinks about making sure to thank Gigi for the contract. Look where it’s got him.

Valentino, breath caught, sets a brutal rhythm. The jokes about not keeping up; what bullshit, Marc thinks. He’s already close, tripping over the edge because this is them, again, and finally. Valentino must feel it, curling his hands around Marc’s wrists, pinning them above his head and rearing back to stare down at him as he fucks him. Marc turns his face into the bedding, heat searing across his cheeks.

“No, Marc,” Valentino rushes, “let me see you — look, look at me.” Marc does, breathless, stars exploding at the base of his spine. Valentino sounds so wanting. Marc didn’t think he’d ever hear that again, not outside of his head.

“Close,” he warns, because he can only get one word out at a time. Valentino falls against him, grinds his hips deep, and says, “yeah, yes,” like he already knew.

Marc reaches for his back, gets his nails into the sweat-slick skin and inhales a lungful of Valentino. Valentino moans his name and fire consumes him, tips him over the edge — lightning blinds them for a moment, thunder rolls above and Valentino comes shaking on top of him, hot inside and he’s all Marc can feel, all he can see.

Pecco blinks at him. Marc can’t see his eyebrows for the mask perched on the elegant bridge of his nose — an ornate thing, black, Phantom of the Opera style. He shifts towards him, hand going for a jar of dried fruit on the shelf by Pecco’s elbow.

Pecco takes another step back, hissing when his spine hits an unforgiving edge.

“You were coming to steal food, yes?” Marc prods, popping the lid off. The smell of sugared peaches fills the air between them. He hears Pecco swallow in the quiet.

“Just to get away, really,” Pecco admits, easing himself closer to the door — further from Marc. The pantry is too small to house the pair of them comfortably; even now, the outside of Marc’s knee brushes Pecco’s pant leg every time he takes a breath.

Marc swallows his mouthful.

“Mm, people do get bold with the masks on, don’t they.”

“Are you — enjoying it?”

Marc blinks up at the question. He tips the jar towards Pecco, who shakes his head minutely.

“Enjoying it,” Marc echoes. He places another leathered slice of peach between his teeth and takes a half-step, till their hips are almost touching. Pecco wets his lips. “Not really. These people aren’t fun, to me.” He can hear Pecco’s shallow breaths — can feel it on the uncovered part of his face. His mouth curves in a smile.

“They bore you,” Pecco says, and it’s not a question. Marc shrugs. He shakes the jar, jams his fingers in to scrape a small piece from the bottom. When he catches it, Pecco gently takes the container from his grasp, reaching to place it on a shelf behind Marc’s head.

“Sure.”

This time, Pecco dissolves a centimetre of their distance. So casual, like he wants Marc to think he hadn’t meant to. There’s no need for false pretences, Marc thinks — only three weeks ago Marc had rolled off him, filled, and settled at the end of the bed between his pale legs to lick him open, pull him apart with his fingers. Just because he wanted to see if Pecco would let him — if he’d cry from the overstimulation of it.

He licks the sugar from the backs of his teeth. Pecco whispers, “is this boring?” and then he curves down so Marc can bite the tail of the question from his mouth. A hand finds the beading of his red Colombina mask, pressing the decorative edge of it into Marc’s cheek.

When Pecco moves to kiss down his neck, Marc breathes, “No, you are not boring.” It draws a low, pleased noise from Pecco’s throat; earns Marc a dark hickey sucked into the skin above his collarbone.

The light flickers when Marc gets a hand down the front of Pecco’s pants, and Pecco hisses at the contact.

“Fuck, Marc,” he manages, falling back against the shelves. There’s a glass ruckus as his elbow hits a stack of jars, and they freeze, ears straining for any sign that they’ve been heard. Marc doesn’t care as much as Pecco does, dropping to his knees and working Pecco’s slacks down to his thighs. Pecco gets a hand in his hair, choking back a noise. He’s still staring through the door, all on edge.

“Hey,” Marc says, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the crease of Pecco’s hip, dress shirt held up out of the way. Pecco looks down at him. “We’re fine. No one’s coming.”

It’s dark. Some sort of 7pm blue hour, the ocean four shades deeper than the sky. The waves are rough and constant, breaking into froth that creeps up just this side of too close to his bare feet. Valentino’s watching him with that funny look on his face. The one that says he’s taking this as a personal slight; that Marc’s refusal to step into the water is a real life affront to him.

“Vale,” Marc says, because every excuse on his tongue sounds fucking stupid. Sounds like something he would’ve reeled off eleven years ago, juvenile and joyful, grappling as Valentino tugged him into the sea. I don’t like the ocean! Vale, there could be sharks!

It’s not even that. Not now — it’s the glint in Valentino’s eye. That unforgiving steel sheen that promises that, back at the house, Marc will pay for this. He will be shivved by Valentino's ire for all of one minute and twenty seconds. Thunder rolls above them. Marc’s hair stands on end, and he turns his face to the sky.

“Marc,” Vale echoes. The clouds open, then, and he’s saturated in the next breath. Cold rain soothing like ice against the sticky heat of a western wind. The surf picks up, crashes into itself, rolls over and surges around Valentino’s middle. His grey shirt is black to his chest.

Marc mutters, “we should go,” and it’s swallowed by the noise of everything else around them. Valentino couldn’t have heard. His face goes hard anyway, like he read the phrase on Marc’s lips, and he picks his knees up to wade back to shore. He knocks against Marc in passing, brushing seawater along his arm.

“Are you happy with yourself?”

He’s using the voice that Marc hates. The one that flings him back to 2015, blood draining from his face in a press conference, touching knees under the table. Marc knows they’re — good isn’t the word, but it’s — something better than what they’ve been before, something more secure, and he’s not scared of the backwards slide, because they’re too grown for that. But nausea stirs in his stomach anyway, at the sinister pinch of Valentino’s brow, the sharp curve of his mouth.

The walk back to their AirBnB is short enough that Valentino still smells more like ocean than rainwater when he gets Marc up against the kitchen wall.

Valentino kisses him with teeth, and Marc can taste the salt.

He doesn’t kid himself — this, Valentino grinding hard into his hip, the pair of them dripping water all over the floorboards — is a million times better than the alternative: an argument with words, eyes, with Valentino’s cold shoulder, Marc’s simmering despair. They still fight all the time; haven’t quite learned who the other is yet, and how to be together the way they are, ten years on and as people that are too different and too similar all at the same time.

Valentino has him on the kitchen floor, wet clothes flung across the room, the knobs of Marc’s spine pressed uncomfortably into the hard ground. He rolls his hips in, drags a whine from Marc’s throat. Lips against his ear, Valentino breathes, “sorry.”

It was only the ocean. It was only some perceived wrongdoing, some misstep Marc couldn’t possibly hope to wrap his head around before he’d already been indicted for it. Valentino knows this — knows he’s bad for that, fickle, merciless till it’s too late, till the damage has been done. Marc can spend the rest of his life forgiving him. He’d done it on the island, the moment it had happened. Even if he’d turned molten, even if he’d raced Valentino like he deserved — it wasn’t for the grudge.

Forgiven him again in Sepang, and every time after, every word against him, every Italian journalist at his door, every constructed figure of him sacrificed on a spire. I forgive you even if you are not sorry. I forgive you even if you will never be sorry.

“I forgive you.”

Valentino comes inside him, shuddering against his front, breathing hard.

He’d cried when Marc said it the first time. The pair of them ants in a salt pile, little shiny fireworks on the white Ranch flat track. Stared at him through his visor, and then ripped his helmet off like a man possessed, struggling at the clasp till Marc had to step in and help him get it undone. The sun beating down on their necks, Marc’s leathers torn to shreds, his bike a worse affair smoking on the ground behind him, and Valentino had dropped to his knees. Curled his hands around Marc’s calves, devout and repentant.

“Hey,” he calls, pumping the blood back into his hands as he rounds the corner. The back of Aleix’s head comes into view first, where he’s sitting on the couch, and then Pedro lifts his gaze to the TV and — freezes. Because that’s him, and the video is dim — smokey orange light, shadows playing across his face and chest. The camera shifts, lowers, like it’s being set aside. And then it’s him and Aleix, Aleix on his knees between Pedro’s parted legs, slipped in the gap of his thighs, pressed close. Pedro’s head is thrown back, throat bared, mouth open.

Aleix — on the couch — cranes his neck to meet Pedro’s eyes. He grins; this big, wolfish smile, every tooth on display. Pedro feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, all the air vacuum from his chest.

“Come sit,” Aleix says, arm slinging across the back of the seat. Pedro blinks at him, and then back to the TV, to where on screen-Aleix has folded Pedro in half to lick into his mouth. That had been three weeks ago — or four, maybe. Pedro had forgot about it, about the camera, because Aleix had fucked him so thoroughly he’d slept right through lunch the next day, and woken up not even remembering his name.

Aleix tracks him as he crosses the floor, as he comes around to the couch. When he’s within reaching distance, Aleix grabs for his arm, tugs him down to sit tucked into his side. Pedro can’t take his eyes off the screen. Can’t hear whatever Aleix breathes in his ear over the blood pounding in his ears.

“—edro. Pedro, hey.”

He blinks, hazy. Aleix turns his head manually, fingers gentle on his jaw.

“Good?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’m.” The words turn to dust on his tongue. On screen, Aleix rolls into him. Pedro hears himself whine. Heat floods his face. Aleix’s hand drops to cup the side of his neck, fingertips on his pulse.

“Felt so good, amo. So tight. Thought you were gonna kill me.”

Pedro’s head spins. Aleix breathes all of that right into his ear, lips brushing the shell of it. He watches himself moan through it, trying to adjust. Watches Aleix pull out, eyes squeezed shut and then fit all the way back in. The shredded, rippling cut of him above Pedro, and he can feel it now, pressed against him. Aleix’s arm on the back of his neck, the flex of muscle.

“Look at you, Pedro. Made for me. See how well we fit?”

He’d returned Valentino’s look up and down, cheeks pink, and slid himself up into the chair at, “hi, Marc, please — take a seat.”

Marc has nice teeth. Valentino knows they’re nicer now than they used to be; that he had braces to pull down some wolfcub-snaggleteeth, that he grew out of sweet little mamelons — knows this because he had Marc’s patient file from Cervera sent to his personal email address last night. Not that that’s important. He would’ve looked at it anyway, in office hours or not. Marc is just a special patient.

And Valentino likes his job.

“Do you wear your gumshield when you ride?” he asks. Marc straightens in the chair, eyes wide and shiny.

He says, “yes, always!” like he wants to be patted on the head for it, told how good he is. Valentino thinks about doing just that for only a moment, snapping the edge of his glove against his wrist. It raises blood under his skin, draws him back to a more reasonable line of thought. Marc tracks the motion, hands clasped in his lap. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Sit back for me,” Valentino mutters. Marc obeys immediately, eyes flicking up to keep Valentino in his sights as he comes to stand at the top of the chair. He turns the light down, enough to see, but not so bright that he’ll have to offer shades. Marc blinks against it anyway, adjusting. “That okay?”

“Yes.”

“Hold still then,” he says, taking Marc’s jaw between his fingers. With his other hand, he swipes a glob of lip balm from the pot on his side table. Marc goes pliant as he smoothes it over his lips, gloved fingertip dragging slowly around his mouth. The thought can’t be helped: he’d be so easy. Malleable.

“Open.”

Marc does — opens his mouth quick and wide, eyelashes fluttery against his cheeks. The mirror clicks gently on his teeth on its way in. Marc’s still staring up at him. Any other patient, and Valentino would reach for the sunglasses, tell them to look up at the ceiling instead. But Marc’s tongue is soft and wriggly where Valentino’s holding it at bay with his index finger, his hands curled tight around the hem of his t-shirt, and he’s just cute. Only twenty — Valentino had checked. Hardly looks a day over eighteen; bambi eyes, nervous little inhales whenever Valentino says anything.

It’s all terribly endearing. Valentino hopes he has a cavity — something that necessitates him staying in the chair for that much longer.

He flicks the sickle probe across a tiny spot of plaque on the back of a lateral incisor.

“I can tell you floss, yes?”

Marc slurs, “I do,” around Valentino’s fingers and the mirror, tongue fighting to hit the roof of his mouth. His eyes sweep across Valentino’s face, waiting. Waiting for something more.

“Good boy.”

Ah. He thought he’d be able to help himself. Keep it strictly business for a little while longer. Except then Marc receives it well; turns red almost instantly, fingers spasming over his stomach. Valentino grins inside his mask.

“Wider, please.”

He keeps his hand on Marc’s jaw as he checks each individual tooth, holding him still.

“They tell me you are very good on the bike,” Valentino starts. “So I thought, well, I must see for myself. And you are. Like a little bolt of lightning.”

Marc makes a noise in the back of his throat — his breath hitches, starts to come out faster.

“Of course, then I want to see more.”

He pulls his hands away when Marc’s lips move, and Marc swallows, inhales, says, “I am racing this weekend, here! So you could — you can come watch.”

Valentino raises his eyebrows. Marc flushes even darker.

“I will get you tickets, if you would like.”

“Shh. Open again.”

This time, he allows his little finger to rest against Marc’s pulse. It beats rabbit-quick and frenzied under his touch. Marc blinks up at him, eyes glassy.

So of course they’re eating breakfast at the same time in the hotel lobby, 5:30am without another soul in sight. Nico spies him when he comes through the entrance, catches his eye and then — does nothing with the moment. Doesn’t take the opportunity to corner Lewis, rather parks himself at a far table and tucks himself into his laptop.

Lewis isn’t sure what possesses him to stand and make his way over. Maybe all the leftover adrenaline from the initial moment of panic, where he’d seen Nico and thought for sure something was going to happen. He tells himself he can’t waste that chemical reaction, not at his age. Every drop is liquid gold.

Nico looks up when he places his hand on the back of the other chair. Last weekend, Nico had called him magnificent — said they were seeing a return to form that most athletes could only dream of. Lewis can blame his softening on that: simple flattery.

He takes a seat when Nico says, “good morning,” neat and tidy after a halting moment. Lewis rearranges the table absently, hands itching for something to do — shifts a menu, slides Nico’s saucer a centimetre to the left. Nico reclines back in his seat, but doesn’t close his laptop.

“I feel like you have some sort of ulterior motive when you say nice things about me — my racing, man,” Lewis starts, abrupt. He cringes at his own voice, how it slips into a too familiar cadence, one from back when they were close. Nico leans forward again to rest his chin in his palm. He smiles, rolls his eyes, but there’s something distinctively taught in the lines of his mouth. Something hurt.

“You think so little of me,” he replies. “Maybe I mean what I say.”

Lewis can’t help the quick, easy slide of, “have you ever?” and that’s hurt, until it’s barricaded behind a forty foot wall, inside a sudden shining suit of armour. Lewis winces. He hadn’t meant to do that — same thing he used to do when they were young: spit little cruelties, knifing for a reaction.

“Sorry — that was — I didn’t mean that.”

Nico’s eyes him, gauging the sincerity in his expression. He takes a long sip of his espresso, attention slanted out across the room. When he looks back, the walls come down a little.

“Old habits, hey?”

That’s all it is. Even though they’re grown — wiser, smarter, more sincere and less aggressive — the patterns remain. 

“Please? Another? You will have to come again, baby. Do you think you can?”

Pedro swallows, squeezes his eyes shut — he can feel himself drifting out to sea. Aleix’s other hand, the one that hasn’t been inside him for the better part of an hour, lands on his neck. The touch grounds him, pulls him back to shore. He doesn’t know. Everything is on fire, liquid heat from his core to his toes, and he wants to — wants to do this for Aleix, to prove he can.

“Uh — ah, yes. Come on.” He rocks back, shivering when the pad of Aleix’s finger nudges up against his prostate. Aleix clucks his tongue and smoothes his thumb down Pedro’s jugular.

“Alright. You’ve been so good, Pedro.”

A third digit nudges in alongside the other two, stretching — burning. Pedro garbles a string of breathy nonsense into the pillow, and Aleix laughs above him.

The pair of them are in the second conference, only thirty minutes after they’ve showered together in Aleix’s motorhome. Pedro’s still shivery, still a little weak in the knees — wincing when he sits. No one asks about it, or even looks at him sideways, because MotoGP riders are just always in pain. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. 

He ambles through the questions, still a little spacey, answers coming out in English that’s slightly more halting than usual.

When they stand for the photo, Aleix flicks a sharp-toothed grin in his direction. 

He knots his fingers together, eyes on the lower half of Marc’s face.

“You owe me, don’t you? After last time. So — don’t make me ask for it.”

“Yes. But I thought you would ask me for a tow, or something,” Marc says, lowering himself to the couch in a smooth movement. He pats the space beside him, mouth curved in a close-lipped grin. Pecco’s feet are cemented to the floor. He hadn’t expected Marc to give in. At least not so fast. It’s — of course, this is — Marc gets something from this. And by now he’s figured out that Pecco does too. But he’d figured it would be a process. Maybe Marc would make him beg. Maybe he would try and make it transactional.

Marc smiles, fangs on display, and murmurs, “come here,” when Pecco remains planted by the door. The four steps needed to drop himself to sit beside Marc feel like pulling teeth, except Marc’s hands find him as soon as they’re able, and they’re big and warm and grounding, a palm around his nape, another settled over the curve of his hip. Marc shifts closer.

“You are sure?”

He’s sure. When Marc had held him against the wall, shockingly strong, and just taken — Pecco had wound up somewhere near the ceiling. Dizzy like a cyclone, stars in his vision. It had felt like a break, like finally his head had gone quiet. There wasn’t a championship to win, wasn’t Valentino bearing down on him, and even Marc’s teeth at his throat had slipped from threat to something else entirely. He can’t afford to look too deep at it.

It’s better to be simple. Marc owes him. This is what he chooses. No questions asked.

Marc doesn’t lunge, this time. He tips Pecco’s jaw up with the fingers of his right hand, keeps eye contact till he can’t anymore, pupils blown all the way. Pecco feels the heat of his mouth first, the soft press of his tongue over his pulsepoint, and then teeth. It hurts, initially — Pecco makes a noise that he can’t help, sharp and punched from his chest. Marc hums. His index finger strokes gently over Pecco’s jaw, urging his head even further back, lengthening the pale column of his neck.

Once Marc starts to drink, it only takes a moment for the head rush to kick in, and then Pecco’s floating. His eyes drift shut. Everything fades to static; even the beat of his heart goes distant, muffled from another room. The pull stops suddenly. He opens his eyes. Marc’s looking at him, mouth smeared red, concern drawn through his brow.

“Enough?”

How embarrassing. The feeling starts to creep back in — the nausea, the pressure. He swallows, shakes his head. Something dampens in Marc’s face. Pecco thinks it might be pity.

Then Marc says, “Francesco,” far, far too soft (and that confirms it, pity), and he obliges him, teeth in his neck again. Pecco leans into it, goes almost boneless against Marc who holds him up like he weighs nothing. With his eyes closed, with the sweeping, rushing tide sensation at his throat — Pecco feels like he could cease to exist. Like everything is void. Dark, warm. Marc is hot up his front, hands burning like the sun along his jaw, on the cut of his hip.

He can’t get used to this. Can’t allow himself to ask for it ever again. The current sweeps him out, drags him under.

Some time later, he comes to, blinking Marc’s absent expression into focus above him. There’s a hand in his hair, fingers carding gently through soft curls. A repetitive motion, maybe intentional to begin with but practised, unfocused now. He shifts, and Marc’s eyes dart down to him.

“You should have told me it was too much. I would have stopped.”

Pecco sits up, pulls out of Marc’s grasp and nearly goes right back down again, vision whiting out.

Marc says, “ah, careful,” and steadies him with a palm on his shoulder.

Pecco wants to shrug him off. He doesn’t. His hand is warm.

“It was not too much.”

“But you —”

“It was not. I. Thanks.” He stands, straightens his shirt and steps around Marc’s knees for the door.

“Pecco,” Marc says. He can blame it on the toxins, the way he goes still at the sound of Marc’s voice.

“I can still owe you. That doesn’t have to be — you know.”

Nausea rolls in his gut. The storm has already started to reform above him. He doesn’t want Marc’s understanding — if that’s what this is — whatever he thinks he knows about what has just happened. He doesn’t want Marc to owe him. Doesn’t need it.

“No, thank you.”