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moonshynecybin · 3 months

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i thinkkkkk this one is gonna be part of something larger but here's the first part of a fic (2.8k so far) where the first chapter is literally just rosquez having a conversation in an airport set around jerez 2024… i also wanted to add some good ole marquez brother goof arounds:

“Look, if you’re just gonna make fun of me—”

“No, please! I wanna hear the rest of this,” Alex says, leaning into Marc’s space and raising his eyebrows, goofy. It makes Marc let out a big laugh— full and loud. He stretches against the plastic of the airport gate seating, the movement pulling at overtired muscles. It feels like they’ve been here forever.

It’s been a long journey back to Spain— storm delays and rerouting stranding them in the airport for hours. They’re still here waiting for a connecting flight, puttering away next to their gate and shooting the shit. It’s been a good weekend —a podium for him— but he’s tired, and ready to be home.

“No no no no, I’m done.” He settles into his seat, pushing Alex’s face away from him. Alex cackles, and Marc points at him. “But you should do that professionally!”

Alex pulls one of his mild, exasperated faces, and it makes Marc smile wider. They’re probably being too loud. Marc doesn’t care.

“You know,” Alex points out, dragging out the last syllable of know so it sounds like knowwwww, “You are the world’s absolute worst loser.”

Marc shrugs. “It’s a good thing, too— in our line of work you have to be.” He’s unrepentant. It’s how he’s built.

He ignores the face that Alex is surely making and leans down to rummage through his carry on, looking for headphones. For sure, if he has to lose to anyone, he’d prefer it was Alex. With him, the nagging bite of loss usually manages to morph into something lighter, more fun, just because he knows Alex won’t ever blame him for how he gets, how involved he can be in winning. That doesn’t mean he enjoys losing—he’ll never enjoy that—but it takes it back to being a game. None of the anticipation of a sour aftermath that he’s faced in the past, the wait for the other foot to drop, and the play to slide towards resentment without him noticing.

“I doubt losing at a video game will help you gain a competitive edge on the track,” Alex asserts dryly, turning his attention back to his phone and tapping open the Kindle app. He’s been obsessed with those fantasy novels, lately. “You can’t win at everything.”

“Trust me, I know,” Marc laughs, rubbing at his arm. He needs to call his PT. Whatever. “But! I don’t think that first thing is true.” Banishing the thought from his head, he leans over to poke Alex in the arm. Alex swats at his hand, not looking up from his book, and Marc pokes him again, harder this time. “I have a winner mentality.”

“You have a loser mentality. You just lost.” Alex is staring at what Marc thinks is the table of contents.

“Semantics.” Another poke.

Alex looks up, incredulous. Victory.

“You were cheating! And you still lost!”

“But you don’t have any proof of that.”

And Alex shakes his head like he can’t believe him, laughs again. “You are insufferable.”

Marc grins and Alex sighs, scrubs a hand over his head.

“I’m going to go grab some water. Maybe eventually they’ll let us board this fucking plane. You want anything?”

Marc shakes his head.

“No, I’m good.” He ate earlier. He opens his phone back up, thumbs over his home screen. Nothing looks exciting. He hasn't been on instagram so much lately– avoiding comments.

He sighs and contemplates opening his dating app. He doesn’t.

Nothing’s felt— he’s busy.

It’s always been too much— too complicated with his schedule, with travel, timezones, turning over battles in his head. Braking maneuvers and tire pressure edging out any relationship before it got off the ground properly. Lately, since his arm, and since Alex had told him to go find someone— it’s been nagging more.

But no one gets it. Not like he does. And he’s just never found someone that felt like they were worth all of the effort it would take, keeping a relationship together in a life like his, bending himself around racing. There’s been flashes, some false starts, but nothing has ever–

He hears a distracted chuckle behind his back, a light sound, happy, and it hooks him, hard. A sucker punch. He glances over, his previous train of thought abandoned.

It’s—

He's heard that laugh before.

They haven’t seen each other— properly, actually exchanging words— since last year. The end of the season. They were both in the bathroom at the Lights Out Gala. Marc in a tux, Vale in a flannel. Marc had held the door for Vale as he had left.

Vale, once he’d registered his presence, had thrown him a thin lipped, restrained smile, and thanked him. Asked him vaguely about his surgery. Moved on.

And now he’s on the phone, a few feet away, and he probably hasn’t even seen Marc yet. Instead, he’s chattering lowly, head slightly tilted as he drags a thumb over the handle of his suitcase.

Marc has to wonder if stuff like this happens to other people.

Alex hasn’t left yet, but is about to. He's noticed, of course he noticed, and he tugs on Marc’s sleeve, voice low. “You need me to stay?”

Marc shrugs, shakes his head. He's been around Vale before, after everything, in close quarters even. It's fine.

He's had a lot of practice.

Those last few years, before Vale retired, after Argentina—after Sepang, really, though he maybe hadn’t processed it yet— he worked on it a lot. On taking Vale off of the pedestal, making him more of a person. On realizing he was always going to have a different relationship to Vale than Vale would to him.

He works hard at that distance, enforcing it, maintaining it. Tending to it.

And he had gotten somewhere better, once he had realized that. Had stopped trying to say hi to him every time he saw him. Vale is his hero, and he knows by know that that’s never going to change completely. The precise way his presence lights Marc up, makes him giddy, the disbelieving undercurrent that Valentino Rossi knows his name— but he also has come to terms with the fact that it's never going to be like he imagined when he was twenty, and he thought maybe he could matter as much to Vale as he did to Marc.

He knows that.

But it was an adjustment. It took some time. It’s better now. He's used to it.

Now, he can sit at an airport gate with him and ignore him.

He’s probably been staring at his phone screen a little too hard.

“Allora— so, how have you been?” A voice asks, simply, closer to his ear than it should be. Of course.

He puts the emphasis on you, the full force of him narrowed on the word. Marc stays very, forcibly still. Projects calm.

Vale’s across from him, now, got there without him noticing. His legs are spread out wide in the seat across from Marc, hat pulled low and posture easy. His face is neutral— pleasant. Marc knows that means absolutely nothing.

Vale’s gaze charts over him, carefully, taking him in. Marc swallows, steels his jaw.

Vale has always had a way of observing. Leveraging that beam of attention. He doesn’t miss a thing, never has, and he looks good— tired, but relaxed, thin frame bundled up in a hoodie, hat pulled low over his forehead. Incognito mode, Marc remembers him joking sometime in 2013, after they had snuck out of the paddock to grab a drink at a bar post media day. But you always dress like that, Marc had said, probably too confidently, and Vale had laughed, had leant in and said Well, if I want them to recognize me, I just wear the Yamaha shirt.

Marc blinks. Vale’s eyebrows are raised, expectantly. He’s been quiet too long.

“Why?” He asks pleasantly. No use pretending.

“How have you been?” Vale asks, evenly, continuing as if Marc didn’t talk. “It has been a few months, yes? Since we’ve seen each other? The gala?” He looks away, shrugging. “I wondered about your arm– it seems better.”

“You could have texted.” Marc says, furrowing his brow. He's being overly serious, he knows, but he’s curious. He didn’t expect Vale to text, knew he wouldn’t actually. It still, despite it all, prickled at him. Whenever he was injured, before, Vale would always ask. He hadn't, anytime in the last four years, despite the severity of the injury.

So why is he asking now.

Vale huffs a laugh, swipes a thumb over his phone case, waves it lazily. “My number, it ah, leaked.” He makes a face. “I had to get a new phone a while ago. I don't think your contact made it over.”

It’s better than him deleting it. Better than Marc expected, to be honest.

It could also be a lie.

“Oh. Well.” Marc, says, unsure how to continue. He smiles at Vale anyways, lifts his good shoulder, combing through his brain for what he actually wants Vale to know about his arm. Not lying, just slightly to the left of the truth. He doesn't want anything getting back to Pecco, but Vale can sense insincerity from a mile off.

“I can't complain. The last surgery, it helped.”

Vale’s eyebrows jump, making a little grimace. “I heard, it did not look very pleasant.”

The documentary, Marc thinks, Did he watch the fucking documentary?

“—Now it’s just the bike? Managing the new braking style?” Vale asks. Marc cannot fucking remember the last time Vale asked him two questions in a row.

“Ah, you know. Trade secret.” Vale’s team is also vying for the GP25 — best to keep as much as he can close to his chest.

Vale raises an eyebrow and Marc folds like a cheap stack of cards.

He sighs. nods. Who cares. Vale’s watched him ride for years, he knows Marc still has a little bit to improve on the year old Ducati. He’s seen the data.

“Now it’s just the getting the bike, nailing the setup.” He goes for the PR version of the truth. Nevermind that his arm is still in PT three times a week. The Ducati is good— Marc is having more fun. Fighting at the front. Adjusting easier than he thought he would.

But it’s not a Honda. He needs a bit more time, and he needs– he needs the factory spec. And it looks like Jorge Martin might be the one to get it.

Vale nods, neutral, like the conversation’s ending, like he’s being gracious with Marc’s answer, letting him keep his emotions close— and a sharp, unexplainable feeling digs into Marc’s chest, that same way it did when he was watching him from the seat over in whatever press conference, those first few years. He wants to keep Vale talking. Wants him to keep looking at Marc, wants to— Marc doesn’t quite know, exactly, but it feels a lot like he does on track, when he just can’t quite keep himself from reaching for the win.

He speaks. Vale’s gaze snaps back to him, head following after, a little lazier.

“You? How's endurance racing? Missing anything about MotoGP?”

He says like he doesn’t know. Like he doesn't keep tabs. Like people don’t ask him about Vale’s results.

Anyways, it's hard to be involved in MotoGP and not hear about Vale, even when he’s been retired going into three years now. People talk, always eager for Marc’s opinion on his great rival.

There’s a quirk at the corner of Vale’s mouth. Like he’s won something. Marc curls a fist tight, ignoring the feeling that he’s given information away.

“Some things.” Vale replies, an odd glimmer to him. His brow furrows, then: “I miss how it was around ten years ago, more.”

Marc blinks.

“— Getting old, I mean. It was not so fun, there at the end. I could see everything I wanted to do, every move I would've made on track, ” He sits down across from Marc, leans back in his seat, long torso bending with his lazy posture, the mood shifts and he laughs. “But I was too old! It was harder.”

Of course that’s what he meant. Marc doesn’t— he doesn’t miss Marc. doesn’t think about him much at all, probably. Wasn’t saying he missed how it was between them, ten years ago, when they were friends. Marc knows that.

“I'm getting up there, now.” Marc jokes, “Acosta, he is on the horizon.” He’s not sure it lands, but Vale huffs a laugh anyways, rubs at his eyebrow.

“You?” Vale asks, incredulous. That x-ray quality is back in his vision. He always— He used to always get Marc that way, when he would dial in and make Marc think the words he was saying mattered to him.

Vale shakes his head, shimmies a shoulder, wags a finger. “No no no no, don’t try that– you are still young, you cant talk to me about old.”

Marc grins. He doesn’t feel it so much, now, the years between them, but it’s a nice reminder of how good it felt, being the up and comer on the scene. The next Valentino Rossi. That was fun.

But he’s older now, has been in the paddock longer than almost anyone, just like Vale had– and he can feel it, dragging at his arm. can see it, in the lines under his eyes, the unfamiliarity of the faces around him.

He wonders how Vale did it for so long. That slow decline— new people popping up every day, ones who learned from him, perfected ideas he pioneered, then using them against him.

He remembers how he felt on the podium yesterday, and decides not to ask. He leans back.

“Ehhhh, you are not really that much older than me.”

Vale’s expression doesn’t change, still set at his default neutrally animated, but something charges in the air, and Marc gets the sense he wants to say something, toying with the edge of the cliff.

Marc searches for something that won’t rock the boat. He settles on a compliment.

“Pecco was good this weekend— He beat me. You trained him well.”

Vale’s shoulders slide down, relaxing minutely. The charge slips away. Success.

“Ah, he’s a lot better than he was when you showed up at the ranch ten years ago, yes.”

Marc leans forwards, “Hey!” So much for avoiding fraught topics.

Vale tilts his chin, considering. “What did you say about him? I don’t think it was flattering–”

“—That was ten years ago! I’m wrong ONCE.”

“Once is enough!”

“Apparently.” Marc hits back.

And it’s good— they’re laughing, Marc thinks, he’s laughing— but that last bit, the apparently, hangs there, snagging in Marc’s mind.

Once is enough. Apparently.

Vale’s smile dies slowly, once it’s clear Marc isn’t about to continue, and it’s odd. Not fraught, for once— though Marc hasn't been the best at recognizing when it was in the past, but he’s pretty sure here. The moment dangles for a second, as they sit across from each other in an airport looking at each other. Vale’s face is doing that thing it was earlier, where he seems to be on the verge of some moment, and his mouth opens. For some reason, Marc flushes hot on the back of his neck. His skin feels tight, and their eye contact holds.

“All good?” It’s Alex, coming back with his Smartwater.

Vale sits up straighter, immediately, posture snapping into place. He nods at Alex, who ignores him, and slides back into his seat. He shrugs at Marc, a little in-joke. What did I do? it asks, fully knowing the answer. Alex has never been as shy as Marc is about his feelings concerning Valentino Rossi.

And it's that above anything that makes Marc feel like he’s dunked his head in ice water, reality crashing in. The moment snaps as Vale tucks back into himself, leaving Marc off his balance. He feels dizzy and a little off kilter, like he’s done something wrong, like he’s gotten away with something, something illicit, which is ridiculous — he’s just been sitting here.

Nothing’s even happened. They've been two meters away from each other the entire time.

They haven’t even touched.

Vale’s eyes are boring into him, blue and clear. Alert. And Marc catches a flash of— concern, maybe, his brow is creasing— and it tugs at Marc, makes him want to glance back and make him feel easy, lift the corner of his mouth, shrug his shoulders and dismiss Alex’s chilliness. Makes him hot and nervy, out of his skin with the need to do something he doesn’t have a name for.

He smiles.

Maybe he is doing something wrong.

Vale smiles back, and it’s brilliant.

The flight attendant comes over the PA. They’re boarding.

#toying with a marc who does not in fact realize he wants to fuck that old man but is obsessed with him nonetheless.#dw still working on prompts this was just. done lol #motogp #callie speaks #rosquez #my fic #airport au

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