#{[ call. ]}

[scrollonso]

Please. — Marcmarc

It was the week before Christmas, and the season had just ended. Tavullia was quiet, it's cobbled streets dusted with a thin layer of snow, and Marco's small apartment felt even quieter. The radiator clicked as it tried to fight off the chill, but Marco barely noticed. He stood by the window, staring out at the frost creeping along the glass. Outside, the fairy lights strung across the neighboring buildings blinked softly, their gentle glow reflecting like tiny stars.

His thoughts were heavy, tangled with memories he couldn’t escape. The pit in his stomach twisted tighter, the kind of unease that only one person could bring. He knew Marc was on his way. He always did. It was something in the air, a weight that settled on him whenever Marc was near. It was equal parts anticipation and dread, the two emotions locked in a tug-of-war that left him feeling raw.

When the knock came, Marco’s breath hitched, his heart leaping in a way that made him hate himself just a little more. For a fleeting moment, he thought about ignoring it. Pretending he wasn’t home. But he knew better. He always let Marc in. Always had, always would.

He opened the door, and there he was — Marc Marquez, leaning casually against the doorframe, his crooked, feline grin already in place. His dark hair was tousled from the cold, his cheeks pink from the wind. In his hands was a small, neatly wrapped box, the paper shimmering faintly in the dim light of the hallway.

“Merry Christmas, Bez,” Marc said, his voice low and warm as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

Marco stepped back automatically, his chest tightening as Marc brushed past him, the familiar scent of his cologne filling the small space. It was always like this. Marc’s presence filled the room, filled him, and left no room for anything else.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” Marco said, his voice steady, though it cost him more effort than he’d ever admit. He closed the door and turned to face Marc, who had already set the gift on Marco’s cluttered table.

“I wanted to.” Marc shrugged, his tone too casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But Marco knew better. The tension in Marc’s shoulders, the way his eyes darted around the room, betrayed him.

“We need to talk,” Marc said finally, his voice softer now.

Marco’s stomach dropped. Of course, they needed to talk. That’s all they ever seemed to do these days — they’d talk. Or fight. Or fuck. Pretend everything wasn't ruined.

“What’s the point, Marc?” Marco asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, leaning against the counter as if it were the only thing holding him up. His voice wavered, despite his best efforts to sound resolute. “You’ll just say the same things you always do. That it’s complicated. That you care about me, but—”

“But I do care about you!” Marc interrupted, his voice sharp, almost desperate. The words sliced through the tension in the room like a blade, their force making Marco flinch.

“You care,” Marco said, his voice soft but raw with pain. “But not enough.” His arms tightened around himself as if trying to keep his breaking heart from spilling out. He turned his gaze away, staring down at the chipped linoleum floor as tears threatened to escape. “Not enough to stop lying to her.”

It was always about her. Marco tried to convince himself it wasn’t — tried to blame Marc, blame himself, blame the world — but deep down, he couldn’t help but think of her. Gemma. The name tasted bitter on his tongue, though he never said it aloud. He blamed her, hated her, envied her. And yet, he knew none of it was her fault. She was just as trapped in Marc’s web of indecision as he was.

“Not enough to stop hurting me,” Marco added, his voice breaking.

Marc exhaled a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his messy hair, the gesture as familiar as it was infuriating. “It’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple!” Marco snapped, his voice rising, trembling with the force of his frustration and grief. He finally looked up, his tear-filled eyes locking onto Marc’s. His anger flared, hot and consuming, burning away the vulnerability he’d tried so hard to hide. “You don’t get to show up here every time you feel guilty. Every time you want to tell me how much I mean to you but never enough to actually choose me!”

Marc flinched at the words, his face twisting with pain. He stepped forward instinctively, his hand half-reaching toward Marco as if he could somehow soothe the storm he’d caused.

But Marco held up a hand, palm out, his body stiff and trembling. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Just... don’t.”

The space between them felt impossibly wide, a chasm filled with unspoken words and broken promises. Marc froze, his outstretched hand falling limply to his side, his expression crumbling into something unreadable. Marco could see it — the guilt, the regret — but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. And it never would be.

“Ti voglio tanto bene, Marco,” Marc said, his voice barely more than a whisper, the words trembling as they left his lips.

Marco closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words wash over him, but they didn’t comfort him. Instead, they twisted the knife already buried in his chest. “Then why does it hurt more?” he whispered back, his voice fragile, as though speaking too loudly would shatter him completely. His eyes flicked up to meet Marc’s, brimming with unshed tears. “Why do I feel my pain more than I feel your love?”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of it pressing down on both of them. Marc looked down at the floor, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. Marco could see the storm raging in his dark eyes, the conflict, the guilt, the love he claimed to feel but never acted on. He always looked like this when they reached the inevitable breaking point—torn, but never enough to make a choice.

“You should go,” Marco said at last, his voice hollow, barely audible. He turned away from Marc, staring at the window and the blinking fairy lights outside, the soft glow mocking the darkness inside him. “It’s Christmas, Marc. Go be with her. She’s waiting, I’m sure.”

Marc’s breath hitched at Marco’s words, and for a moment, he stood frozen, as though waiting for Marco to take them back, to beg him to stay. But Marco didn’t. He stayed rooted where he was, his arms wrapped around himself, his back to Marc, a silent but final wall between them.

Marc hesitated, the weight of his indecision visible in the way his body tensed. But then he nodded, the movement slow and reluctant. He walked to the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. When he opened it, the icy December air rushed in, swirling around them both, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of their unresolved emotions.

At the threshold, Marc paused, his hand on the doorframe. He turned back one last time, his dark eyes pleading, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “Marco, mi amor…”

Marco finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable. He forced a smile onto his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes — it was brittle, fragile, as if it might crumble under the weight of the moment. “Merry Christmas, Marc,” he said, his tone steady despite the ache in his chest. “Please don’t call.”

The words hung in the air between them, final and unyielding. Marc’s shoulders sagged, his hand falling limply to his side. Marco stepped forward and gently closed the door, the soft click of the latch echoing like a gunshot in the silence of the apartment.

On the other side of the door, Marc stood frozen, his hand hovering over the wood as if he could push it open again, as if he could undo everything — as if he could stop himself from turning into the villain in his story, into Rossi. He rested his forehead against the door, his breath clouding in the frigid air. For a moment, he considered knocking, begging Marco for one more chance. But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned and walked away, his boots crunching against the snow, his shadow growing fainter as he disappeared into the cold, empty night.

Inside, Marco leaned back against the door, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees. The tears he had fought so hard to hold back finally spilled over, silent and unstoppable. The fairy lights outside kept blinking, their cheerful glow a cruel reminder of everything he had just let go.

And somewhere, Marc walked through the streets of Tavullia, carrying the weight of his choices, knowing he’d never hear Marco’s voice again. He'd never speak to his Bez, his amor, all that was left was Marco Bezzecchi. The most talented rider Aprilia had ever seen — in Marc's eyes at least.

[storiesbreathed]

hello hi your girl got banned for no reason so i remade BUT hi. it’s ali. i don’t know if ill be writing tonight because i gotta move everything over BUT. hit that and or comment and specify muse and ill chuck some memes your way

[valleykids]

starter call. heart this for a mostly s6p2 based starter. specify muse(s) or you get the fist (just kidding no violence here)

[clearrivers]

starter / plot call

[foremyth]

overflowing with kuzan insp so like for a starter hehe

[legioun]

if you’d like a starter from anyone, please let me know who from and who for if you are also a multi!

otherwise you can take your chances and give this a like!

[guttersniper]

like this for a treat (a starter)

[knightrope]

interaction call --- please specify for this one because i will be working on this when i come in and out of this blog since i'm not always around here.

it could be a starter, a few memes, and/or me coming to bust your door down to plot. as a new rule of thumb, i try to always send a couple memes to new mutuals to break the ice anyways, but sometimes i forget so this will help be a marker for me to interact as well!

[sunday-arch]

while i’ll be low on writing activity for the following month, interact with this post for some character headcanon questions —! specify muse(s) if you’d like, but not a requirement.

[gildedlife]

i’m more or less keeping up with replies at the moment, fingers crossed, so the same deal as last time: leave a ☕️ in the notes if you’d like a modern verse starter, or a ⚓️ if you’d like to go post-canon. anything else, please specify!

[storiesbreathed]

truly going insane with the want to write my d.urge SO hit that heart for a starter from lunarosa and i’ll / we can move it to my new blog when tumblr takes me out of the shadowbanned lands!

[vikshodgepodge]

like for a starter! specify from here either in an ask, im, or on this post.

apologies i haven't gotten my bios up yet.

most of my muses are canon compliant, anyway.

[clearrivers]

ship call!

[foremyth]

need to write my bleach muses more like for a starter from one of them i guess—specify muse etc etc

[saintfromkrypton]

tentative plotting or meme call. like this or reply with what you want! (If you're a multi, please specify from who.) am attempting to branch out a little. and if you'd be desiring of a platonic or familial connection with clark, reach out and let me know. one final reminder: discord is the best place to discuss things for accessibility purposes for me.