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kingofthecotas · 29 days ago

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lion's den | ao3

marc at the 100km race in 2026 | 3.4k

i have. compressed the timeline. for narrative reasons

----

Luca catches him just before they pile out of the house, towards the changing room and the bike shed. It’s not difficult for him: Marc has been hovering, peripheral, all morning. Pecco tried his best to pull him into a conversation, but Bezzecchi turned cold and Valentino appeared from the kitchen and that was that.

Marc fixes the unsure set of his face the second he realises he’s being observed instead of politely ignored. The smile is enough to convince most people—it usually is.

“You know…” Luca visibly picks through his words before he says them. “You don’t have to forgive him.”

Marc tries not to allow the smile to falter.

“If you are doing this for Pecco—that is kind of you. But you do not have to forgive him.”

“I think…” And Marc tilts his head, calculating what he can afford to reveal. Luca—he likes Luca, has always found him reasonable. “Too late for that, maybe.”

Luca’s eyes flicker for a heartbeat, too quick for him to catch even if the rest of his expression is perfectly controlled. Surprise. Marc had surprised him.

Marc clearly isn’t as fucking obvious as he thinks he is.

“Well, just …” Luca shrugs, looks him up and down. “It’s good you are here.”

“Good for Ducati?” Marc says, twisting Pecco’s words just enough that they sound mocking.

“Good for Ducati. Good for the cameras, of course.” Maybe Luca—he doesn’t have blinders on, perhaps, the way Bezzecchi does. Knows Valentino, knows what he does, and loves him anyway. “Come on.”

The moment they step outside, there’s a phone in Marc’s face, wielded by someone in a VR46 hat. Good for the cameras. Good for Valentino.

He huffs out a breath that coils in the air, hangs like smoke, before following Luca to the changing rooms with something sickening in his chest, in his stomach.

——

Pecco had suggested it first, after a particularly friendly debrief; he’d charged off into the Italian afternoon by three seconds, and Marc chased but decided the championship was close enough that twenty points was better than gravel. Things had stopped being fraught after Qatar—bizarrely, since Pecco had heard Marc behind him and locked the brakes, leaving Marc with nowhere to go but over his teammate’s sliding rear tyre. Gravel trap, Pecco helping him to his feet—and genuine shock when Marc accepted his apology without question. He’d watched Marc for an hour like he expected him to snap, before seemingly deciding he was safe.

So things had been fine. And Pecco had been fine. So when Pecco won in Misano, clawed some points back, and suggested Tavullia—Marc had laughed. Good joke.

“No, I think it would be good,” Pecco said, his smile half-confused and half-polite—but not joking. “Good for the team.”

“Do you?” Because—Jesus, Pecco had been there. He’d been young, yes, but he was there.

“Just—you don’t have to.”

“Sorry,” Marc said. “Not a good idea, I think.”

“Okay,” Pecco said, unconcerned, and that had been that.

——

Valentino snares him the moment he steps into the outbuilding, blinking at the same wooden walls he’d doomed himself in over a decade ago.

“Marc! Come here, come here, you need to sign.” And he’s being shepherded towards the table, towards the poster and the pens. Leaving his mark, he supposes.

Cameras. Marc smiles. “So I go right in the middle, no?”

Everyone laughs, indulgent, and Valentino even smiles in return before pointing out a spot for him. Marc does as he’s told; he’s walked himself into the lion’s den, so he may as well play before he’s torn to bloody ribbons.

“And the shirts, behind you.” Valentino is close, too close, a hot vein of lightning in the very centre of Marc’s awareness as they move together, entirely at his whim.

Marc swallows, wonders if he shouldn’t have come.

Valentino pulls the hem of the shirt, stretches it out taut, even though one of the hovering assistants had held her hand out to do the same thing—Valentino holds it carefully until Marc has finished, then does the same for the next one.

Then, “Allora,” and Marc is forgotten as Valentino turns to entertain, to hold court.

——

In the end, it was Valentino who had extended the second invitation, the one that Marc felt like he couldn’t refuse. It was magnanimous, the way Valentino reached for him when he won his ninth title, perfectly positioned for the cameras to capture. Summoned, to kneel and kiss the ring: Marc could play the PR game too, and he acquiesced.

And maybe—

He’d been hot and tired from the race; high on victory; dizzy from champagne and the way his palm had burned, even through gloves, when Valentino had locked their hands together so Marc couldn’t pull away.

But he’d known exactly what he was doing—what both of them were doing—when he said yes.

——

Pecco watches them both, not nervous but something like it, over the top of Bezzecchi’s head.

It’s cold, January-cold, a soft mist sitting over the track. Valentino has his hair tucked into a bright yellow hat, talking in a voice that’s clearly meant to be picked up by the ever-present phones. Marc listens, pretends to listen, smiles when he senses he should.

“Ah,” Enea says at his shoulder, “we will be fine.” Enea—relaxed, easy. Everything is easy for him, even standing in this crowd of strangers. Marc’s selfishly glad he’s here, and quietly grateful to Pecco for orchestrating them being together.

At the very least, Marc has something like a shield.

“Better when you get out and practice, yes?” Valentino says. “Get the, ah, get the feel.” He’s being so attentive it’s making Marc itch, caught under the laser-beam of his focus with no escape.

Marc swallows. Makes himself nod again. The eyes observing him narrow—and Valentino finally finally turns away.

When Marc looks back at Pecco, he’s still staring. So is Luca. Not concern. Anticipation, maybe.

“This was a bad idea,” he mutters to Enea, because Enea won’t care—and he doesn’t, letting out a loud laugh.

“Ah, I don’t know. Good for me. I might win this.”

“We might win this,” Marc retorts, reflex, and Enea laughs again.

Fuck Pecco. It’s helping.

——

Valentino—fuck him—is right. As soon as the flag drops and they roll out for their practice laps, something settles, even on this plain black bike with his number stenciled in red on the front. Unfamiliar beneath his thighs, and yet he settles into it straight away. It takes a couple of laps, that’s all, before he can throw it into a corner and grin when it bites, when the rear tyre slides how he wants it to. Valentino pulls in before he does, perches on his bike to watch Luca with folded arms, but turns his head when Marc trundles down the side chute to the bike shed.

“Feels good?” Enea says, hair a frizzy halo.

“Yeah, good.”

“You hear that, Pecco? He’s going to win!”

“He usually does,” Pecco shoots back, and grins ruefully. It almost sounds like he doesn’t mind.

——

The day moves quickly: cameraphones; qualifying; a Sky crew that Marc tries his best to steer clear of. He knows he’ll be in the background, though, so he sticks close to Enea and Pecco, ignoring Bezzecchi’s glare. Valentino would be annoyed if someone caught Marc on his own, excluded.

And then—

And they’re lining up on the track, Marc steadying the bike in his hands, not looking at Valentino two spots over who’ll be swapping in the same time he does. The flag drops. Enea sprints.

Away they go.

——

The bike feels good. Someone kind—Pecco, probably—had made some basic changes to the setup. It feels good, and it’s easy.

Enea passed the reins over to him from second position, and Bezzecchi slid on his way out of the switch line, so Marc gritted his teeth and just—went. No one in front. A few bikes close behind, so he could throw himself at the apex of every corner, could hit the inside, could let the rear tyre kick out a warning.

It’s heavy, all of a sudden, a thundercloud rolling in and pressing down—and plenty of people here have blue leathers with bright yellow, but Marc knows. Valentino is behind him. He pushes through the next turn a little harder.

Corner after corner after corner, Valentino’s bike a growling hum in his ear. Hornet buzzing inside his skull. Marc almost misses the bell to start the final lap; Enea is yelling something as he streaks past that doesn’t carry.

One lap to go. One lap. He’s going to win.

And Valentino is going to look at him like he’s holding a lemon under his tongue, and even the cameras won’t be enough to stop his eyes going cold again, and—

Marc puts his foot down, as if to catch a slide. The crowd noise pitches up. Valentino pushes through on his inside.

The flag waves.

——

Valentino won’t stop glaring at him.

You won, Marc wants to howl, you won, what else do you want? He doesn’t say anything though, accepts his necklace of sausages, and tries to think of the earliest possible opportunity to leave.

And Luca—Luca keeps glancing in his direction, eyebrows drawn together like he’s concerned, like he can sense his brother’s slow-burning anger beside him on the top step. Spark creeping down a fuse: it’s going to come to a head too soon for Marc to escape.

They let the fireworks off while Enea is pouring champagne down the back of his suit, and Marc yells, twists away, stupid fucking sausages thumping against his chest. When he opens his eyes, shivering, Valentino is still staring.

The fireworks crack. Marc blinks.

——

“This is nice,” Bezzecchi offers across the table. A harmless comment that’s like throwing a stone onto a thinly-frozen pond; the fragile peace shatters.

Everyone else is talking, laughing, eating, and it’s so loud, excruciating, against the tense bubble at the head of the table: Marc, pinned on a bench between Luca and Franky; Valentino, mouth pinched in that awful familiar way.

“Normally it is just a barbecue,” Pecco tells Marc, gallantly ignoring the heavy silence around them. “Vale is treating us well this year.”

“To celebrate a good race,” Valentino says, voice hard. “The spirit of—competition.”

Marc stares down at his plate.

“Was it—not a good race?” Luca says mildly. Marc wonders if kicking him is the way to go.

“I expect everyone to give their all on my track.”

“And you think I didn’t,” Marc says, too loud. Enea, further down the table, turns to look.

Valentino huffs through his nose. “Maybe I expected too much of you.”

“Okay.” Marc stabs his fork into a piece of salmon. “What did you expect, given that we have spoken, hm, once in the past five years?”

Pecco’s eyes widen, food abandoned as he glances between them.

And Valentino’s lips twitch, as if to say there you are. That’s what he’d been expecting, because no one can get under Marc’s skin, splinters in nails, the way he can. “I did not expect you to fuck up on the last lap.”

“It’s happened before.”

“It was a mistake, Vale,” Luca says quietly.

But Pecco—Pecco stares at Marc. Pecco knows Marc.

“A stupid mistake.”

Marc sets his jaw, something fluttering in his chest. Lion’s den. “I make mistakes all the time. I am dangerous, no?”

Valentino ignores that. “Too stupid for you.”

Marc holds his gaze, doesn’t let it slide to the wine glass balanced elegantly in his left hand, until Valentino blinks, takes a sip, rings glinting on long fingers. Pecco exhales, as if released from a spell, and picks up his fork again; it scrapes against the plate, high and piercing, and that’s enough to break whatever hold had Marc bound to his seat.

“Thank you,” he says, directly to Pecco. “This was nice. I think I will not be invited back.”

Pecco looks at him, then at Luca. “Marc—”

“See you at the team launch.” It’s a miracle Marc extricates himself from the bench without stumbling, feet numb from the cold. He should message Enea, apologise for leaving. Thank him for making it bearable.

A chair scrapes behind him as he pushes through the door, out into the frigid air. Footsteps in the dirt.

“Marc.” Valentino has been saying his name all day, and none of them have grated like this one does, this one with no one else around to hear it. “Marc!”

“I am leaving.” Marc keeps his gaze fixed on the house—he will have to ask Pecco to bring anything he forgets, will have to plead with him before the Ducati launch in ten days’ time. If he can just find the keys to his hire car—

“Why?” And even that’s sharp, like Marc failed a test.

He groans into the night sky, breath misting, before whipping around to glare. “Why? God, I cannot fucking win, Valentino. Maybe I am leaving too early, hm? Did you want to make a speech about what a disappointment I was?”

“No.” But that expression—lips pursed like there’s something sour behind his teeth.

“Oh, of course, I am sorry.” The laugh that escapes Marc’s throat is sharp, a barking sound. “Did you not get enough on video? To show how—what a sportsman you are. All is forgiven. How kind of you.”

“Jesus, Marc—”

“Whatever I do—” And it sticks on his tongue, stings with the threat of tears. How humiliating. “Whatever I do, you will—you will find something. I am not staying here.”

Valentino stays where he is, halfway between Marc and the outbuilding. “There are no flights until tomorrow.”

“I don’t care.”

“You threw the race.” It’s not—it’s different, this time, not probing, not sneering.

“I made a mistake. I finished second.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why—”

“Yes.” A few steps, and Valentino is close enough that Marc can see the house lights glint in his eyes. “You do. It was not a mistake. You are just clever enough to make it look like one.”

Nausea almost sends him to his knees in the cold dirt, but Marc is well-practiced at ignoring his body’s cries. He folds his arms. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“If you were going to humiliate me by giving me the race,” Valentino says, closer again, “you should have made it more obvious.”

Marc closes his eyes, bites back the frustrated yell. “You are angry that you won?”

“I want to know why you think I need your help to beat you.”

“Fucking hell,” Marc breathes. “And what if I had won? Am I a dirty rider? What would fucking—what do you want? Because last time—” And he clamps his mouth shut, cursing his own slip.

No one can do that to him but Valentino.

Valentino, who pounces. “What about last time?”

“You were—angry. Last time I was here. And you would have been pissed off if I had said no, or if I had qualified last and fallen off. You would have—nothing is fucking good enough. So I will leave, and then at least I am just the sore loser you always thought, yes?” He should turn now, walk towards the house. He should.

“You threw the race,” Valentino says again, and now it’s as if he’s tasting the words, finding something new in them.

“And I should not have bothered. Because everything I do—” Marc swallows down the sting in his throat; after all this time, he still fucking cares. “You decided who I am a long time ago. I don’t know why I thought I could do anything about that.”

It’s silent, just puffs of breath between them, and Marc turns around. He can’t be pulled back in again: he won’t.

“Marc.”

Just—twenty steps, and he’ll be inside. Closer to safety.

“Marc.” Like a scolding teacher, an indulgent king.

“Don’t.”

Too late; a hand grasps his upper arm, stops him in his tracks—and then drops away like it had been scalded. “Fuck, sorry—I didn’t think—”

“My arm is fine,” Marc grinds out. “I’m going home.”

“Why did you come?”

“What?”

“You did not tell me—why did you say yes?”

Marc scoffs. “Wouldn’t want you to look bad now you are finally feeling forgiving.”

“Oh, so you are doing me this favour instead?” The words are hot, too close to Marc’s ear.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No.”

In, out. Breathe.

“You haven’t asked why I wanted you here.”

“Pecco wanted—”

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to, Marc.” He can—he knows how Valentino is standing, can feel it like a twist deep in his torso: knows how he’s leaning down, hands hovering inches from Marc’s jacket. “Ask me why.”

“I don’t care why.”

A laugh, ghosting against the back of his neck. Marc shivers. “So why did you come?”

“Good for Ducati.”

“Of course.” Lips, pressed against the base of his skull, the first tense knot of his spine.

Marc is so fucking tired. It would be so easy to pull away now, keep walking, never look back: even easier to close his eyes and sink back into him. He’s tired, so he says, “It should be easier for me to hate you.”

And Valentino must be tired, or drunk, because his hands find Marc’s waist and he whispers, “I don’t want it to be easier.”

“You never wanted anything to be easy,” Marc tells him, a little too aching.

Silence, silence that pulls in everything around them: the breeze in the trees behind the track; the faint sound of laughter; the distant rumble of a car’s engine. Valentino’s hands are brand-hot through his clothes, different and so familiar.

Silence, before Valentino moves, slips his way around so he’s in front of Marc, between him and the house now. His fingers slip under Marc’s hoodie, find the skin just above his hipbone, other hand on the back of his head. “I don’t. Which is why next time you will not give up the win.”

“Next time,” Marc echoes, absent, caught on the trail of fingernails across the back of his neck, through his hair.

“You need to keep Ducati happy, no?”

“Of course.” They’re too close now, Marc knows it, knows he’s staring into the jaws of death. He wishes he cared more, wishes he weren’t leaning into Valentino’s hold. Wishes it weren’t coiling tight in his stomach.

Ribbons of flesh: that’s all he’ll be when Valentino’s done with him this time. No need to carve new lines when the old scars still smart.

“You are very fucking frustrating,” Valentino mutters, and it hits Marc in the corner of his mouth. Too close. Focused in. There’ll be no escape.

“Always,” but he’s closing his eyes. Valentino was too close to do anything but lean forward, and he does, and Marc meets him with his mouth already open.

——

The bed shifting wakes him up, makes him roll over and squint, before throwing his left arm over his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Valentino pauses, trousers halfway up his thighs, a loose hoodie already pulled on. “Well, I did not think it was that bad.”

Marc lets his arm fall away; Valentino is pouting, entirely unoffended. In a good mood, for now. “It was not bad.”

“Good.” And now there’s a vulpine grin being levelled at him. “You have not changed.”

Marc has, so he glowers and bites. “And you are old.”

Valentino just snorts. “I could set the fire alarm off. The meeting point is by the track. You could get to your car without anybody seeing you.”

Oh. Marc swallows, suddenly cold. “Is that—do you want me to?”

“Do you want to?”

“Not particularly.”

“When I go downstairs,” Valentino says, instead of answering that, “and make two coffees, there will be questions.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Don’t you?”

And Marc thinks of Pecco inviting him, Luca watching him, Franky pointedly offering him a seat at dinner near Valentino. He smirks. “No.”

“Ah. I see.” Valentino taps a long finger on his chin. “Luca was telling me it would be good for my image, Pecco was saying it was for the team—we have been—yes.”

“Yes,” Marc agrees, then, “Do you—mind?”

Valentino drags his gaze down the length of Marc’s body, then up again. “Hm. No.”

“Good.”

“You never asked, you know.”

“Asked what?” But Marc knows. Why?

“Coffee,” Valentino says, as if he’s just remembered, and leans down like he might drop a kiss on Marc’s head before he catches himself. “Into the lion’s den I go.”

Marc waits until the bedroom door closes behind him to bury his face in his hands. He sighs.

Despite himself, he smiles.

#i have been. SO unproductive here recently #but i was watching all the videos and was like hmmm #ranch fic #they got parent trapped. just a bit. it's fine.#sláinte #rosquez #marc marquez #valentino rossi #cara.fic #motogp rpf #motogp fic #lion’s den

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twiceeshy · 30 days ago

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mi casa es su casa

Read on ao3.

Summary: Marc moves in. Vale has a crisis.

Set in end-2026.

T, rosquez, 4355w.

There had been the weight of something guilt-adjacent pressing on Vale's chest ever since the start of Marc's moving out party.

Initially, he didn't think too much of it when they decided that Marc would be the one to uproot himself and live with Vale. After all, Vale had a perfectly nice house - clean, spacious, well-organised - and he had his own track. There was plenty to keep Marc happy. Why wouldn't he want to be there?

He only realised that this was a considerable sacrifice on Marc's part when Marc spent his party tearing up at the most random things, between loud laughs and stupid jokes.

"You're thirty-three, it's about time," Alex said, probably only partially in jest. But a man would have to be oblivious to ignore the way they stuck by each other's sides for the night, despite the small crowd of friends and family who were present. Like twins, they were. Alex's girlfriend looked highly amused. Vale felt disturbed.

Their living room was filled with large boxes of Marc's possessions. A courier company would pick them up the next day. Vale did not put himself in proximity of the boxes when he could avoid it. He was suddenly itching to head back to Tavullia as quickly as possible in order to clear out drastically more space for Marc to make himself at home. If he could, he would tell Marc to stay here for a few more days while Vale did a better job at making room for him. He'd left him half the wardrobe and an entire room for his office, but what if Marc needed more? What if he secretly hated the bed or the furnishings? They could redo the interior from scratch if they had to.

He'd never considered that he was asking for so much when he asked Marc to stay with him. Marc didn't complain or use it as leverage against him. He never seemed to use anything as leverage. Even when they first got back together and Marc had misgivings, he had been too kind, too quick to forgive. Vale kept waiting and waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Marc to realise that he actually was still angry. He never did.

Vale decided that he would never take more than he gave to Marc again, but here they were.

When the party dispersed, Marc detached himself from Alex to nestle into Vale's side. He had a glass of red wine in hand and a light flush to his cheeks, but he never drank very much anymore for health reasons, and no amount of alcohol had ever been enough to make him clumsy in the first place.

"Let's sit down," Marc said, leading them to the living room sofa, the only clear space amidst the boxes. He laid his head on Vale's lap once Vale was seated. Somehow, he did not spill a drop of wine. Vale took the glass from him to place on a box. He ran his fingers through Marc's hair, clean and conditioned. Marc washed it too frequently for oil to accumulate.

He smiled softly, rather like a satisfied cat.

"Alex says he arranged for the courier to come in later so he can drive us to the airport tomorrow," he said.

"That's good," Vale said. He wasn't sure if he and Alex would ever see eye to eye, but Marc deserved the send-off he wanted. "Are you looking forward to going?"

He knew the answer wasn't a clear yes. He wanted to hear what Marc would say- if he would lie.

"I always look forward," Marc said philosophically. "Back is where you have regrets."

Vale sighed. "Brat. That wasn't what I meant."

Marc shrugged with one shoulder. "But it's my answer."

He looked simultaneously keyed-up and exhausted. Vale nudged him up and into his bedroom. He could afford to be selfish and let his brother take care of the house for him one more time. That, and Vale didn't like being surrounded by all of Marc's things when they were packed away.

Marc took a detour to rinse his wine glass. Vale was otherwise gratified to have him follow.

They arrived at Vale's home the next day with Marc's gigantic suitcase. Vale needed Marc to unpack everything so he would take up his half of the wardrobe instead of living as a guest, but he found himself tongue-tied on the subject, and didn't say anything when Marc went straight to taking a shower.

"You are not going to live out of a suitcase, are you?" Vale asked afterwards, hoping he didn't sound too perturbed. He had followed Marc out of the bathroom - now with the addition of Marc's basic toiletries - to remind him where the laundry basket was. Vale's very yellow basket, which Marc would never purchase for himself. Vale had the strange urge to throw it away and buy a neutral one. Maybe in grey, since Marc's entire house had been weirdly dull and spartan.

Marc gave him a inquiring look. "I'll unpack after a nap. Are we cooking dinner?"

It was five in the evening, and if Marc's idea of domestic bliss included a habit of cooking, Vale would need to restock his fridge. "We can drive out to pick up something you like."

Marc perked up. "Pizza?"

"Whatever you want," Vale said, shamefully relieved to have a request to fulfil. He didn't know why this- this thing about getting Marc to be more obtrusive was so uncomfortable. It sat like a lead weight in his chest. He would flay himself to get it out. "Just ask for more Marc, please," he wanted to say.

"Let me get ready too, then we go," Vale said, putting his hands against Marc's waist to move around him. Marc leaned into his touch and slanted a glance at him. He puckered his lips for a kiss. It was sweet, corny nonsense that Vale should be working harder for, but Marc wanted, so he gave. And Marc was too easily satisfied.

Vale emerged from the bathroom to see that Marc had quickly put away all of his clothes. His suitcase stood neatly in a corner, tucked beside the door. A bag of chargers and cables sat at the centre of the foot of the bed, not claiming either side.

"I thought I would pack everything," Marc said with a little grin.

A suitcase of clothes had far from enough clothes to fill a wardrobe, and Marc and had missed out on a nap for this. Vale regretted speaking. He should have left Marc to his devices, so he could have walked out of the bathroom and tripped over Marc's luggage spread out on the floor. Then he would have cursed and acquired a bruise, and maybe Marc would laugh because he always did, this time from bed, with the lackadaisical approach of a man who had made himself too comfortable to move.

The neatness was bothersome.

It would be better when Marc's things arrived by courier.

"Of course, make yourself at home," Vale said. He sat down in the middle of the bed and signalled for Marc to join him. When he did, clean and barefoot, Vale took him in his arms and tipped them over. He arranged them carefully to avoid aggravating any old injuries. Marc's head was pillowed on his upper arm. They faced each other from a hair's breadth away. Eye contact with Marc was interesting; he never looked away first. Back when Vale had been wrong, he used to find it sinister.

"You should pick a side of the bed," Vale said.

Marc curled himself up more comfortably; compact and cat-like. Vale had always been fond of cats. "Like this is good. I don't mind," Marc said.

"You will make my arm numb," Vale complained. Marc laughed brightly.

"Then we are the same."

It was a rare acknowledgement that his arm troubled him. Vale marvelled every time he was open. Sometimes he said things that made Vale cringe, and Vale would probably have to die before he could return the sentiment.

Vale pulled him closer so his lips grazed Marc's forehead and inhaled the sweet scent of his shampoo. Marc closed his eyes. "I'm finally here," he said.

When asked later that evening, Marc claimed that he had not many possessions.

He looked through Vale's collection of DVDs and vinyls with interest, but little recognition. "They look important, you don't have to get rid of any of these," he said, turning down Vale's offer. "I don't have a lot of stuff that belongs here. Maybe leave a space for my Playstation."

"It's small, there's already space for it," Vale said. He was imploring, though he did not know what for. His collections were painstakingly put together and organised. He did not want to give them up, but he couldn't rest until he did something.

"That's good, no?" Marc asked. "Everything is on Netflix for me. I can use this for my pictures," he said, waving at an empty space next to the television.

"Everything is not on Netflix," Vale said, aghast. One could even argue that none of the good shows were on Netflix.

"Like MotoGP and football," Marc agreed. "Anyway, I have nothing."

Vale exhaled deeply. Marc wasn't trying to be difficult, he told himself, he was being considerate. "Are you sure?" he had to ask once more.

He watched Marc train his eyes along the shelves, pausing briefly at the photos of his current rivals - Vale's protégés - and his model bikes.

"No it's fine, you can keep your things. I don't have a lot that fits here. I don't like a clutter," he said.

Vale did like a clutter. He had an treasured collection, full of taste and personality, all put proudly on display. He briefly considered throwing it all away just to murder the thing that sat on his chest.

Marc mainly took up little unobtrusive sections of the house that had been cleared up for him in the first place. One had to look carefully to ascertain that he lived there. Maybe that was how he tended to occupy a home.

He repurposed the vanity in their bedroom to serve its actual function, and lined it up neatly with little glass bottles of skin products that he used with disciplined rigour. There was a day routine and a night routine that required different products, he explained. And since he needed to wash off sweat after exercising, he needed a good moisturiser to offset the dryness caused by soap. Vale didn't know anyone else who took so many showers. It seemed to be an entirely self-inflicted problem.

Marc had products for bags under his eyes, even though his eyes were already nice. He had products to soothe his skin, even though his skin was clear.

Vale didn't understand this. There was a logic to the little rituals of self-care that only women and gay men were privy to, he supposed. He could admit to himself that he was slightly bisexual, but attraction to Marc didn't mean he had adopted the rest of the package.

In the coming days, Marc's gorgeous RC213V would arrive with his contingent of training bikes, and he informed Vale of his idea to have it accompany Vale's M1 in the bedroom. That, Vale understood better, and it was the statement of presence he looked forward to. The two bikes would stand side by side in violent, erotic glory: his elegant blue lady, and Marc's happy-go-lucky devil in disguise. Marc didn't use to keep a bike in his bedroom, but he said that having only a Yamaha in his proximity felt imbalanced.

"They'll be watching us," Vale said gleefully. Marc gave him a look that suggested his thoughts were weird, but he laughed anyway.

The lead weight in Vale's chest kept twisting over the next week. He told himself that things would improve when Marc's cartons of possessions finally arrived, but he didn't convince himself it was true.

Knowing Marc as he knew him, the transition was not as painless as he pretended. No doubt he was able to handle the changes well, but his happiness was another question. Vale should have considered this problem a long time before the move. Even if he could clone himself twenty times, he could not produce Marc a social network. They should have started working on one earlier.

In Tavullia, Marc's physio and training were done under the supervision of professionals recommended by Vale's contacts. They were good and knowledgeable, but they were not friends. Marc was accustomed to the little gang of Spaniards he had known for years. He was hard pressed to assemble one here.

Vale had the academy to provide all of these systems for himself and the boys, but he could not do the same for Marc, because Marc was cynical to the idea that the persistent companionship of his competitors would do him favours. At the most, he would take advantage of free track access and take part in a few friendly races. Based on experience, Vale unfortunately agreed this those were reasonable measures.

He decided to tweak his waking habits to accompany Marc when he went cycling on some mornings, and Marc smiled at him as though he lit up the sky. Making him smile was so easy sometimes, though it shouldn't be.

"These all go in the wardrobe," Marc directed, once he grouped his boxes by category. He'd written the labels in Spanish, and while Vale could hazard a guess at what they meant, it was easier for Marc to sort through them himself.

Vale balked at the number of wardrobe boxes. An entire wall of cupboards and shelves had been set aside for Marc in their walk-in wardrobe - or, more accurately, Vale had never populated them himself in the first place. Girlfriends used to keep their clothes there; now Marc. There was a reason he built it so large.

Marc's clothes and shoes would probably fit with ease. Then he had a handful of things left for the rest of their house. Vale's concern grew.

"Do you have more things to send over?" he asked, even though he knew that he had pressed on the issue one time too many. Marc, no matter how oblivious he chose be (and he really wasn't that blunt), was sure to realise that there was something more deeply-rooted underlying these quetions than mere consideration.

Marc studied him, and Vale knew he had been understood to some degree. It was a nasty, unwanted feeling.

"I'm ordering another coffee machine because I prefer mine, and I still have to do up my office," he said. He offered a pretty smile with all of his teeth. "I love you," he added, as though it was sufficient reassurance.

They set to work unboxing all of Marc's clothes and shoes with demoralising efficiency. A dark corner of Vale's mind said that if everything could be unpacked in a day, they could be repacked within the same time.

He slowed the process down, catching Marc by the waist whenever he walked past and distracting him. It appeared that Marc was in a mood to humour him, so he pushed. Vale unfolded one of Marc's plain beige T-shirts and covered his face with it. He was fully capable of low-grade slapstick humour that Marc was never immune to.

"Vale," Marc began, amused, though he was likely going to nag.

"I am getting used to your scent," Vale said meditatively. "Smells like five baths a day."

Marc, predictably, laughed. He shoved at him. "It smells like detergent. Which I'm changing our brand for, by the way."

Change whatever you want, Vale didn't say.

By the time they took a break for lunch, their wardrobe was less than half done. Vale gazed upon their slow progress with the same victorious feeling that he once took pole positions with. Maybe Marc would have a difficult time moving out after all.

The worst moment of Vale's life concerning Marc was quite possibly when his autographed helmets were taken out of a carton. This sounded innocuous, but it was not. It at that moment that Vale realised he should have been more guarded, because Marc remained the same conniving personality he had always been.

He accepted that this was a part of Marc's character, but he didn't enjoy being taken by surprise by it. Marc didn't do things like this and forget. He was always intentional, but he had alluded to nothing on the subject. Until now.

In a translucent plastic box, tucked beneath a bubble-wrapped Aleix Espagaro helmet, were his weapons. Vale hadn't thought about them in a long time. He knew, factually, that Marc once owned them. He feigned ignorance about the whole subject. If he'd bothered to ponder a little bit more, he might have wrongly suspected that Marc had thrown them out in a fit of betrayed rage. That would be the most reasonable course of action, after past events.

Of course, it would not be accurate to describe Marc as a reasonable person. Vale never actually thought that he would have to confront young Marc's lovingly assembled collection of VR46 model bikes.

"These should be yours," Marc said as he presented Vale with the box. His eyes were opened too wide in the way he had when he was up to something. He didn't always do casual or underhanded, sometimes he stabbed from the front.

Vale took the box as though it scalded. "I will put them up, if you want," he said, his mind churning to figure out what he could make of any of this - what it meant for his weaknesses, for his levels of tolerance in their relationship. What it meant for Marc's residence in this house. The implications felt loaded. He didn't know where they began.

"You can decide," Marc said. He covered Vale's hands with his own. His palms were tender, large and warm. His familiar calluses reminded Vale that he could scar. "I don't have all of them - the newer ones." He didn't have to explain why.

Marc left to put his helmets into Vale's display cabinet. His presence hovered. Vale could feel him watching, even though he could not have eyes behind his back. They had always been overly conscious of each other.

Vale traded his own bikes for Marc's, painstakingly, one at a time. It was a special kind of torture. Marc's bikes were indistinguishable from his own. They were perfectly cared for, the dust cleaned away before they were packed. He'd purchased good quality models ones. The colours didn't fade.

The miserable feeling from Marc's going away party was more present than ever. It was going to suffocate him in his sleep. He didn't know what to do. He'd been trying so hard to make peace with it over the past days.

He only stopped when all of his own bikes up to 2015 were in the box, and Marc's were fully on display. Marc stood by his side to watch him put the final touches.

"They're where they belong now," he said, with a small smile. "When I was a kid, I never thought..." he didn't finish the sentence.

Vale looked at his living room. Marc had left his fingerprints, but only Vale would know. He'd asked for something, and Marc had delivered.

He hated it. If Marc ever left, he would probably leave the bikes here for good now. He couldn't imagine him putting them back in a box one at a time, now that he'd gifted them away. It was impossible. But Vale would never be able to get rid of the knowledge that these bikes once sat in the shelf of Marc's childhood bedroom. They existed in the liminal realm of ownership between them.

Vale's things stared back at him. His furniture, his vinyls, his television, and Marc's bikes with his number on them, blending in as though they had never been Marc's at all.

"It is weird to put them there," he allowed himself to say.

Marc's smile turned wistful. He pulled Vale in by the neck gently. "Yes. But I had to bring them along, you know? They don't mean a lot to Alex, but they mean a lot to me."

Again, there was Marc's propensity for saying sickly sentimental things without shame.

Vale couldn't decide how to respond, so he held him close.

That night, Vale sat up with a start after drifting to the verge of sleep. He had an epiphany.

Marc was already in deep in slumber. Well rested and at peace, this was the least difficult he could ever be. When Marc was awake, he was wilful and complicated.

Vale traced his silhouette with his eyes in the dimness. He would very much like to keep Marc around, and he had figured out how to. He opened his browser with feverish instinct. He had solved the problem.

The easiest thing would be to search for the most recent model, the championship-winning Desmosedici, but Vale needed the symbolism - something with meaning.

He sifted through several second-hand listings of 1:12 Minichamps models for Marc's capricious, violent terror of a 2015 bike. It was the one that ended it all, before they built themselves back. He needed one in mint condition. He would prefer if it could arrive within the week.

It would be Marc's. Vale would receive it and gift it to him, the same way he had been given those bikes on his shelf. Marc would have no choice but to accept, cornered into the same game that he had forced Vale into. He couldn't ever trash them because he would love them. He couldn't leave it behind if he moved out - how could he be angry and allow Vale continue owning his beloved 93 bikes? It would be absurd. He would have to hold on to them, and be forced to remember exactly who they had come from.

This was perfect. This was the only way to tackle the situation. Now Marc couldn't simply leave.

Vale placed an order. Then he laid back down, too stimulated to fall asleep for the night. But the load would be lifted from his chest. He knew what he had to do.

"I'm clearing a shelf for you," Vale told Marc over breakfast. He had scrambled them eggs since he was already awake, and it was increasingly obvious that Marc was better utilised relegated to table-setting and operating the coffee machine.

Marc regarded him with mild intrigue. "I told you I don't need one," he said.

Vale smirked. "You will."

Marc raised his eyebrows in response, and the beginnings of a smile twisted his lip. His expression begged to be challenged. Well, he wouldn't be there if he wanted Vale to be easy.

Six days later, Vale handed Marc a little red gift box tied up in a red bow.

"Welcome home," he said.

Marc looked at it, stared at Vale, then tugged the tail of the ribbon without taking his stare away from Vale's face. The knot fell apart in his hands.

"What is it?" he asked levelly. It was clear that this was no ordinary gift.

Vale was impatient as all hell. "You already opened it," he said, gesturing for Marc to continue. He would not spoil his own surprise.

Marc lifted the lid carefully. He would be able to tell on sight which year the bike came from. They had come to ruins over it, and they had mended themselves. They still never discussed that year.

A crease appeared between Marc's brows. "Why this one?" he asked.

"I will give you the rest another day," Vale said. Suddenly, he wondered if Marc would understand what he meant. Marc usually did, but there had been a few times in the past when everything Vale said just served to push him further away.

Vale recalled sitting in a press conference in Assen that fateful year, when Marc sank deeper and deeper into bottled-up fury, and he would not even explode so they could address it. He kept his anger, diluted it, then took it upon himself to forgive unilaterally. Vale hadn't realised when Marc stopped being angry. At that time, he assumed it went on for much too long.

"It's important, that year," he tried to explain. "I wanted to show that I am not avoiding it. It was there, we were- I was unkind. But we are here now, and I would like you to stay with me."

Marc had a few variations of a controlled smile. This one was uncommon, eyes deep in emotion, and lips barely curved. He could be difficult to interpret, but the last time Vale had seen it this face was when he made a hash of telling Marc he loved him. Marc had obviously said it first, then Vale struggled with it for two weeks; first wondering if he would even be honest if he said it back, then realising his mouth wouldn't cooperate with him when he wanted to. He'd written it on a hotel stationery in the end, a letter switched to make it Spanish rather than Italian so the meaning wouldn't be so emphatic for himself, and slipped it into Marc's hand while he slept.

It was a little bit terrible. He knew that too. Marc had made this same expression when he approached Vale about it.

"You are very bad at this," he said then, like he said now.

"Forgive me once more," Vale said, kissing him, and biting into the flesh of his lip so he would understand.

The last time, Marc had become so much easier and certain with the knowledge that Vale wanted him, that it became simple for Vale to ask him to move in shortly after. And this time, Vale was hopeful that it meant forward steps as well.

"I will put it on the shelf," Marc said, with a tolerant eye roll. The barely-there curve to his lip stayed. Vale followed him to the living room, slinging an arm around Marc's shoulder and feeling light at last.

#shu's fics #motogp rpf #rosquez #tbh this was difficult because they refuse to say anything of importance to each other

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