#also it was christmas eeevveee babbbeee. iin the drunk tannkk

[leoisstillalive]

wipppppppp

——— 2022, Valencia, Spain

Marc knew who it was that slipped him the note. Well, perhaps not who, but what. There was no blistering yellow shirt or hat or lanyard, no discreet label that could have traced the man back to Valentino, but his words were laden with that familiar secrecy.

Not of one he was trying to tell Marc, nor withhold from him, rather the resurfacing of a secret they shared. Through the haze of the painkillers, Marc only caught a few of his words— they were enough.

“If… need somewhere to go… call.”

Marc was unsure how much the man knew, unsure how much anybody knew. People were bound to have made assumptions about certain things- lingering gazes, shuffling to the corner of a room to watch the undulating waves of other riders and giggle quietly, touches— touches and touches and touches. 

That was something Marc could never forget- the touches. Valentino was a good actor, he could hold a gaze and keep most of the vitriol from seeping, red and bloodshot and venomous, into his eyes when they met across the room or in a press conference. But his touch was unmistakable. Biting like frostbite; molten. Cutting and soft. He could not disguise himself in his touch, he could not lie.

When they first met, his skin was cold on Marc’s hand, smiling cheek cold against Marc’s own, but warming. Not like velvet or youth, but as if it were brimming with lukewarm blood, curiosity and caution. Marc had known about Valentino’s rivalries, known about his fears. He knew damn near everything about him. He could handle it.

2014 was all hot. It was wet, breathing like an open door, drawing Marc in— and Valentino. They both seemed to sink, mingling and morphing in their gilded bedroom- a King and his bride, with their audience of onlookers consummating their wedding. It was an exhibition, two gods toying with their inferiors, laughing at Jorge’s play at keeping up with Marc, pitying Dani- the wasted crown prince, running hands under shirts and taking each other apart in cheap hotel rooms. 

It was only them, even when it wasn’t. It was as if the world bowed its head to allow them their honeymoon.

Marc did not let himself think about 2015.

He was sure most people did not assume much about the nature of their relationship in those years, however. Men got close in deadly games, like war, like disaster.

Perhaps a few caught on: Uccio, of course, and Álex, despite Marc’s short-lived protest, maybe Santi, maybe that quiet little boy that used to follow Vale around. With the baby fat cheeks and thoughtful eyes, red cap low over his forehead.

Marc pondered Pecco, how he must have endured the brunt of Valentino’s fury at Marc- more than the other Academy students, because he was there. He had won the championship, so maybe he learned something from the hatred that Marc never could.

“He could forgive you, you know,” Was another thing the man had said.

Another tell. 

“If you went to him.”

And Marc wasn’t sure that was entirely true. Valentino understood forgiveness, he understood it very well. Enjoyed the sharp cruelty with which he could dish it out- brutal, fatal like a god. With a fist.

He had forgiven his rivals- Casey, Sete, Jorge, maybe even Biaggi. He had forgiven them graciously, as a master pouring gravy into his weakest dog’s bowl. And Casey had come to the ranch, lapping it up, Sete had visited Vale’s garage, Jorge as well. They had taken turns licking at Valentino’s chin, albeit with their own grim pride, but still forced into a sort of deference. 

And he was praised for his mercy. They called it good sportsmanship.

Marc wanted to spit.