#anyways this is after vale has had some REALIZATIONS and divested himself from delulu island and is basically miserable. slay.

[moonshynecybin]

short fic (1.6k) continuation of @kingofthering's forced coming out au where i read what they say and my brain immediately spirals ! context here... this is my take on the resolution where vale is god's guiltiest little motorcycle racer

Vale looks him square in the eyes, shakes his head like he can’t believe Marc doesn’t get it. He takes a sip of his beer and shrugs. Like it’s nothing.

“Marc, it’s my fault.”

“What? No, it isn’t.” Marc replies, instinctual. He had been the one on his knees. The one everyone could see in that photo. Vale hadn't needed to— Vale had done this because of him, the Honda PR person had said. He could’ve denied that he was even there that night, the way Yamaha had wanted him to.

Vale laughs bitterly. “It is. I asked you to do that. I told you to— I found you, that night.” Vale breaks off again, lip curling. He’s working through something, face uncharacteristically serious, and Marc knits his brow. Vale’s never like this, always quick with a joke, a comment, a deflection. Anything but the pain of the truth. Show. 

Vale tilts his head, tries to find the words. “After Sepang I wasn’t going to—"

Marc folds his arms. He doesn’t know how Sepang has fucking anything to do with this.

“You broke it off.”

Vale’s face twists, he tugs on his earring, jitters his leg. “I know,” He says, quiet. Continues: “I was. I could see myself.” he takes a big breath, looks up at the sky. Marc keeps his eyes lasered on him, on the long line of his neck. The hinge of his jaw. The narrow spread of his shoulders. Marc inhales, draws his anger tight around him. He deserves an explanation.

“I should’ve been able to stay away from you.” Is what Vale settles on, with conviction. As if he hasn’t said the most confusing thing possible.

“What?” Marc says, caught out.

Vale scrubs a hand over his face, through his hair. Makes eye contact with the ground. He speaks slowly, like it’s hurting him.

“After Phillip Island. last year. I think— that I told myself that I had gotten too�� invested. In you. In us. It didn’t make sense to me. I thought I couldn't be with you and win at the same time.”

Marc feels that hit him. Blinks fast. He curls his palm to rest over his elbow, digs a nail into the skin there. Flashes of that press conference imprint themselves on his memory, as tangible as touch. The waxy texture of the table, the flash of cameras, the sweat on the back of his neck. The sickening confusion, like a black hole in his stomach.

“Is that why you said what you said?” He asks, keeping his face blank, his voice even. He feels like live bees are thrumming under his skin, frenetic and disordering. He remembers the last time they’d fucked— not in the alleyway, but at Philip Island. How Valentino’s fingers had trailed over his back after he’d come. Gentle. How’d he’d been gone by the morning, the bed cold. “In Sepang?”

Vale looks at him, finally, and Marc inhales sharply. He's never seen him like this, with this precise expression on his face. He looks— vulnerable. Nervous. Scared even. Vale bites at the nails on one hand. Stares at the label of his beer bottle. Comes to some sort of decision.

He nods.

“And that night?” At the club, Marc means. In the alleyway.

Vale nods again, huffs a weak laugh. his eyebrows jump a little in an ironic expression. “I wanted to see you. If i hadn’t—“ He waves a hand through the air, a small gesture for such a huge, alien concept. “Then we wouldn’t be here. Doing this. It's me. My fault.” 

Marc digs his nails harder into his elbow for just a second, then releases, a disbelieving spasm. HIs pulse is racing. He leans forward, putting his forearms on the table, until Vale looks him in the eye.

“No.”

“No?” Vale asks, looking confused and just a little miserable.

“No.”

Marc pinches the bridge of his nose. Takes a second to process.

“You want me?” He says, and it still feels like a risk, enough adrenaline coursing through his system he might as well be on track. It focuses him a little, like it always has. Simplifies things.

“Marc,” Vale starts.

“No, no. This is serious. Not just for sex. Not just for— all this,” What we’ve been doing, he means. The pretending. The show. How he’s been kissing Vale any chance he gets in public and then going back to ignoring him in private. Engineering ways to be seen together, just on the off chance he could get Vale’s hand on the small of his back. And how Vale, Marc is realizing, has been matching him every step of the way. Has been finding him in the paddock just so he can trail his fingers over the inside of Marc’s wrist, can kiss him good luck before a race. He had been the one to make the first move at the club, Marc remembers. Had been the one to find him in the alleyway. “For real. You want me?”

“Yes.” Vale says, after a moment eyes soft, the low light turning his curls bronze.

Marc thinks he means it.

He closes his eyes, breathes deep. There's other things he wants to talk about, that they need to talk about, but that’s something. Vale wants him.

“I was there too. That night. You—“ Marc swallows, “You were awful to me. For months. You made everyone hate me. I lost sponsors, I lost you. and I was still there. With you in that alley. You asked and I came. It’s not just your fault.” Marc says, and Vale shakes his head.

Marc leans forward, grabs Vale’s hand.

“When those pictures came out,” He says, “Did Yamaha give you a choice? To ignore it or to come forward?”

Vale takes a second to respond. “Yes.”

“And you wanted to come forward?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

And the silence breaks, Vale laughing that laugh of his, the one Marc used to do anything to hear, big and loud, like Marc’s said something insane. Something ridiculous.

“Marc. I don't know how many more ways I can say it.” He says, and Marc’s heart is racing in his chest, eyes meeting Vale’s like a lifeline.

For me, Marc thinks. Turns over in his mind until it feels like it might be the truth. He did it for me, to protect me. To make sure I could race. 

Because without Vale, Marc doesn’t know if that would’ve been allowed— too big a PR risk after Sepang, especially with the way he rides. MotoGP is ruled by money, by advertising, and Marc as the only gay rider on the grid might’ve put him over the edge. Made him too much. It's harder to sell energy drinks after you’ve been photographed with a dick in your mouth.

But Vale had stepped forward too, spun the narrative. One of his best talents. One of his worst. But he’d flipped here, done the exact opposite of what he’d done in Sepang, and Marc and him had suddenly been something for people to root for— not an outlier to be exiled, but a team. The two biggest names in MotoGP much harder to get rid of as a unit than as individuals.

Vale had made sure Marc could get on his bike again. And that’s— that’s everything.

“Those photos…” Marc says, remembering what they were talking about. The whole reason why Vale felt he had to do this.

“You know, I don't actually mind the photos!” Vale says, his impish nature poking through a bit, sensing something from Marc and breaking the tension like he always does. He’s allowing himself to flirt, visibly assured by Marc’s hand on his, by the possibility that this conversation might be going well. “You looked very good on your knees. I might make copies.”

Marc closes his eyes, can’t help but smile. “Vale.”

“I might get them framed!” Vale toasts his beer, eyes crinkling at the corners. “In some ways, it’s our anniversary.”

“Vale!” Marc laughs, then taps him on the inside of the wrist, gets him to pay attention. There's one more thing he wants to know. He bites his lip. “Without those photos, what would’ve happened?”

Vale thinks, tilts his head to the side and shrugs. “I don't know.”

Marc nods, waits. He can tell Vale has more to say.

Vale raises a finger. “But here is what I do know: I love you. And we should do this, for real. No more pretend.”

Marc puts his head in his hands. Thinks about the last year, how awful it’s been. About how all the worst parts have involved Valentino. About how all the best parts have involved him too. About Vale deciding to do this with him. About that night at the Gala in June, when he’d thought Vale was going to kiss him, just the two of them, and how badly he’d wanted it. About Vale pulling him closer under his arm in that first press conference, and deflecting all of the worst questions like it was nothing, protecting Marc. About the precise shape his hand makes when it curves around Marc’s hip. About how he makes him laugh. 

Marc smiles.

He picks his head up, laughs and feels a little like crying. Feels a little like flying. His brain won’t stop whirring. “We’re going to have to tell the factories. Honda and Yamaha.”

“Oh that’s easy! We find an alleyway—“ And Marc pushes him, doubles over laughing. Warm down to his toes, happy in his bones. This is going to work. They were always going to end up here. “What? It worked the last time.” Vale says. 

“I'll think about it,” Marc says, still giggling, and feels Valentino’s ankle press against his under the table.

“I would enjoy that.”

“Mmm, I’m sure you would.”

“And in the meantime, I have those photos to hold me over.”

“Vale!”