#marc pls

[ray935sworld]

CHAOS MIGHT BE ABOUT TO START???

White flag?

[normaltothemax]

new icon lol

[houseofpurplestars]

the Bolan lyric "Pasolini toad" led me here, one murder investigation later, wondering if this was a deliberate reference to Pasolini's ""killer,"" who was APPARENTLY called "the Frog" by Italian press???

[spooksier]

me when the emotionally repressed character is revealed to have had something happen in their childhood that was completely out of their control but changed them in a way they can never come back from

[leclercskiesahead]

A very tiny throwback pic

[vivalechat]

It’s so embarrassing when your rival has another rival… like what do you mean I’m not even your worst enemy? You’re mine.

[marcspectrr]

"Don't go there."

[moonymelly]

STUPID THING I MADE A WHILE BACK WHILE I WAS TESTING TOONSQUID…IDEK

[alexi-01]

he said child labour fc for real

[ray935sworld]

Okay. Whore.

[copingchaos]

[googleitlol]

This oneshot is more the length I thought the other one would be, a little under 2500 words. Hope it packs just as much emotion in it, enjoy!

TW: Dead Dove, severe burns

Dove Masterlist:

Samadhi

How on earth did things end up like this?

“Hey.” Sun Wukong, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, looks down to his left to see his engaged. His beloved Dove gives him a worried look as she puts a hand on his shoulder. She looks stunning, she always does. “Something is on your mind, Peaches.”

The two of them stand on his somersault cloud, Wukong’s arm is wrapped around Dove’s waist to keep her close so they can both fit on the soft platform. It moves slowly to their destination where others wait for their arrival. He could make the cloud go faster, but he doesn’t want to. He can’t help how fear grips his heart in anticipation for what they are about to attempt. “It’s nothing.”

“Over a decade we’ve been on this journey together, and you think you can still lie to me?” She frowns, her expression more annoyed than anything else. It shifts back to worry as her hand shifts up to hold the side of his face. “We’re supposed to confide in each other, My Love.”

Sun Wukong hums with a small smile, though he can’t hold the facade when she gives him that concerned look. Amidst these last twelve years, she’s become one of the few people that can read him like a book. “I just want this to work. I can’t stand seeing you like this.” His free hand reaches out to her outstretched arm that holds his face. He’s gentle as he encloses his fingers over the wraps that envelop her arms, his thumb brushing back and forth over the material. Wukong has seen the bandaging over her abdomen, the burns that scar her hands. Despite it all, the mortal he’s promised his life to smiles.

“How could it not? I know you three can do this.” Dove reassures him, the fire in her eyes bright as he leans into her touch.

He just has to tell himself this is it. It’ll be over after this. “How is it healing?”

Her hand retracts, and Wukong lets go of her arm so she can inspect it herself. “I’ve taken care of enough burns to know what I’m doing.” She laughs a little, maybe to make light of the injuries. When she looks up to see his furrowed brows, she sighs. “Maybe in a few days, after Iron Fan and your brother have a few days with their boy, we can visit them for dinner. It’ll be nice to hold Red Son without the fear of him bursting into flame, hah.”

“Red-Brat is more like it.” The sage mumbles under his breath, earning him a light slap on his armoured chest.

“Wukong!” Dove scolds with a sharp glare, and he lets out a chuckle.

That baby could burn her a thousand times, and she’d still defend him with her life. “I know, I know, he’s just a kid.” He can’t help the smile that finds its way onto his face, he loves seeing her jump to his nephew’s defence like that. Gods, never would he think someone could hold compassion for another that does them harm. Wukong will always love her for that compassion.

Despite her wounds, his engaged has held a soft spot for the boy since the moment he was born. With how destructive Red Son’s fire is, Dove’s ability to soothe the infant quickly became a crutch that pained him to see used. Wukong still doesn’t understand her patience, not when the baby nearly kills her as an everyday occurance. Still, she showers Red Son with love. He only wishes she had been that forgiving when they first met. It would have spared him a massive headache.

“Look at me.” Dove’s voice draws him back to the present, the determined look in her eyes captivating his attention. “It’s going to work.”

Even with the soothing presence of her gift, he doesn’t need it to ease his worries. Not when the confidence in her voice puts his troubles to rest. “I know it will.” As he speaks, she leans up to place a kiss over his forehead. “I can’t worry when I have you with me.”

Her smile is warm when she looks up at him. “I love you, Peaches.”

“I love you, Dove.” Wukong pulls her closer to his side, and his beloved rests her head on his shoulders.

Dove breathes a content sigh, her eyes focused on the sky ahead. “Maybe after this, we can ask Sanzang for a little break? We could visit Flower Fruit, spend some alone time together.”

Wukong hums with a small laugh. “Alone time sounds nice… y’know, with all the other monkeys crowding around us to get a look at their soon-to-be Monkey Queen.”

“Hah! I can’t wait to meet them properly.” She smiles, and Wukong looks down to take in what he can of her features. He can’t wait for when they retrieve those scriptures and they can go home, to stay. When this journey started, all he wanted was to be free from the burden of helping the monk and his cranky companion, but she changed that. Now, all he wants is to wake up each morning with Dove by his side, so he can take in those features in dawn’s light in their home.

“It’s settled, then.” He sighs before turning his attention back to the route ahead. “We’ll visit the little guys tonight. Master should be fine for one night without us.”

“With our luck, don’t jinx it.” That gets him to laugh. He supposes Dove is right, he shouldn’t say anything to risk their chances of a battle-free night. When she lets out a soft exhale, Wukong can feel himself relax just a bit more. “I can’t wait to get a proper tour of my new home with you.”

~~~~

It was supposed to be simple. Split the fire and find someplace to hide his own ring. Easy as that.

DBK won't have to deal with his home burning down every other day and call Dove to calm down his hot-tempered son. Sun Wukong admits, the kid is cute when he isn’t burning everything to the ground. Dove is so fond of him, how can he not like the little guy? Still, he hates every time she’s asked to help him. Dove has been burnt in her efforts to tame his flame, and relying solely on her to ensure a little kid doesn’t destroy the world isn’t a viable option anymore. Nor is it one he’s comfortable with.

The air is heavy among all who stand with the sage. Sun Wukong stands in a circle with his master, the Demon Bull King, and the Third Lotus Prince, Nezha, with the baby Red Son engulfed in flames in the centre of them all. The Monkey King’s brothers, Wujing, Ao Lie and Bajie all stand behind their master, and Dove stands a few paces behind to her Peaches’ right. She has to be on standby in case the separation fails, but it won’t. Like Dove said, this is going to work.

His master steps forward and taps his staff against the drawn out circle on the ground. “For the Samadhi Fire to be split into three, you must harmonise your energies.” He instructs, and the three chosen all look to one another with a nod.

The circle lights up, illuminating with life as it begins. The glow from the markings on the ground encapsulates Wukong’s vision, blinding his peripherals so that all he can focus on is the ring that begins taking form in front of his hands.

It’s a little surprising, how it feels at first. Wukong isn’t sure what he was expecting, but he thought there’d be more… pain involved? Maybe it’s because he can only feel a third of the fire feeding into the ring that takes shape in front of him, but it’s a little underwhelming. He’s taken the brunt of the Samadhi Fire before, he knows it can hurt, but this? Sure, he can feel the heat of the flames pretty strongly, but it's nothing he can't handle. It’s no wonder he was chosen as one of three that could withstand it. Maybe Nezha is having more trouble than him, the lotus prince has always been a bit of a baby compared to the other immortals he knows.

There’s a few flames that lash out more than the others, but it’s easy enough to keep them under control. “You know, this is kind of easier than I thought it would be.” He laughs a little, and that’s when his focus slips. That’s when it all goes wrong.

A flame lashes out as the baby in the centre shouts, and fire shoots out towards the three rings. The sheer force knocks Wukong onto his knees. The other two ring-bearers in the circle shout out at the sage, too late to stop a wave of fire that spews out in every direction. His dragon brother, Ao Lie, is quick to respond to flames that hurtle towards their master and takes a hit head-on. The Monkey King is quick enough to jump back to his feet and take this next hit easily.

But then he hears her scream.

Wukong freezes, Dove’s voice shooting ice through his veins. His eyes shoot wide at the sound of his worst fears coming to life. “Dove!” He hears Wujing call out to his love before heavy steps rush to her location just out of his view.

He moves to turn his head before she shouts. “NO! Don’t– haa… Don’t look, don’t let him…” She shouts out, her voice twisting in anguish, “Don’t stop, Peaches! The ring is almos–” She can’t even finish the sentence before letting out another shrill scream.

Every bone in his body is pleading for him to turn around, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to. His heart is thundering in his chest, fear claws at his skin as he begs himself to focus on the rings. She won’t stop screaming, she won’t stop screaming–

“Dove?! Dove!!” She can’t answer him, can she even hear him?! Gods, he can’t see her! His eyes shut tight, and he fights every fibre of his being not to abandon the ritual and run to her side as Bajie and Wujing shout from behind.

“It won’t go out!”

“It can’t go out!”

Wukong shakes his head, their voices pushing him to the brink of madness. “Dove, please– hang on!” Help her, he needs to help her, shit, he has to move, she needs help! Help her, help her!!! She’s screaming, she isn’t stopping she won’t stop– she’s screaming! Even when she stops, he can still hear her screaming. Her voice rings in his ears.

When the rings fully form, Sun Wukong’s drops to the ground. He turns to run to his love, only to choke back a gasp when he sees her. The fire that had been burning its way up her body whisps away with the rings now complete. Left in their wake and in the arms of Wujing is a limp body.

The sight of her alone is nearly enough to send him falling back. Her entire lower half and right side of her body is covered in fourth degree burns. Her clothes are singed and melted into her skin, into her arms and torso. There’s muscle tissue visible in the meat of her hands and along her legs from where the fire had its fill. All over her body are contrasting amalgamations between charcoaled skin and raw pinks of every shade, even the white of bone pokes out from her right shoulder and knuckles.

“Dove!” He doesn’t waste another moment rushing to her side. Despite her injuries, the woman still breathes. Each inhale is laboured, every exhale pain from her burning lungs. Her voice barely carries to shout when he moves her from Wujing’s arms to his own. “No, no… no, no no no! Somebody help!”

His head whips around to those that now surround them, Demon Bull King hiding away his son’s face from them while Tripitaka rushes to their side. He gasps at the sight of his friend, his staff dropping with an echoing clang. “Master, please!” Wukong begs, his voice never before sounding so desperate.

His master crouches down slowly, his eyes never leaving her, his first companion on his journey. “They’re… they’re too severe.”

“The hell do you mean, too severe?!” Wukong snaps, but the monk can’t even move to flinch. “She’s dying! We have to do something!”

He looks back to Nezha, his brothers, anyone! “Please! There has to be something– we can’t–”

“Peaches…” He barely hears Dove, her voice holds only a shell of the life it did a mere hour ago. He looks down at his love, only now can he realise how blurred his vision is when he can barely make out her features. There’s tears streaming down her face, her eyes are open but unfocused.

Her breathing is ragged as Wukong holds her hand in his. “Shh, shh… it’s okay, Dove.” His voice cracks, he needs to comfort her. “Don’t try to say anything, we’re gonna help you. We–”

His head whips back up to the friends that have gathered around them. “We have to do something, now! Master, there has to be a way! Nezha, there must be something, I won’t let her die! Please!”

“Brother…” Bajie rests a hand on the sage’s shoulder, and Wukong snaps his head up to him. But his brother isn’t looking at him. His gaze is focused on Dove and–

He can’t feel her. That calming presence he’s so used to walking with every day. It’s gone. She isn’t breathing.

“…Dove?” Wukong checks for a pulse, but he finds nothing. His heart sinks. “Dove? Dove, please– Dove?! We said everything would be okay after this.” His voice feels strained, it’s throbbing, there's somethings choking him.

“Dove, don’t do this to me– please! Please!”

“Dove! Dove!”

The king throws his head back in outcry, his queen limp in his arms. His voice is bloodcurdling, his scream so visceral it shreds into every soul present. Wukong pulls the shell of his love into his chest and sobs, burying his head into her shoulder. Her body is warm, but it isn’t her warmth.

He can’t feel her. Why can’t he feel her in his arms anymore?! This isn’t what was supposed to happen, how could this happen? How on earth could things end up like this?! He was supposed to stop her from getting hurt! “Please, Dove… we’re visiting home tonight, remember?”

“…We’re going home tonight.”

[pharawee]

Favourite BL tropes: enemies to idiots lovers

[kingofthecotas]

ivy

post-aragón, vale & pecco & the ever-present spectre of marc | ~900 words

hi hello i write things sometimes

———

Valentino doesn’t call until Monday, when the heat of anger has faded and the dust has been washed from his hair, seven hours behind and six hours spent on track—one of Marc’s tracks, irony of ironies.

(Sometimes he wonders if he can ever extricate himself from this, from them, from the noxious tendrils that have wound themselves into the sport’s neurones and synapses, an incurable infection of the central nervous system.)

Pecco almost hesitates to answer—still afraid of disappointing him, even after all this time—but his shoulder throbs when he reaches out to pick up his phone and he suddenly wants the sound of Valentino’s voice, even if it carries judgment.

“Hello?” he says, cautious.

“Are you okay?”

“Sore. Will bruise, but fine. I’ll be okay for Misano.”

Valentino hums. “Good.”

Pecco searches for something, anything, that doesn’t remind him of gravel crunching, his head snapping forwards as one hundred and fifty kilos of aluminium and rubber collided with the back of his helmet. “Sorry about your race. It was going well.”

“It was. It was fun.” He can almost see Vale waving his hand. “I have already complained to Maro. I want to make sure you are okay.”

“Fine.”

There’s a pause, silence loaded with something Pecco can’t quite identify. “And Álex?”

Ah. “Fine as well. We both got checked over.” Pecco swallows. “I, ah, spoke to him. Or—he asked to speak to me, in private, so we did. I—I am still pissed off, but it was not deliberate. I know that now.”

Valentino hums again. “But you said it.”

So this is what he really called to talk about.

“I was pissed off. Martín—”

“I know,” Valentino says, and there’s something there, not quite the disappointment Pecco feared but something like it. “Be—just be careful, Pecco, yes? If you are going to start this, be ready for where it might take you.”

“I am not starting anything.”

Again, it’s, “I know.” Then, “I know it is hard when you are hurt and angry, and there are points slipping through your fingers. But think about what you are saying.”

“Yeah.” Pecco would be more annoyed if this wasn’t coming from experience.

“Ah, maybe you do not need my advice anymore—”

“Of course I do,” Pecco interrupts, chest fluttering at the mere idea of Valentino ever becoming superfluous to him.

“Get into it with Marc all you want. He is expecting this. The team are expecting this. He will give it back to you, and somehow, he will be ready to forgive.” Valentino pauses. “Do not make his brother part of it. That—that is where there was no coming back for us, truly.”

Pecco’s breath catches, because Vale sounds—unsettled. Sad, even. “I—”

“Do you understand?”

He does. “Fucking—the week before Misano, as well. It will be messy.”

“Not too messy. Not yet.” Still fixable, is what Vale doesn’t say, but they both know anyway. “But—you can handle it. You will do better than I did.”

Quietly, Pecco thinks there couldn’t have been many worse ways to handle it all. There are certainly better ones. He can’t remember when that thought first came to him: maybe when he’d won, that first time, Aragón of all places, the king of Marc’s castle, and Marc had been—disappointed, yes, but still there with a smile and a congratulatory word. Not what Pecco had been expecting, from everything Vale had said. Maybe Vale had been wrong.

Marc has done many things to Pecco since then, but that first doubt, the first fallacy of his god, was the most earth-shattering.

“I should speak to Marc—”

“Don’t make it about him.”

“I already have.” It’s like pulling a barbed thread out through his throat, admitting that, reminding himself what he said to the cameras and microphones when he was aching and exhausted and too hot with it all to think about the consequences. “They already have, because if it is me and Álex then it is you and him.”

The silence is long this time, presses in, a storm cloud rolling over before the heavens open and lightning shatters the sky. Pecco almost stutters out an apology, except Valentino must know, because he was the one who wanted to talk about it in the first place.

When Valentino sighs, it hisses in Pecco’s ear. “It will always be about us somehow, Pecco. You will have to hold it.”

And here is what Vale did not tell them when they vowed to carry his legacy, unmistakable yellow in their young faithful hands: it would always be entwined with the ivy-choke of Marc.

Us, Valentino still says, not me and him. If he has still not managed to free himself, what hope does Pecco have?

(He knows the answer. He never will. But he can hold it, can hold the vine-twisted history alongside the bright yellow heritage.)

There’s a lot he could say. He swallows it down, sits on it all. “Are you coming on Wednesday?”

“Of course.”

“See you then. Put the weekend behind us.”

“Get ready for Misano,” Vale agrees. “One of your favourites, and you have raced there already this year. Maybe you do not even need to train, hm?” A laugh, so Pecco knows he’s only joking. So Pecco knows Valentino believes in him. “Ah, they are calling for the plane. I will speak to you soon.”

Pecco doesn’t say so you still think he is forgiving. You still think he can forgive you. He doesn’t say he’ll be in a good mood today, if you called. He closes his eyes, says, “Safe flight. See you on Wednesday.”

[solacereigns]

pov: you're alex marquez's passenger princess

[fall0utmind]

🤍 Medical AU fic: Would you still love me if I told you my darkest secrets? 🤍

Chapter 3: hurt/ friends

On AO3 here

Chapter 1 here

Chapter 2 here

T/w for suicidal thoughts, breakdowns

Sorry in advance for the ending. Feedback much appreciated 🫶🏼🫶🏼

CHAPTER 3 – HURT/FRIENDS

He doesn’t remember the rest of the walk to the motorhomes, staggering behind Dovi, completely out of it. His mind is whirring like a broken cassette tape, the hurtful words looping. They settle somewhere deep inside his ribcage, slotting into place next to another set of familiar cruel words he has heard before.

“He has ruined our sport”.

“It isn’t worth it”

“The world would be better off without you”

His traitorous brain grasps hold of the cruelty and tortures him with their continuous echoes in his worst moments, something he has worked hard to defeat in the past.

They end up slumped together on the sofa, Dovi leaning against the armrest with Marc in between his legs, both craving physical comfort after the events that had transpired. Something odd strikes him then. People know too much about his past, more than they should, from what Marc understands. He instinctively reaches for his phone, ignoring Dovi’s protests, instead opening the internet app to check what had been released during qualifying. To say the press is a shitstorm turns out to be an understatement. Marc reads article after article with wide eyes, seeing his past laid out in black and white for the world to see.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

EXCLUSIVE: Meet the MotoGP Star who Battled his Demons On and Off Track

Details have emerged across the weekend that Mr Marquez overdosed on medication and alcohol at the end of the 2015 season

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

SCANDAL: MotoGP World Champion’s Medical Records Released to the World

Read more about how the 8-time champion tried to kill himself TWICE in 2015

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Marc Marques reveals tragic past in the MotoGP Paddock: "He had to go to hospital twice. He was a mess- drinking, taking pills, loitering at the top of tall buildings. Everyone thought he would be dead by 2015”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Disgust fills him as he reads the theatrical titles detailing his fall from grace. It is as if his life is some kind of tasteless TV drama, sensationalised for the audience’s satisfaction. Yet, despite this, he cannot stop reading, grappling with the realisation that everyone now has an opinion on the worst years of his life.

Marc comes across an article which catches his eye; he scrolls back up to click on it, interest piqued. It is simply titled “Marc Marquez’s Tragic Past Unveiled – the Paddock’s Reaction”. He knows delving into what could be a world of pain isn’t particularly conducive to a good mental headspace before the sprint race, but his life is falling apart, at this point who cares? Dovi has given up trying to stop him, instead, he is sitting quietly, his arms draped around Marc, who leans back onto his chest. Marc scrolls through the article, noting the vivid pictures it paints about his poor mental health. Whoever leaked the records certainly did a thorough job. The article quotes several pilots; most of them declined to comment. A couple, namely Aleix, Enea, and Fabio, give general well-wishes and stress the need for privacy. Marc giggles at the reporters (frankly stupid) attempt to ask Alex if looks could kill. He’s pleasantly surprised that there are no negative comments, no sly slanders about the championship or his riding. Perhaps it’s only a matter of time. A little further down the article he finds the comments from the VR46 academy, a couple stand out to him. Luca looks sad, which is a bit of a surprise, and Bez looks wildly uncomfortable, he can’t figure out if it’s because they’re bringing up Marc at all, or if he simply doesn’t know what to say other than criticism. Shockingly, there are also interviews with Pecco and Vale, which make Marc pause. He knows that he shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Alex would murder him if he was here. But he can’t help it, watching in curiosity as the video of Pecco’s interview loads on his screen. The interviewer begins by asking about the Friday press conference, and Marc almost drops his phone at the response. Pecco’s anger is evident from the start of the interview, he’s always been an emotive person, but you can practically see the steam coming out of the Italian’s ears. At first, Marc assumes he’s angry at the distraction or at Marc for something he has done. But no, Pecco is kind, he is adamant that the media should respect Marc’s privacy and avoid speculation, even insinuating that the media is being unfairly cruel. Marc is instantly distrustful, considering what Pecco could be gaining from this, or if he’d just hit his head on the track. He momentarily lays his confusion aside and scrolls to Valentino’s interview instead. It’s just a simple statement that is much more on theme than Pecco’s but is somehow worse than anything of the venom Vale has spewed before.

“We should be focusing on the racing, not a rider's personal life from a decade ago.”

That tracks, Valentino stopped caring in 2015, so why would he start now? It still hurts, deep down. It makes his heart feel a little more torn and ragged, the broken edges sharpening a bit more. He feels frozen.

Dovi gently pries the phone out of his numb fingers, placing it face down on the coffee table. He pulls Marc fully into his arms, holding him as he finally allows himself to shake apart.

*

It is that position which Alex finds them in, an hour later, with Dani Pedrosa and Jorge Lorenzo in tow. The latter are loudly bickering about some nonsense as they enter the motorhome, only to fall silent upon the scene in front of them, argument forgotten. Marc is still curled in Dovi’s lap, his peaceful sleeping face juxtaposed by the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. Alex sighs, and gestures to the others to make themselves at home, before putting the kettle on.

When Alex re-enters the living room, the three older men are quietly talking, Marc still sound asleep between them. He sits on the sofa opposite his brother, turning to face Dani as he speaks.

“Are we sure he is okay to race?”

Alex huffs in amusement.

“Good luck stopping him”

The others give him sympathetic looks, used to Marc’s stubborn antics by now.

Alex continues, looking pointedly at Dovi.

“What happened?”

Dovi begins to rehash the events since leaving the pits, desperately trying to keep his anger in check. Alex feels murderous as Dovi tells them about the harasser and the subsequent encounter with Valentino and Pecco. Judging by their faces, Dani and Jorge would be very willing accomplices. There is a round of winces as the Italian tells them that Marc has been online, finally up to speed with the media coverage. Alex is angrier than he ever recalls being, cursing the universe for hurling trial after trial at his brother, but even more furious that the people around them can be so unforgivably unkind.

“It’s no wonder he’s exhausted” Jorge laments, looking at the younger in sympathy. Alex hums in agreement, mentally noting that Marc needs extra sleep tonight.

Marc chooses that moment to begin to stir, shuffling and grumbling into Dovi’s shoulder, unaware of the matching fond looks it earns him. He never has been one for waking up, whether it’s early in the morning or the middle of the day. He begins to blink his eyes open, his face still pressed into Dovi’s neck, clinging like a koala.

*

Marc wakes with a headache and a dry mouth, feeling rung out and miserable. When he opens his eyes, he is greeted by an amused-looking Dovi (whom he has obviously fallen asleep on). Alex and Dani are sitting opposite him, alongside Jorge Lorenzo, of all people. He pieces together the memories of this morning: his remarkable pole position, Dovi coming to the race, and the messages on his phone. It has become exceedingly apparent who “we” is, and isn’t that an interesting thought? He stares between Dani and Jorge, shooting a glance at Alex, who simply shrugs his shoulder, clearly also at a loss. He also, unfortunately, remembers the cruel words from the people in the paddock, as much as he would love to forget. He pushes it to the back of his mind and instead focuses on the others, asking the most obvious question.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“You’re my brother; this is also my motorhome”

“I couldn’t leave because some idiots fell asleep on me”

Dovi has a smug grin on his face, putting Marc at ease. He turns his gaze towards Dani.

“I was worried about you”

Jorge chimes in almost instantly then,

“Dani was worried about you”

Marc cracks a smile, enjoying the comfortable familiarity and their stupid humour.

He secretly knows Jorge is worried despite his joking, but it doesn’t stop Dani from elbowing him for good measure. They are clearly very familiar with each other; it doesn’t escape Marc’s notice that Dani doesn’t move his arm away from Jorge afterwards. He is so confused and Dovi looks smug which only serves to make Marc more confused. For now, he is happy to bask in the warmth of friendship for a little longer before he returns to reality. He is completely unwilling to move off Dovi, no matter how much he complains. They talk about racing, family, life, and everything they can think of apart from Marc and the weekend news. The three ex-riders are staying for the entire weekend, residing in the Gresini box during the racing. They have effectively promoted themselves to bodyguards, and after earlier Marc isn’t inclined to complain. Dani and Jorge sit with their knees touching the entire time, suspiciously comfortable in each other’s presence.

No one brings up the prospect of Marc not racing, knowing it will be a fruitless endeavour. Alex simply nudges him an hour before the race, letting the others know they need to get going. Marc whines into Dovi’s hoodie, not happy at the prospect of leaving the comfort of their motorhome, no matter how much he loves racing. He turns to Dovi, purposely widening his eyes until the older catches the hint. He laughs gently, removing Marc from his lap, shrugging off his hoodie and passing it to Marc, who happily shrugs it on, grinning like the cat who got the cream. Alex affectionately rolls his eyes at his brother's antics, whilst Dani and Jorge smirk at Dovi, who glares back at them.

They wish Alex and Marc luck as they leave to do the paddock rounds, not before reassuring the brothers that they will be in the box for the race (the media will have a field day). Marc leaves the motorhome first, taking advantage of the slight lunchtime lull and back-alley routes to get to the Gresini garage. The plan is to get there without meeting anyone else, but it gets derailed fairly quickly when someone roughly grabs his arm and pulls him backwards as he travels between two motorhomes.

Marc whips around, fear and fury coursing through him, only to come face to face with Valentino Rossi. He feels the adrenaline pumping through him, his heart racing and his mouth going dry. He instantly shies away from Valentino’s burning touch, taking a step away from him, whilst also straightening up, unwilling to let himself be intimidated.

“Stop playing mind games with my riders Marquez”

Marc scoffs, really? That’s what he wants? Jesus. He raises his eyes to meet Valentino’s gaze, his tone steely as he speaks.

“You think I want this? That I want my life to fall apart in front of the world for a second time? Do you think this is fun for me?”

Vale cocks his head at Marc as if confused that he isn’t cowing in submission or showering him with apologies. Marc sees the moment Valentino clocks what he’s wearing, clearly not his own hoodie, made worse by the number 4 branded upon it. In hindsight, he probably should have considered what it looked like before he left wearing Dovi’s hoodie. Oh well. Valentino’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight before him and then harden, turning cruel.

“Jesus Marc, you always have been an attention seeker. You love the sound of your own voice so much.”

Marc looks away, eyes burning, refusing to let Valentino know how much that stings. Anger rears its ugly head deep inside of him, a cumulation of all the crap he’s had to deal with this weekend exploding.

“No, no, of course, you bastard. You think everything is about you and your precious academy. You can’t even consider for a second that you made my life a living hell? That you made me want to die? Cazzo Vale, you were everything to me, my hero, the man I looked up to. Haven’t you already taken enough from me? Now you want this too. Fuck you, Rossi. Leave me alone.”

Marc turns on his heel and storms off, leaving Valentino with his mouth agape, hand reaching out to where Marc was before. The Italian watches his retreating form, filled with regret and his dying anger. He says the words quietly, knowing it's too late.

“Wait, merda, Marc”