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thesunthemoonthestarstheearth · 2 days

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Forever Seeking ; Forever Binding (Part I)

rosquez; 9.5k words under the cut (ao3 here)

Trigger warnings:

- Major Character Death (One mention in which I explicitly say, "so and so passes away at this time in the morning.")

- Death (As a concept and as a Thing)

- God (As a concept and as a Thing)

- Animal Similes

The wind that ruffles Valentino's hair is soft and smells like salt.

He gently opens his eyes, wincing at the pain that never comes, and he carefully takes in his surroundings. He's at the beach, their beach, and he's lying on a sofa sun bed. The type that he and Marc would send their kids down to whilst they were still at the top of the hill. He'd always put the reason down being so that they could, "reserve them". Valentino would always kneel down to his children's heights, just so they could see the dramatic wiggle of the eyebrows that accompanied the sentence. Oftentimes, Marc would snort at his antics, but for their son and daughter, they'd nod dramatically back at their babbo, and take off at the speed of light. He'd stand up gingerly, and Marc would be watching him with worry in his eyes, arms always at attention to catch him if needed.

A constant in their relationship, it seemed; from their youth, till now, when they were greying and raising two children. Valentino would smile ruefully, shaking his head as he stretched to his full height, just as Marc would let out a breath his husband was very sure he hadn't been aware he'd been holding in. They'd always share a kiss; soft, chaste and giggly before being interrupted by the sound of their children calling for them down below.

"Papa! Babbo! Come quick, we got the best seats on the beach!" Their son's shrill voice rings out, and Marc can't help but laugh because for a second, a small split second, he sounds an awful lot like Valentino when he's won something. It didn't matter if it was small and trivial, like a game of family Monopoly at Christmas. Which within itself, was always a difficult feat. Especially if you had Àlex and Julià playing. Or even back in their racing days, standing on top of the podium, soaked in champagne and sweat.

"Yeah, that's right! The best seats on the beach!" Unsurprisingly came their daughters echo, the little one more than content in copying her brother's every move and word. He didn't seem to mind though, as their fathers caught the giggling afterward as he tickled her; laughter from the two bundles of joy ringing through the otherwise empty spot.

As they came closer to the two, Valentino would always reach out to either of his children, arms raised and with joyful glee, they'd run right into his arms. Kneeling down, in a feat of strength, he'd pick them both up. He'd hold them in either one of his arms, and Marc would wind an arm around his waist, before standing behind their children, kissing the tops of their heads as they took in the shining view of the ocean. Sparkles played on top of the waves like diamonds, and the crystal blue whispered of endless possibilities: for the present and the future. The crash of each wave sounding like the whispering of gentle forget-me-nots, and sniffles.

Valentino closes his eyes for a second, basking in the sun and the memories of his family in this exact spot. Of his gentle and headstrong daughter, his kind and inquisitive son, his stubborn and greater than life husband. The hours they spent covered in sand and water streaks. Of all the watermelon rinds they'd gone through. Of Marc and himself swimming out in the shallows, watching their children as they'd played with other kids of families who had made their way down here too. The way in which Carlos, his son, would happily bury his babbo whilst Myra would sit in her papa's lap, snoozing in the shade of the tree they'd always return to.

The sound of the waves grows slightly stronger, and he finds himself crying, but he doesn't brush the tears away. Instead, he lets them sit, rolling down his cheek slowly. He finds that for some strange reason, he doesn't want to wipe them away. Normally he would; he'd never been much of a crier, but he found that when their children came into their lives, he cried more often than not. But he found no shame in it; instead, he revelled in the feeling, in the humanity of it all.

In his old age, he thanked the stars that he was just Babbo and Papa, sometimes Valentino when Marc was chiding him, but always Vale when his beloved was calling his name. Always, always, Vale. Never anything else; never Valentino Rossi, the legend of MotoGP, Valentino Rossi who owned the riders academy, Valentino who had mentored many of the riders in the sport. Just Vale. And he was glad of it; that to his family, he had and would always be, Vale. Babbo. Papa. Amore. And sometimes, on rare occasions, just to Marc; Vita Mia.

Somewhere in the tree bark were their initials; carved during a blistering summer day not quite unlike the one he was lying in. Marc had giggled the whole way through doing it, and Vale had been more than happy to desecrate another woodland of trees if it meant being able to listen to his darling's laughter. He never wanted it to stop, and had a promise to himself and to Marc, that he would always make him smile. Always be the reason for his laughter, always be the reason for his love. At that last one, Marc had gently snorted and pushed him; Vale cackling slightly as he fell on the soft sand. Marc had continued to laugh, his big, wheezing laugh, only stopping to yelp in surprise when Vale had pulled him down towards him. He had landed straight into Vale's lap, scowling slightly when the grin he received from the Italian was smug, and triumphant.

"That's not fair, amore."

"No, perhaps not," Valentino had mused, hand coming up to cup Marc's face, thumb brushing against his jaw and humming in content when Marc nuzzled into his hand, placing on his palm the most featherlight of kisses. "But I have never exactly played fair, have I?"

"No," Marc giggled again, leaning up to kiss Valentino's cheek, smiling against the skin when he felt the elder sigh with content, "But perhaps, that's what I love most about you."

When he opens his eyes again, he blinks blearily, arm coming up to shade his face as he takes in the dark silhouette standing above him. He doesn't really know how long he's been asleep; the blue sky and sparse clouds having turned into dark and heavy storm clouds. How strangely the weather turns, Valentino thinks. It seems to change at the will and whim of its creator, who sits atop Their seat and wonders how next to bother the little plastic figurines under Them.

His vision clears, and he can finally clearly see who's standing over him, waiting. Curly hair as big as the world, and smile so bright it could blind, Marc offers him a hand. For a moment time stills; for a moment, Valentino is back in his thirties, when time and health didn't matter. And when Valentino finally takes his outstretched hand, it is warm to the touch; blistered, worn. He doesn't question why Marc is here, doesn't want to break the spell that's been cast. When his beloved pulls him up, he begins gently patting away at the sand that clings to Valentino's clothes, smiling all the while.

“Marc..” Valentino breathes, not believing that he really is here with him.

“Hhhm?” His beloved answers, head turned down as he tries to catch the last of the sand which clings to his love, hands gentle and firm in their brushing.

Beyond him, Valentino can see two figures walking on ahead, their footprints quickly washed away by the white horses of the current as fast as they were making them. They didn't mind though, it seemed, content on walking and holding each other’s hands. Their laughter and voices seemed familiar to him, though he couldn't place where and when he had heard it. The sounds themselves casting a deep yearning in his heart, as he tried calling out to them, but no sound came.

However, there’s something about this Marc that screams WRONG to Valentino in big bright yellow neon letters. He doesn’t feel right. His presence doesn’t feel… Marc. There is nothing blooming in Valentino’s chest. No feeling of content that his beloved is beside him in this terrifying landscape, where the wind roars and the waves boom.

No. This Marc feels… Almost hollow. Like an abyss. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

He snatches away from the Marc in front of him, almost more violently than he intended and he’s rewarded with a tilt of the head, and his brown eyes casting a look over Valentino’s whole body. It’s the look Marc gives when he’s trying to calculate, curious and analytical to a fault. It’s also one Valentino realises he has seen once before; long, long ago when they used to race against each other.

This is not his Marc; Valentino realises quickly enough. No, he would know his Marc through darkness and through light; he would know him by the way in which his hands touched his body, would know him in death itself. Would know him if his voice was the only thing leading him through the Minotaur’s maze. Would know him in madness itself. Would know him in each and every lifetime they found themselves in. Forever binding was their love, and he would defy heaven, earth and God Themselves to find him. His heart, his soul and his very being.

"Are you ready?" The not-Marc asks, having stepped away in Valentino’s moment of musing.

“I don’t think I want to come with you.” Valentino childishly admonishes.

This Marc laughs, and whilst it sounds almost convincingly like him, Valentino flinches. It sounds old – worn and grating, oppressive and intimidating. It tells of millennia before he came to be, coloured dark at the edges with grief, emptiness. However, Valentino knows Marc’s laugh. It feels like the sun shining after a rainy day, as a rainbow rises in the distance. Colours magnificent and stark, blinding to the sight. He feels it in his bones every time it happens, his beloved’s laugh so human; bright, unyielding and brave.

Marc is brave in Valentino’s eyes; has always been brave, and will always be, brave. He wishes that he had told the younger that more throughout their time together; hopes that the times he did tell him, Marc will remember with fondness and strength. He needs to be brave now. Marc needs to be brave. To hold resolute in front of the unknown future facing him. Without Valentino. Marc needs to be brave without him. Valentino takes one wild look behind him, at the tree, at the sun bed - at the memories which he leaves behind. He feels the sudden need to say, "No, I'm not" because whilst he doesn't know where he's going, he knows that he won't have his beloved with him. Knows that wherever he may be headed next, Marc cannot follow him. Not yet anyway. He needs to be brave. Just as Marc needs and will be. Valentino needs to be brave.

But he can’t find it in himself to do so.

He casts a panicked look, as if to beg time to slow down.

He knows, deep down in his soul, that he won't ever feel the way his beloved laughs against him. Full bodied and with a zest of life. The way Marc shakes as the giggles grow more and more high pitched, before he coughs, and Valentino laughs at him for such a violent reaction. Won't ever feel the way his soft skin ripples and bends in bed, as they lie together. Fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes across the expanse of each other, quiet whispers speaking of the world and their dreams. Won't ever be able to take their long walks in the neighbourhood ever again, or to watch Marc as he tends to their garden; vegetables, flowers, trees and anything beloved. For the love of his life, Valentino would traverse through hell and back.

He grows desperate, because he knows he won't ever again feel the way his daughter plays with his hair absentmindedly, twisting his curls in her fingers as they do family film night. Won't be able to hold his twin granddaughters hands as they do their best to hurry their grandfather up because "he keeps kissing other grandad and we want to play!". He won't ever hug Myra tight again, and dance with her in his and Marc's kitchen. Or feel the way she rolls her eyes when her babbo doesn't want to pull away, just yet. Won't ever hear her whispering conspiringly with her brother and her own daughters, as they try to prank either Valentino or Marc. That despite her being grown up; older and now with her own children, she was still his little girl. For his little girl, he would fight death itself.

He digs his heels into the sand when it clicks that he won't be able to see his son grow into a father. That he will no longer be able to ruffle his hair and poke his tongue out when Carlos makes a sound of protest because he is thirty-five now; no longer is his little scraggly baby boy. But everyone, especially Valentino, knows that deep down, Carlos secretly loves that his babbo still treats him like that. He won't ever be able to poke his head around at Carlos' city office and design house, ever again. Smile softly as his son calls him into the room, before asking if he's had lunch and when the answer is inevitably no, kidnapping him for the afternoon for an hour or so, so that he can feed his son.

He closes his eyes because he knows what he has to do, knows exactly why this phantom Marc is here but he can't find himself to do it. Can't find himself to lose Marc, his Marc; to let go of his beloved. As soon as the trepidation comes, something else replaces it.

He feels Marc. Not this cheap impersonator in front of him, who tips his head slightly to the side in the same way his own does when he’s curious. No, he feels his amore; his life, his love, his heart, his whole being. Feels the way his curls, which are thinning in their age, brush against his cheek when he's stood on his tiptoes. Goosebumps rising on the back of his neck as his husband's breath tickles his cheek.

Marc. Marc. Marc. Marc. Marc.

He feels the way in which Marc's presence envelops him, warming him from his soul to the top of his head and down to his toes.

He can hear Marc's breath, ragged and forlorn, as if he's been running a marathon and can feel the wetness of his tears against his own cheek. Valentino leans into the sensation or rather, the ghost of Marc, his brain supplies helpfully. He hears Marc's whisper, voice hoarse and grating, and he cranes his neck slightly so he's nosing the point of Marc's neck where Valentino knows his husband is ever so ticklish.

He tries ever so hard to convey the emotions he cannot bring himself to say. To let Marc know that he is okay. He doesn’t believe his own words though, knows that if Marc were here himself, he would be poking his side till Valentino cracked and finally told him what was wrong. They knew each other’s hearts and souls like the back of their hands – had carved the contour lines in the two entities with their own vitality. He catches Marc's whispering again; the words tear and dig themselves into the cage of his ribs. Almost as if his body didn't want to lose whatever semblance of Marc was left in this landscape. He feels the words more than he hears them, broken mosaics of emotions and sounds. The waves behind him are crashing deafeningly with a roar, the wind begins to howl and slowly, the rain starts.

"Go." Marc seems to say, a hint of warmth on his shoulder. A kiss. The ghostly one's, that would raise his heartbeat and the hairs at the back of his neck. Kisses Marc had given him plenty of throughout their youth and life; half stolen in corridors, full bodied in bed, and the featherlight brushing of lips.

Another hint of warmth, on his hips this time, spreading across the way. "I will find you, mi amor." It feels like Marc's arms are enveloping his waist in a hug. Similar to the ones they'd share on this same beach. It's soft, and Valentino cannot resist the urge to lean into the embrace.

There's one final hint of warmth, starting at the corner of his chest where he knows his heart is. He doesn't need to hold his hand there to know it's slowed, and slowing even more as time passes. However, strangely enough, this one doesn't feel ghostly. No. He can feel it. Can feel Marc. Marc, pressing against him. His arms come up to pull his beloved closer, almost crushing him against himself, as if not wanting him to escape.

"In every lifetime. Wait for me, amore."

With those final words, warmth rushes like lave through his veins, and Valentino sobs. He wails like his heart has been smashed and scattered throughout the seven seas, and he curses God through bleary eyes for taking him away. So soon. He’s been taken away too soon. He had so much he still wants to do, so much he still wants to say; so much of Marc that he still hasn’t loved and charted, like some lost sailor of the most treacherous and calm seas.

He feels as opposed to hear the way in which their connection severs, deep inside the cavern of his heart, and he grips his chest where his heart is. Tears fall like waterfalls down, down, down. He cries and cries, and the Marc who stands before him looks almost apologetic. As if he knows that he is the cause. The cause for taking him away from Marc. From Myra and Carlos. From Luca. From Álex. From Marc. From Marc.

Marc. Marc. Marc.

He knows that he could fight Death.

Could take him easily in a fight, despite his age; despite the wrinkles which mark his skin, the lines around his eyes and the ever-present set of contours around his mouth. Signs that he had lived a long, well-loved, and content life. The scars of his youth are still engrained in him; in the way his shoulder hunches forward, his neck juts out slightly like a turtle and in the way he feels the remnants of Marc’s presence within him and around him. In the fact that Death had chosen Marc as his guide for whatever awaited him forward. A kindly act, Valentino begrudgingly thinks, tears still falling freely. Almost like a gift, from an entity whose prime responsibility was to take way.

Yet Valentino knows he cannot fight Death.

Not when he looks like the Marc he fell in love with.

Brown eyes so sharp and calculating; deep and chocolatey, that Valentino always feels almost high on sugar, just by looking at him. Those eyes that crinkle at the edges, as his eyebrows shoot up in a challenge. The way those eyelashes have brushed themselves over his own cheek as Marc nuzzles his way in for a cuddle.

The curly hair, always an unruly mess held strong by ounces of gel. Valentino had teased him that his height was only so tall due to the amount of product he was using in that moment, and the smile Marc had rewarded him with, followed by his ringing laugh was enough for Valentino to look at him and think, “Shit. This is it.”

The way he stands, no, Death stands Valentino corrects himself dryly. With arms crossed and leaning slightly to the side. However, there are no scars on his arms; from all his surgeries and accidents, and somehow, Valentino feels triumphant at that. Death themselves, forgot the very thing that made Marc who he was.

Marc wasn’t Marc without his scars, his aching need to continue forward, to be better despite his body telling him to slow down, to savour things. It’s one of the reasons they balanced each other out so well. Valentino was more than happy to fight for something, to push his body beyond the limits of humanity. Yet, he knew when he needed to stop and savour something. Like a child would with a boiled sweet; trying their hardest not to bite down on the treat, because they wanted to see how long they could keep the sugary delight going as one whole piece.

Marc on the other hand, always wanted to push for more more more. There was always something to do, something to achieve, something. When they had brought home their bundles of joy, the days and months which followed had really taught him the act of slowing down. That sometimes, your schedule was not fully set in stone. Some days you really just had to sit down and relax, and go with, god forbid, the flow. That it was okay, in fact, to do nothing but stay in the house for a day.

He had struggled at first, because despite Álex being the same age as himself, Marc had never really been involved in the early raising of his brother. Their age had meant that they could grow up together, to flourish into the adults they became and finally, to grow old together. They could often times be seen, arms linked, rapid fire Spanish exchanged between them. The taller, younger of the two would raise his hand to point something out, and the elder, shorter of the pair would throw his head back; bodies contorting together in ways that were slightly concerning for such old men to be doing.

Yet their laughs never changed; the same shrill, larger than life tones ringing out for the whole world to hear and think, “the fellowship of brothers is something magical to behold.”

------------------ ☆ -------------------

Valentino Rossi passes away at 5.30 am. Marc Marquez watches breath escaping for the last time and breaks. His wails are heard from beyond the corridor, and each soul who is unlucky enough to be listening, holds their loved ones closer, tighter. Their shushed voices saying one thing, in tandem, in unison; "To be loved so dearly, must be a God-given gift."

Álex Márquez holds his brother as he breaks, as he grips onto his soulmate with white knuckles. He tries his best to hold his tears in and he lets his brother cry for the both of them, as he begs for the doctors to do something, anything.

Álex holds Marc, and he vows to be strong for them.

For Valentino who lies in Marc’s arms, with a soft smile on his face. He looks peaceful; human and beloved.

For Marc whose sobs wrack through his bones. His wails and cries for help feel like arrows, shooting, aiming at no one. Álex tries so hard to envelop him in himself that he can no longer feel the raw pain of losing his other half.

For Myra and Carlos who are sobbing into each other, their embrace tender as Myra tucks herself into her brother’s front. The twins look so alike in this moment, that they almost meld into one body. One heart. One soul.

For Luca who is clasping Valentino’s free hand, pressed so tight to his lips that they turn white, his eyes closed and yet tears leak through. He feels his brother’s warmth one last time, and he tries to be stubborn, to finally be selfish, to engrain in his memory what exactly his brother’s life feels like.

Outside, the skies are painted with streaks of yellows, oranges, and reds. Like Valentino had charmed his way into God's good books one last time and had asked for one last miracle. One last sign.

God had probably looked at the man in front of Them and rolled Their eyes in mirth before saying "Go ahead" and letting him loose with Their painting supplies.

He had chosen the reds and yellows and oranges with a smirk, running this way and that; hues and inks spreading like the infectious love and laughter he had given and gained in his life.

His heart is stronger, wherever he is, and he runs to his hearts content.

That's what Marc Márquez thinks anyway. That's what he believes. That's what he knows.

The streaking sunrise, as Valentino Rossi breathed his last breath, surrounded by his family, and cradled by his husband, as best as he could in his own old age and physical condition, were a sign that he was having one last hurrah.

It seems that even the veils of heaven and earth, were not enough to keep him from showing off.

------------------ ☆ -------------------

Valentino Rossi is given a send-off befitting a saint and a hero; in fact, he gets two of them, because God forbid that even in death, the man can be anything but humble.

Marc Márquez hates it.

He hates the flowers that line the streets of Tavullia as the procession slowly makes its way to the church, hates the fact that as they walk past the mural commemorating Valentino, he cannot bring himself to look at it. It’s too soon, too painful for him to do so. He’s also afraid of what might happen if he does; scared of the image of a Valentino who will never come back. Who can never come back. He was elsewhere now. Somewhere Marc cannot reach yet. Cannot run into his arms and beat on his chest with the tears he knows are hanging on the edge of a precipice. Can’t ask him why he had to leave first; why he had to leave his beloved, who he had promised time and time again that he would never go. Not without him.

It was the only promise Valentino had ever broken. The only one that had ever mattered to Marc, and he had gone and broken it. Marc had snorted at the realisation, which had come to him during his many hours of funeral planning alongside his children. In an act of forgetfulness, he had slowly turned to his right-hand side, face beaming in a smile and ready to tell Valentino the joke, when he had realised that he wouldn’t be able to. Not anymore. After all, it was Valentino’s funeral they were planning. God really liked to create jokes out of Their favourite Heroes and Villains.

There had been many moments like that, following Valentino’s death. Times when he had set the table for two, before raising his voice to call out for the elder that dinner was ready. As soon as he had braced himself, it had died on his tongue, leaving a bitter taste. He had smiled ruefully at that, plating himself dinner before plating Valentino’s. He spent the evening speaking to the empty seat in front of him as he slowly ate. Told him about the harvest coming in; that the tomatoes Valentino had told him to stake, were in fact doing very well, despite it being their first year in the ground. He scoffs slightly at that, because somehow, even from beyond the grave, Valentino Rossi finds a way to be a pain in Marc’s backside. He tells him that Myra’s daughters miss him dearly, that Carlos and Myra worry about him and his inability to only serve one meal for himself, and not their customary two.

But how does one relearn to live life without the centre point of their universe? How does the solar system function without its sun? How do you relearn life without your constant of forty years?

Marc knows that if he does turn to look at that godforsaken mural, it will only press the truth deeper; that he was truly gone. That the only traces of him left, of Marc’s Valentino; his amore, his Vale, was the inconsolable hole in his soul.

He can still see out of the corner of his wrinkled eyes, as they continue forward, the stupid neon yellow and equally blinding blue of Valentino’s life colours goading him. Almost as if to say; “He is alive! Look! He lives in this corner! Look, he lives on!” The paint looks as fresh as the day it was finished. Clearly someone wanted to keep the memory of the legend alive.

But they would never know Valentino Rossi as Marc Márquez had known him. Would never know him as wholeheartedly as Marc Márquez did. Had. Does.

Flawed, gentle, messy, ticklish, rough, beloved.

Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind and tucked away in a box that no one but himself can touch, his husband races his dirt bike in front of himself. The blues and yellows of his race suit mould into a blur of green, and Marc’s own bike struggles to keep up, but he pushes anyway. Pushes and pushes, until he finally reaches where Valentino is waiting for him at the start of the track. Visor pushed up, and eyes twinkling with mirth and competitiveness.

“Took you long enough, Amore.” He teases, voice muffled by the helmet which protects him.

Marc flips his own visor up, and rolls his eyes at his husband’s comment, pout very obvious in the way his eyes and nose crinkle. Vale laughs at that, and Marc’s face relaxes into a grin of his own. He never wants to stop making him laugh, he decides. Never wants to see the day where he has to wake up, and not know the joy of hearing his husband’s breezy giggle.

It comes when Marc pokes his side once, twice, three times. He’s trying his hardest to get the eldest to wake up, because they have a whole day to fulfil things with. You must seize the day. You must show God why They cannot take you away. You have to show your worth, to be relevant in Their game. But Valentino has never been one to appease God. Has never been one to play by the rules. Never one to get up early because why would he when he has the sun incarnate by his side? Why try to prove yourself, when you are already lauded as what you are? A legend and a hero, claiming ancestry from those same heroes of old. From Romulus and Remus, founders of Roma and her Empire.

Marc’s face turns competitive because he knows Valentino had cheated. Had let his foot run and his engine roar on the count of one, as opposed to zero. He knows that he had also heard his lover shouting after him to come back, that it wasn’t fair but really. When has Valentino Rossi ever played fair?

He knows Vale can see the change in his expression, despite the hard plastic keeping him shielded. After all, they know each other better than they know themselves. Know the tells of their faces, the lines set within them which act as their route home. After all, he’s traced Vale’s own face with his fingertips enough times now, that he could use the contours and curves to create a map. Even without the map, he would still be able to find his way home to his other half. He didn’t need man’s creations to find his beloved. Why would he, when his beloved was God’s own gift? God’s most beloved, God’s most blessed. Sometimes Marc felt like God. He also knew it was a blasphemous thing to consider, but how could he not, when the man underneath him was constantly singing litanies of his name?

After all, he knows the curves of Valentino’s body like a sailor knows the seas. Knows the tell of the waves. The surges which would normally raise alarm, but instead you ride them out, because it would be so much easier than turning away. You’ve come this far; why run away with your tail between your legs. Take the risk, seize the day, reap the rewards.

Marc would recognise Vale’s voice in any test God saw fit to give him. Would know him in blindness and in death itself. He would always know Valentino, just as Valentino would know him.

Forever, they were bound. Forever, they would seek.

“Papa?” A tiny voice sounds to his right, and Marc slowly returns from that little box in the corner of his mind, where it sits safe from prying eyes, and from those who thought they knew the real Valentino Rossi.

He turns to see Myra watching him worriedly, Carlos standing to his left-hand side. The eldest of the pair is tuned into his sister’s distress and his papa’s body language. He wishes more than anything that he could take it away, take it onto himself. To shoulder the burden of the world, that his papa seems to have taken onto himself. It makes his frail shoulders look even more hunched, and his eyes sadder, hands shakier.

‘The burden of being an eldest child,’ Valentino had once said to him, holding his son close as he had wept into his babbo’s front, sniffling and wiping snot all over his shirt. But Valentino had not minded. Had never minded, in fact. His son had finally broken down and wailed that, he wished that he could stop his little sister from being bullied forever and ever. Valentino’s response was to bring him close to his chest, hoping that his thready heartbeat was enough to comfort his Carlos for the moment. ‘Is that you cannot always take your siblings’ pain onto yourself.’

Carlos had sniffled and pulled away from his babbo, eyes hard with challenge. Valentino had chuckled at the look. Clearly, he had learned that from his papa, and with the pout that followed, Valentino was more than confirmed in his suspicions. Marc had definitely been teaching their children the reigns of adorable warfare.

‘But what if I want to? What if I want to take their pains for myself? Surely when I am bigger and older, I will be very strong,’ Valentino reached out to pinch his cheek between his fingers, cooing all the while, and Carlos’ pout grew even more. ‘Who’s to say that I will not be able to take yours and Papa’s pain too?’

Valentino had given him a strange smile, Carlos remembers now. He had looked like he was on the verge of pain and of scolding his son, and in that moment, Carlos understood what his papa had meant when saying that his babbo was one of the kindest people on this earth. Although his words had been odd, Carlos had remembered them for years to come, and only now did he understand what his babbo meant.

‘It is not the job of children to take one their parents burdens, mi amor. It is our job as parents, to protect you from everything that we can.’

Glancing at his papa next to him, who was clearly trying to be so strong, in the midst of constant reminders of what he had lost, Carlos looked up to the sky. He begged whoever may be up there; God Themselves or even the elements, to give his papa a sign. That his babbo was in fact, watching today. Something, anything, to give his papa the strength to carry on. That he knew how much strength it must take for him to be able to continue onwards. To keep going, knowing that at the end of this procession, was a service wherein his beloved’s entire life, would be dissected in front of him. Carrion crows to a sheep, vultures to a carcass, fans to a God they had made up in their minds. A commemoration, they call it. A way to remember the great Valentino Rossi’s achievements. To commemorate. As if his memory had or would ever be forgotten, for one moment, by his family; by his soulmate.

He needed his babbo to give his papa a sign that he could see. Could see exactly how brave he was being. Could see how brave he has been. He was brave. Is brave. The bravest man alive. That whilst he may have been stubborn and unwilling to relinquish some of his burdens to his children, that did not mean that they couldn’t help him in his hour of need. He hoped his babbo could hear him in this moment. To somehow knock some sense into their papa to lessen his grip on his need to be the strongest. To finally understand that his children were now parents too – no longer just children. That it was their turn to protect their own from everything they could.

“Si, mi corazón?” Marc answers Myra, voice trying it’s hardest to be upbeat, but the smile plastered on his face is tired. It strikes both of his children that they had never considered how old their papa truly was. Truly in fact, had never thought of it too deeply, as he was always on the move, always doing something with his hands. Their babbo on the other hand, found nothing more enjoyable in life than snoozing in the sun. A form of ‘moral support’, he had told them once.

He had winked at them in a conspirational way, and as quickly as that wink came, had pottered his way over to where Marc was kneeling in the dirt, hands brown and brow sweaty. They had watched as Valentino leaned down to watch over his shoulder, arms tucked behind his back and hands clasped together. Whatever he said was clearly winding their papa up because the next minute, he chided him in a cold tone, coloured with indignation and irritation.

“Well, if you know so much about gardening, why don’t you do it yourself?”

Valentino had merely shrugged his shoulders and answered cooly, voice smooth like leather, and dripping with honey.

“But mi amore, you’re so much better at coaxing these vegetables to grow than I am! How would I ever survive without your green fingers, hhmm?”

Marc had huffed at that response and had turned away from his husband. From where they stood, their children could just about make out his muttering about how his life would have turned out so much easier, if he hadn’t taken on such a diva as his husband. Valentino had guffawed at that, voice so warm and infectious, that it had Marc relenting in no time, turning his face up towards his sun. Valentino had sweetly leaned down and kissed his forehead first, then his eyes, his cheeks and when Marc made a sound of protest, finally kissed him on his lips. Soft and chaste, their kids still couldn’t stop the childish reaction of “eeww” rising in their throats despite them being adults.

They had grinned widely when their parents had shot them raised eyebrows and giggled as they walked away whilst Marc called out to them, “that they should be ever so lucky to experience the love their parents did.” They realised now that they had been very lucky. Blessed even, to feel an ounce of the love and connection their papa and babbo had. Have. Did.

Perhaps that was the reason they had never seen his age. Why would they have had to, when his vita mia had always been by his side; was always, by his side. Their babbo had been his sun, moon, stars and galaxy – there had never been any reason for either Myra or Carlos to look beyond them and see their ages. Perhaps that was the burden they took on for their children, and now that one was gone, the other was left to carry the whole thing by himself. Just like Atlas did with the heavens, so would Marc Márquez; perhaps this was their punishment, for being larger than life, and God Themselves.

The commemoration ceremony goes by in a blur of speeches filled with polite laughter, crying and coughing.

Marc sits in between his son and daughter, and the entire time, he grips their hands. They in turn, soothingly rub their thumbs over his wrinkled skin in a way that they know may never be able to replicate their babbo’s own technique. They hope instead that whatever they are doing is enough. To Carlos’ left side sits Luca, his wife Marta and their daughter, now roughly at the same age as both Carlos and Myra. She sits on one side of her papa, as her mama sits on his other. Both hold him steady as he tersely laughs through polite jokes and humorous anecdotes of his blood’s life. They know though, through the hard set of his jaw and the way he sits, ramrod straight in such uncomfortable pews, that he hates this.

On Myra’s right side sits Álex, and he holds her hand in his, with an arm looped in through his own, their fingers are carded together. They don’t know who grips the other harder, just know that the skin around their knuckles are turning white, and the beginnings of a cramp begin to creep in. Behind them, sit the academy boys, complete with their own families and spouses.

Marc supposed it was unfair to call them the academy boys now, given the fact that they were no longer the gangly teenage boys who he used to hound around the track. They had all grown up, made their own families, and after all, there was no more academy to be had; it had disappeared the moment Vale had taken his last breath. He had seen them at the funeral, the first time since Vale had passed, and they had each taken him into their arms, voices soft and eyes wet with tears. They had reiterated that they were family, regardless of who was still on earth, and who had moved on. Marc had done his best to keep his tears in at that, smiling gently and thanking them. However, when Celestino had taken one look at him and whispered in a broken voice, “He would be so proud of you, Marc – I just know it.” Marc had felt the dam inside of him break. He had cried into the youngest’s arms, and with that, everyone else around him had cried.

They held each other in the silence of the church, in the comfort that perhaps God would take pity on them and would provide some form of solace for their navigation of life without their sun.

When the service ends, Marc is almost drowned by people wanting to give him their well wishes, their apologies and their touch. He graciously accepts them all, and Myra suddenly remembers the way in which her babbo had told her, that her papa was one of the warmest souls he had ever had the joy of meeting and knowing. That it was a miracle within itself, he had seen something in Valentino that had made him stick by him for so long.

Myra, a grumpy teenager at the age of fifteen, had just been admonished by Marc, who had found out that she had been skipping some of her after school classes in an attempt to “fit in” with her schoolmates, and in an effort to not be bullied. They had both shouted at each other, and when Myra had said some hurtful things to her papa, not to actually hurt, but only to get him to listen to her, he had stared at her for a moment, before quietly asking her to go to her room.

Carlos had been hiding behind his babbo’s legs, because whilst at the same age as his sister (the perks of being twins), he had been the one to accidentally let slip what had happened. Myra had stomped away, feeling triumphant at the fact that her papa had given into the fight first, but as time went by and she began to see the sun setting in the distance, she began to realise that it wasn’t actually very much fun to sit in your own anger and stew. Just as she had made up her mind to go and apologise to her papa, the door to her room had gently opened.

Marc called out, “Myra? Amore?” and she had quietly answered in shame, because how was it that her papa could still sound so soft, so lovely, even after she had said such hurtful things to him. He had quietly shut the door behind him as he padded into the room, shutting away the sound of the tap in the kitchen going, as babbo was no doubt making dinner up, right at that moment. His voice rang through, even with the shut door, as he spoke slowly in Spanish; no doubt he was talking to her grandmother or grandfather. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen them, and at that thought, tears pricked her eyes.

When Marc reached where his little girl was sitting up in bed, because in his eyes, she would never stop being his little baby, he tentatively sat on the edge of it. Not wanting to crowd his daughter, but also not wanting her to feel like she had to be close to him if she did not want it. They sat in a comfortable silence for what felt like years, the sound of Valentino’s conversation leaking in from the kitchen, and the television where Carlos was probably watching an after-school program. A treat, their parents always said, if you’ve done your homework and there’s time before dinner. Dinner itself, however, was always a family affair; Carlos and Myra would set the table as Marc would busy himself cutting up bread and making beverages, as Valentino took it upon himself to do all the cooking, as god forbid, he didn’t trust his husband to do it. Despite them being on very similar levels of skill.

“Papa?” Myra had asked, and Marc had hummed back, and before she knew what she was doing, she was in her papa’s arms – cradled in close, caged and enveloped in light and warmth. Just like the good old days, when they would go to the beach, and she would always manage to fall asleep in her father’s arms. Under the shade of the big, barky tree, where her and her brother had noticed two initials which looked suspiciously like their parents’ had been etched in.

“I’m sorry, papa. I didn’t mean to be so horrible to you, I’m sorry!” She had gasped out, the tears leaking out of her eyes larger than her own body, as sobs wracked through her body. “I just feel so sad, and so full of emotions and I want to be small again, papa. I want to see grandma and grandpa; I want to see uncle Álex and uncle Luca again. I miss uncle Pecco, and uncle Bezz, and I haven’t seen uncle Cele, nor have I seen uncle Franky. I just want us to all be together!”

Marc had shushed her gently, and let his youngest child take the time she needed. He didn’t speak a word, only rocked her backwards and forwards gently, as if she didn’t weigh more than a feather. As if she really were four years old again, covered in sand and the smell of the ocean. He let her cry into his shirt, let her blow her nose on it and let her stay in his arms until all that was left of her tears were small hiccups and sniffling. When she pulled away to look up at her papa, he had leaned down to kiss her forehead. Soft, warm, gentle; there were never any hard corners with her father, never any word left unsaid, even if it was delivered through actions.

That night, after dinner had been cleaned up and dishes washed, homework finished on the dining room table, and little one’s tucked into their beds, Valentino took his beloved into his arms and let him cry. Let him grip his shirt in his hands and sob quietly, heaving slightly when his sobs caught on his throat, and all the while Valentino did not speak. He lets him cry as much as he needs, fingers tracing patterns onto his husband’s arms. Over and past his scars, around the veins which popped out and finally, down to his waist, where Vale held Marc steady in the ache of his heart that he had been unable to protect his little girl from the world’s harsh truths.

Sometime in the coming weeks, Luca and Álex make appearances at the house, and they stay for a couple days intermittently. When the school holidays come around, Roser and Julià come to stay for a week, and the children are delighted that they stay for such a long time. Then the academy boys make appearances until everyone is gathered around their small dining room table, with chairs from all around the house pulled up.

The house is filled with louder laughter and light; it feels warm and comforting in the kitchen, where Marc is teasing their uncle Bezz for not having a love life, but about three dogs.

All of a sudden, uncle Pecco chimes in that it could be much worse, because poor Cele was still torn up over his lifelong crush.

This revelation is met with raucous laughter as Pecco avoids a sandal, and her auntie Domizia who is holding her, laughs so hard that Myra can’t find it in herself to stop them from teasing the two men. No, instead, she joins in on the laughter.

Whilst neither her nor Carlos may understand the exact situation, for tonight, they’re allowed to stay up late with the adults. They can see the shine that seems to be coming from their parents faces as they take in the scenes in front of them. They look happy, and Marc stands with Vale’s arm around his waist, as Franky brings up a possible addition to Pecco’s family and all of a sudden, it’s his turn to become beetroot red.

Myra and Marc never really talk through what happened that night, though she knows that her papa had listened to her. The bullying stops, and the kids responsible leave her alone. Instead, other children start coming up to her, and whilst at first, she becomes wary because what did they want from her, she slowly learns to let her guard down.

She makes friends, real friends. When they come round to the house, they are delighted to meet Valentino and Marc, having obviously grown up watching motorcycle racing. Her friends excitedly say to her, “You never said that your parents are Valentino Rossi and Marc Márquez! That’s so cool!”

She shrugs her shoulders and replies, “Yeah, but to me, they’re just babbo and papa. Wait till you meet my uncles and grandparents! They’re much cooler than those two!”

As she looks at her father trying his best to thank everyone clamouring to meet him, she understands what it was that Valentino meant. Can see that despite her father’s exhaustion and the way his tears are holding on, he still thanks everyone. He gives them a piece of his heart because her papa has always been like that. His heart was big enough to envelop the whole world in his warmth, and he would do it two-fold if God allowed him to.

Slowly but surely though, people start flitting away. They have homes to go to; dinners to prepare, families to tuck in, and when faced with a dozen invitations to dinner, Marc musters all the strength in himself to thank them but decline. They were going to have a family affair tonight at the ranch; nothing too loud, nothing too big. Just a family dinner, with loved ones and memories of the man who had come to bring them together.

Their nucleus stands to one side as Marc thanks the priest for taking the service, and when the priest blesses him and gives a prayer over him, Myra is convinced that she sees the faint outline of her babbo holding her papa.

Just as he always used to; one arm around his waist, and head resting on his shoulder. When her papa turns away from the priest, it’s obvious that he must have felt something too. Can see that his face looks slightly younger, rejuvenized. The set of his shoulders is no longer so straight, no longer so heavy. They watch as he looks up to face the sunlight streaming through the mosaic in the spire of the church, and his face relaxes; for a second, he isn’t the papa that she and Carlos had grown up with. Face already slightly worn and hair greying. No, this man looks younger; handsome in the set of his jaw, hair brown and unruly and eyes shining with determination. Just as quickly as the image comes, it disappears when he looks onto their group, eyes widening slightly.

She follows the line of his look, and standing behind them, supported by a walking stick and accompanied by someone who looks eerily similar to him, is an elderly gentleman. Her papa must clearly know him, because he takes slow steps, like you would a baby deer. When he reaches the duo, they speak in quiet tones, hushed. Yet, it isn’t hard to tell that there is tension in the air, just enough to make you shiver. They strain their ears to hear and catch just the glimpses of their conversation.

“Sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Uccio. I was worried you wouldn’t make it, seeing as you weren’t at the funeral.”

“I didn’t know I was welcome.” This was followed by a slight sneer, and Myra felt indignation rise at the tone taken to her papa, who had already been through so much.

“Let bygones be bygones, please. He would not have wanted us to fight.” Marc gently chides him, in a tone Carlos knows all too well. It’s the one he takes when he starts to peel away at a rough exterior, when he wants to convince you that his solution was in fact better. “Come to the ranch tonight, please. Bring your family with you,” Marc nods up to the young man standing next to Uccio, who surveys him with interest, almost as if saying ‘This is him? The great Marc Márquez?’

The elder gentleman bristles slightly at that, and Marc changes his tactic slightly. He needs to be careful here, if he wants this Uccio to come. Too long has passed since they’ve seen each other for longer than ten minutes, and if he wants him to come to a family dinner, he needs to tread carefully.

“Please, it would bring me great joy.” He sighs slightly, before pulling his final hat trick though he really did not want to pull it out. “If not for me, then please; for the academy boys, and for Valentino’s memory.”

Uccio, it seems, nods slightly at that, turning slightly to nod in greeting to the academy boys who either nod back or raise a hand in greeting to him.

“I’ll think about it.”

With that, he slowly turns and walks away, the click-clack of his walking stick the only sound in the otherwise silent church. The burden of years is back in Marc’s shoulders, and he stands watching Uccio walk away for a couple of seconds before turning back to his family, smile weary and eyes rimmed red.

“Perhaps it’s time we go home now. We have much to prepare, for tonight.”

At that, they all nod, and slowly make their way over to him; Álex reaches him first, and when his brother loops his arm through his own, he gently leans over and kisses the top of his head, which Marc more than appreciatively leans into.

Their nucleus makes it out of the church in one piece, leaving behind the flowers which Valentino Rossi loved so much, and somewhere, if they had paid attention, there’s the sound of giggling that sounds an awful lot like a young, mischievous boy who became one of Italy’s pride and joys.

------------------ ☆ -------------------

They all know that the commemorative service is exactly what a younger, star struck Valentino would have revelled in, The attention, the stories, the knowledge that he had made an impression deep enough for people to remember him for centuries.

This was the only Valentino the world knew.

They didn’t have the joys, the sadness, the anger, the irritation, of knowing the Valentino who passed away. Could never know him, in the way that his family had made full sure to keep him just to themselves.

The world had Valentino Rossi for many a year; through his crazy hair, his sport changing racing, his insatiable hunger for more achievements than had been created, and his vitality for danger, praise, and attention.

However, his family had their babbo, their beloved, their brother, their son-in-law and their mentor for eternity. Forever. For as long as the sun rose and set, for as long as the moon and stars co-existed together.

They would always have him as he was.

Human.

Beloved.

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