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scrollonso · 3 months ago

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Before — 4 out of ? (last part)

Marc leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the telemetry in front of him. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a harsh glow on the screens that displayed endless rows of data: throttle percentages, brake pressures, lap times.

Normally, this was where Marc found solace — in the precision, in the control. The data was supposed to make sense, to provide answers. But today, it was just noise. Just meaningless numbers and lines that blurred together, his mind refusing to process any of it.

He had managed to push through practice, forcing himself to focus on the track, on the bike beneath him, even though his heart wasn’t in it. The adrenaline of the session had carried him through, numbing the emotions that simmered beneath the surface. But now, sitting alone in the garage, the silence was deafening. The tension from two weeks ago still weighed on him, a heavy, invisible force that pressed down on his shoulders and made it hard to breathe.

Marc glanced at the door of the garage, half-expecting Marco to walk in at any moment. But he knew better. Marco was next door, in the VR46 garage with Valentino. Marc hadn’t see him yet, and a part of him was grateful for that. He didn’t want to see him, not after everything that had happened. It was easier this way — or so he kept telling himself. Easier to avoid the confrontation, to pretend that nothing had changed. But deep down, Marc knew it was a lie. Avoidance didn’t erase the memories. It didn’t make the guilt of goinh down on Marco in the same bed he slept next to Gemma in go away.

He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him as he tried to focus on the telemetry again. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the image of Marco standing at his door, bruised and broken, asking for comfort that Marc had ultimately pushed away. That Marc had sworn he'd give him. Sworn he'd be different than Valentino. It was foolish, thinking he was better than the older Italian man. Valentino's love was the only kind he'd ever known. He didn't know how to give Marco the softness he so deeply craved.

From the thin wall separating their garages, Marc could hear faint voices seeping through the cracks. Valentino’s unmistakable tone drifted in first, that easy, confident cadence laced with amusement as he laughed at something Bez had said. The sound was light, casual, but it gnawed at Marc in a way he couldn't ignore. His gut twisted, an all-too-familiar mix of jealousy and regret creeping up on him like an unwanted shadow.

Marc gritted his teeth, trying to push it down, trying to focus on the telemetry in front of him, but the noise from the other side of the wall was relentless. It filled the silence of his own garage, drowning out any hope of distraction. He clenched his jaw and turned his attention back to the screen, desperately clinging to the numbers, the data, anything to anchor him in the present and away from the memories that threatened to surface.

But then, cutting through Valentino's laughter, he heard it — Marco’s voice. Low, tense, with an edge that made Marc's heart skip a beat. It wasn't like the playful tone he usually associated with Marco in the paddock, where he bantered with the other academy riders and the teams mechanics. No, this was different. More serious. More strained. The sound of it sent an involuntary shiver down Marc’s spine, his body betraying the calm facade he was trying so hard to maintain.

He leaned forward in his chair, instinctively straining to hear more, to catch even a fragment of what Marco was saying. It was a ridiculous impulse, he knew that. Eavesdropping wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t make the past two weeks any less painful, but he couldn’t help himself. Marco was so close — just on the other side of that thin wall — and yet he felt a million miles away. That wall might as well have been a fortress for all the good it did Marc.

The familiar ache settled in his chest, that gnawing emptiness that had taken root ever since Marco had left his room that night in Silverstone. And now, hearing Marco's voice, his Marco's voice, knowing he was right there with Valentino, only made it worse.

Marc’s fingers dug into the edge of the seat below him, the metal biting into his skin as a surge of jealousy flared up inside him. He could hear Valentino’s voice so clearly now, the way he laughed and encouraged Marco, and it twisted something deep in Marc’s gut. He hated it. Hated that Valentino was the one there with Marco, the one offering him comfort and support.

It should have been him. Marc clenched his jaw, trying to push the thought away, but it was impossible. He was the one who understood Marco’s pain, who knew what it was like to carry the weight of the crashes, the injuries, and the pressure to keep going despite it all. Ok, sure Valentino understood all of that, too, but he was the one who had held Marco when he was vulnerable, who had seen the cracks beneath his confident exterior. And now, Valentino was swooping in, offering the comfort that Marc had denied Marco two weeks ago.

The sound of Valentino’s voice grated on his nerves, each word a reminder of how much he had been hurt by the man who now sat just on the other side of the wall. Valentino had been everything to him once — mentor, lover, rival — and the way things had ended between them had left scars that still hadn’t healed. Marc had been crushed by Valentino’s coldness, by the way he had been discarded when things got tough. And now, to see Valentino playing the supportive figure for Marco… it was too much.

Marc’s grip tightened on the desk, his knuckles turning white. He couldn’t stand the thought of Valentino anywhere near Marco, not after everything that had happened between them. He couldn't stand the thought of Vale manipulating a handful of riders just because he knew he could. They didn't deserve that. Marco didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be hurt the way Marc had been.

But at the same time, Marc knew that he had pushed Marco away. He had been the one to tell him to go to Pecco, to find comfort elsewhere. And now, here he was, wishing he could take it all back. Wishing he could be the one by Marco’s side, reassuring him, holding him the way he had that night. But he had made his choice. He had drawn the line, and now he had to live with the consequences.

Through the thin wall, Valentino’s voice cut through again, this time softer, more intimate. “You’re doing great, Bez. Just keep pushing. You’ll get it.”

Marc’s stomach churned at the words. He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to picture Valentino kneeling before the younger man, hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. It brought back too many memories, too much pain. He wanted to be the one telling Marco he was doing great, that he would get through this. But he wasn’t. And now, Valentino was filling that role, the same way he had once done for Marc before everything fell apart.

Marc exhaled sharply, trying to shove the emotions down, trying to focus on anything but the voices coming through the wall. But it was no use. All he could think about was Marco, and the fact that Valentino was the one offering him comfort, the way he had once offered it to Marc before leaving him behind.

In the next room, Marco forced a smile as he nodded along to Valentino’s words. He could feel Marc’s presence, even though they were separated by a wall. He saw the Gresini colours through the cracks, heard the quiet Catalan from the other side, heard that name. He wished it was Alex sharing a wall with him, leaning against the same cutout of drywall as him, it would hurt less if that was the case. Every laugh from Valentino stung, every word of encouragement felt like salt in a wound he couldn’t quite heal. But he kept his head down, pretending that everything was fine. Pretending that Marc’s rejection hadn’t left him feeling more alone than ever.

Valentino clapped a hand on Marco’s shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. “Don’t let it get to you, Bez. You’ve got this. You’re stronger than you think.”

Marco offered a weak smile in return. “Yeah. I’ll do my best.”

The words felt hollow in his mouth. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up. Especially with Marc just on the other side of the wall.

In Marc’s garage, he leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, his elbows digging into the tacky leather of his suit. The weight of his own guilt pressed down on him like a vice, making it hard to breathe. Gemma had stopped by earlier, offering him soft words of encouragement, but her presence hadn’t lifted the oppressive cloud hanging over him. If anything, it had only made things worse. She had looked at him with so much concern, so much love, and all Marc could think about was how undeserving he was of any of it.

He didn’t deserve her kindness, her loyalty — not when he was still so tangled up in thoughts of Marco. Not when every time he looked at her, all he could see was the betrayal in her eyes if she ever found out what he had done. He had cheated on her with another rider, and no amount of excuses could erase that. The guilt gnawed at him, a constant reminder of how far he had fallen.

Marc clenched his fists, the tension in his body coiling tighter with each passing second. He could hear the murmur of voices through the thin wall separating his garage from VR46, muffled but unmistakable. Marco’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation, softer this time, almost as if he were talking to himself.

“I’m trying, Vale. I really am.”

The quiet desperation in Marco’s voice pierced through Marc’s defenses, driving a sharp ache into his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out, but the words lingered, wrapping around him like chains. He knew what it was like to try so hard, to push through the pain and the doubt, only to feel like it was never enough. He knew how much Marco was struggling, both physically and emotionally, and it tore at him that he couldn’t do anything about it.

He wanted to reach out, to tell Marco that he understood, that he knew exactly what it was like to fight against your own body and mind. He wanted to tell him that he was trying too, that every day was a battle just to keep going. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. The line had already been drawn, and he couldn’t cross it now, no matter how much he wanted to.

So instead, he sat there, listening to Marco’s voice through the wall, every word cutting into him like a knife. He could hear Valentino’s low, reassuring tone, could imagine the way the older man was probably looking at Marco right now, offering him the kind of comfort that Marc had refused to give. It twisted something deep inside him, a bitter mix of jealousy and regret that he couldn’t shake.

Why had it come to this? Why was Valentino the one Marco turned to now? After everything that had happened between them, Marc didn’t want Valentino anywhere near Marco. He didn’t trust him, didn’t believe for a second that Valentino wouldn’t end up hurting Marco the same way he had hurt him all those years ago. Marc had been in Marco’s shoes once, desperate for validation, for affection, and Valentino had taken that and twisted it into something painful, something damaging. The scars from that time still lingered, buried deep beneath the surface, but they were there. And Marc didn’t want Marco to go through the same thing.

But what choice did he have? He had pushed Marco away, told him to find comfort elsewhere. And now, that comfort was coming from the one person Marc didn’t want involved. The one person who had left him broken and alone.

Marc’s grip tightened on the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white, the pressure grounding him, keeping him from spiraling too far into his own thoughts. He couldn’t let himself go there, couldn’t afford to let his emotions take control. Not now, not when everything was so precariously balanced. He had made his bed, and now he had to lie in it, no matter how much it hurt.

Through the wall, he could hear Marco’s voice again, quieter now, like he was struggling to keep it together. Marc’s heart clenched painfully in his chest, the urge to get up, to go to him, almost overwhelming. But he stayed where he was, forcing himself to remain still, to do nothing. Because that’s all he could do now — nothing.

Marco leaned back in the chair in the corner of the garage, his legs bouncing with nervous energy. He stared at his phone, willing Alessandro to respond. His mind was racing, and the weight of everything he was carrying felt too heavy.

"Ale," he typed out, his fingers moving faster than he could think.

"ALESSANDRO."

"Pls come back."

"Sto impazzendo."

Minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity. Marco bit down on his lip, glancing up at the team bustling around him, seemingly oblivious to the storm inside him. He needed Alessandro here. Alessandro was the only one who knew. The only one he could talk to about… Marc.

Finally, his phone buzzed with a reply.

"omw 🤙"

Marco let out a shaky breath, his body sagging in relief. Alessandro would understand. He always did. He was the only one that could.

A few minutes later, Alessandro appeared in the doorway, his face immediately softening when he saw the look on Marco’s face. He walked over quickly, concern etched in his features.

"Hey, what’s going on?" Alessandro asked, his voice low as he pulled a chair over to sit next to Marco, the garage emptier now, safer without Vale lingering since he had found his way to the Ducati garage by now.

Marco looked down at his hands, twisting his fingers together. "It’s… him," he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Alessandro sighed softly, leaning in closer to hear him better. "What about him?"

Marco took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "I heard him. Through the wall. I know he’s there, Ale. And I can’t stop thinking about him."

Alessandro frowned, glancing at the wall Marco had mentioned. "Did he say anything?"

"No… not really. But… he’s there. And it’s just…" Marco trailed off, his voice catching in his throat. "It’s stupid. You know?"

Alessandro nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Yeah, I know."

Marco swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. "I keep trying to move on. To focus on racing, on the team, on anything else. But every time I hear his voice, it’s like everything comes rushing back. Everything that happened between us. Especially last time."

Alessandro leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he listened. He had been there when things had fallen apart between Marco and Marc. He had seen the aftermath, the pain that Marco had tried so hard to hide from everyone else. And he had been the one Marco had confided in when it all became too much.

"What do you want to do about it?" Alessandro asked gently, his voice calm and steady.

Marco shook his head, frustration bubbling up inside him. "I don’t know. I want to talk to him, but I can’t. Not after everything. It’s just… too much. And then there’s Vale, and… I don’t know what to do, Ale. I feel like I’m losing my mind."

Alessandro reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Marco’s shoulder. "You’re not losing your mind, Marco. You’re just dealing with a lot right now. But you’ve got me, hm? I’m here. Whatever you need."

Marco looked up at him, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and despair. "Thanks, Ale. I don’t know what I’d do without you."

Alessandro gave him a small smile, squeezing his shoulder. "You don’t have to figure it all out right now. Take it one step at a time. And if you need to talk to him… maybe that’s something you’ll do when you’re ready. But don’t push yourself too hard."

Marco nodded, though the uncertainty still lingered in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready to face Marc again. But for now, having Alessandro by his side was enough.

But don’t push yourself too hard.

Don’t push yourself too hard.

Marco soaked in Alessandro's words, or at least he tried to. He didn't care once he stood up from his chair and left the garage, shamelessly wandering to catch even the slightest glimpse of Marc.

Marc didn't notice Marco at first. He was too absorbed in the numbers on the screen, trying desperately to find solace in the familiarity of his data. But something tugged at the corner of his consciousness, a familiar presence that he couldn't ignore. He looked up, and there, standing in the doorway of his garage, was Marco.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them, the buzzing of the lights and the hum of the paddock fading into the background. Marco looked at him, his eyes shadowed with an emotion Marc couldn’t quite place — anger, hurt, maybe even regret. Marc’s breath caught in his throat, and for the first time in weeks, he felt completely exposed, as though Marco could see right through him.

Just as he processed the other mans presence he turned around, caught off guard by the sight of Ale filming the sunset.

All he could do was smile and look away. Fuck. Knowing him, this was going to be posted and everyone would see him acting a fool. Looking at Marc. Looking for Marc.

The day had dragged on with a suffocating heaviness that clung to the atmosphere of the paddock. The tension in the air was palpable, and Marco had tried to lose himself in the routine of race preparation, but his mind was elsewhere. Despite Alessandro's comforting words, Marco couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was spiraling out of his control.

It was late afternoon when Marco finally stepped out of the back of the garage. The sun had almost set, casting long shadows across the tarmac and bathing everything in a golden hue. The cool breeze offered little comfort as he took a deep breath, trying to clear his head.

As he rounded the corner, he froze. Marc was standing just a few feet away, having stepped out of his own garage at the exact same moment. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Marc looked as tormented as Marco felt. His usually sharp, confident gaze was clouded with guilt and something else — something that made Marco’s heart clench painfully in his chest. They stood there, neither of them saying a word, the silence heavy with unspoken emotions.

Finally, Marco couldn’t take it anymore. "Marc," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of the paddock. He didn’t know what he wanted to say, didn’t know how to bridge the chasm that had opened between them. But he knew he couldn’t keep avoiding this, couldn’t keep letting the silence fester.

Marc took a hesitant step forward, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out but didn’t know if he should. "Marco," he replied, his voice rough and strained. "I—" He stopped, his expression twisting with frustration and regret. "I’m sorry," he finally said, the words spilling out in a rush. "For everything. For pushing you away, for… for everything I did."

Marco swallowed hard, the apology hitting him like a punch to the gut. He had wanted to hear those words, but now that he had, they felt hollow, empty. "Why now, Marc?" he asked, his voice trembling with the weight of his emotions. "Why are you sorry now, after everything? Before the race?"

Marc’s face fell, and he looked away, unable to meet Marco’s gaze. "Because I was scared," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was scared of how much I felt, scared of losing control. We slept together, Marco. I have a girlfrienf and I continue to come crawling back to you." He whispred, as though he was full of shame. He should be, Marco thought. Though he knew he didn't mean it. "I hurt you because of it. I didn’t want to admit how much you meant to me, how much you still do."

Marco’s breath caught in his throat, a wave of conflicting emotions crashing over him. He had dreamed of hearing Marc say those words, but now that they were out in the open, they didn’t bring the relief he had expected. Instead, they only deepened the ache inside him.

The tension between them was unbearable, the air thick with everything they weren’t saying. Marc's apology hung in the space between them, raw and full of regret. Marco’s heart pounded in his chest, torn between the pain he felt and the pull he could never fully escape.

“Marc…” Marco whispered again, his voice wavering as he tried to hold onto his resolve. But something in Marc’s eyes, the depth of his guilt, the vulnerability he so rarely showed, shattered the last of Marco’s defenses.

Before either of them could think, before the weight of their words could push them further apart, Marco stepped forward. His hands found their way to Marc’s face, cupping his jaw with a tenderness that belied the turmoil inside him, a tenderness that Marc never dared to think about giving Marco. He saw Marc’s breath hitch, his eyes wide with surprise and something deeper, something they both had been avoiding for too long.

And then, Marco kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle; it was fierce, desperate, like trying to hold on to something slipping away. Marc responded instantly, his hands gripping Marco’s waist as he pulled him closer, closing the distance that had kept them apart for so long. The kiss was messy, full of pent-up emotions, a mixture of anger, sadness, and the undeniable love that neither of them could deny any longer.

Marco could feel Marc trembling against him, could feel the way Marc was pouring everything into this one moment, as if trying to make up for all the hurt with a single kiss. He kissed back with the same intensity, letting himself get lost in the sensation, in the taste of Marc that he had missed so much.

For a fleeting moment, it was just them, lost in a world where nothing else existed. The noise of the paddock faded into the background, drowned out by the rush of blood in their ears and the rapid beating of their hearts. The world outside the garage — the spectators, the cameras, the relentless demands of the race — ceased to matter. In that kiss, the pain, the misunderstandings, and the mistakes that had plagued them melted away, leaving only the raw, undeniable connection they had began to share.

They clung to each other as if trying to capture something they had both feared was gone forever. Marc’s grip tightened on Marco’s waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of Marco’s shirt as if afraid to let go. He poured everything he had into that kiss, desperate to convey the feelings he could never quite articulate, the feelings he'd never dare to articulate. Not with Gemma still determined to stay by his side. The love that had always been there despite everything. Despite Marco's hurt. Despite Marc's hesitance to love another man in fear that he would hurt him how Vale had all those years ago. Marco responded with equal intensity, his hands trembling as they cradled Marc’s face, holding him close as if he could anchor himself in the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

But as the kiss deepened, as Marc’s lips moved against his with a need that bordered on frantic, Marco felt something else rising within him — something cold and sharp that pierced through the warmth of their embrace. The tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, and with them came the cruel reminder of the reality they couldn’t escape. The weight of everything unsaid, of every moment of doubt, of every wound they had inflicted on each other, came crashing down on him with a force that stole his breath.

He pulled back suddenly, gasping for air as if he had been drowning and only now resurfaced. His forehead rested against Marc’s, their breaths mingling in the small space between them, and Marco struggled to steady himself, to hold on to the fragile moment before it shattered completely. “Marc…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, the words trembling on the edge of a sob. He could feel the tears slipping down his cheeks, each one a testament to the depth of his pain. “This… this doesn’t fix anything.”

Marc’s eyes, wide and desperate, locked onto Marco’s as if searching for something — anything — that would tell him they still had a chance. His hands, which had been holding Marco so tightly, softened their grip but didn’t let go. He was afraid, Marco realized, afraid that if he did, this fragile connection between them would break forever. “I know,” Marc said, his voice hoarse and heavy with the weight of everything he had been holding back. “But I needed you to know… I still need you, Marco. Please.”

The plea in Marc’s voice cut through Marco’s heart like a knife, and he had to close his eyes against the flood of emotions threatening to pull him under. The tears came faster now, spilling down his cheeks unchecked. He knew Marc meant every word, knew that Marc’s need for him was as real and as powerful as his own feelings. But he also knew that words and desperate kisses couldn’t undo the damage that had been done. They couldn’t erase the betrayal, the lies, the hurt that had driven them apart in the first place.

Yet, in that moment, with the echo of Marc’s lips still lingering on his, Marco allowed himself to believe, if only for a fleeting heartbeat, that maybe, just maybe, there was a way forward. It was a dangerous, fragile hope, one that wavered like a candle flame in the wind, threatening to be snuffed out by the harsh realities of their past. But still, it flickered, offering a glimmer of warmth in the cold uncertainty that surrounded them. Despite the hurt, the betrayal, and the countless times they had torn each other apart, Marco wanted to believe that the love they shared — something that had always been so raw, so intense — might still be strong enough to mend the fractures that time and pain had wrought between them.

The memory of their kiss lingered like a bittersweet melody, playing over and over in Marco’s mind, making it hard to think of anything else. It was the taste of what they could be, of the connection that had always drawn them together no matter how far they strayed. But as much as he wanted to cling to that hope, as much as he yearned to believe that they could find their way back to each other, the fear was still there, dark and insistent. It whispered doubts into his mind, reminding him of every time they had tried and failed, of every promise that had been broken. The fear that this fragile sliver of possibility might only lead to more heartache loomed large, casting a long shadow over the hope that flickered in his heart.

Marc seemed to sense the hesitation, the conflict that warred within Marco, and his hands tightened their hold just slightly, as if by sheer force of will he could keep Marco from slipping away. The desperation in his eyes had softened into something more tender, more pleading, as if he understood the weight of the decision Marco was wrestling with. “Let me take you back,” Marc whispered, his voice gentle but filled with a quiet intensity that spoke of how much this meant to him. “I’ll get us a hotel. Please, Marco.”

The words hung in the air between them, filled with a mix of hope, longing, and a deep-seated need for something that had always felt just out of reach. Whether or not Marc’s offer was just about finding a place to be alone together, Marco didn't care.

But as Marco stood there, looking into Marc’s eyes, he couldn’t ignore the gnawing uncertainty that gripped him. Could they really start over? Could they just pick it up where they left off and pretend like the hurt had never happened? The fear of repeating their mistakes, of falling into the same destructive patterns, weighed heavily on Marco’s chest. Yet, despite it all, there was something in Marc’s voice, in the way he looked at Marco with such unwavering determination, that made it hard to say no.

Marco searched Marc’s eyes, feeling the weight of the choice before him. The pull between them was undeniable, stronger than the pain, stronger than the doubts that plagued his mind. And despite everything, despite the voice in his head warning him of the risks, Marco found himself nodding, almost imperceptibly, but enough for Marc to see.

Marc’s expression softened with relief, his breath escaping in a shuddering exhale as if he’d been holding it all this time. “Thank you,” he whispered, his thumb brushing gently over Marco’s cheek. There was no need for more words; they both understood what this meant.

Marc reached out, taking Marco’s hand in his, their fingers intertwining naturally as if they belonged together. With one last glance around to ensure no one else was watching, Marc led him away from the garages, their pace quickening as they moved out of sight. They walked side by side, neither speaking, but the silence between them was comfortable, laden with the unspoken understanding that they were heading toward something they both needed—somewhere they could be alone, where the weight of the outside world couldn’t reach them.

The drive to the hotel was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. Marco’s mind raced, his thoughts a jumble of emotions — anticipation, fear, hope. He kept his gaze focused on the road ahead, but every so often, he’d glance over at Marc, catching the way his hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white with tension. It was clear that Marc was just as nervous, just as uncertain about what came next, but there was also a quiet resolve in his expression, a determination that gave Marco a sliver of comfort.

They arrived at the hotel, a discreet place on the outskirts of town, far from prying eyes. Marc parked the car, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The gravity of what they were about to do settled over them, heavy and palpable. Then, without a word, Marc got out of the car, walking around to open Marco’s door. He extended his hand, and after a brief hesitation, Marco took it, allowing Marc to help him out. Their fingers remained laced together as they made their way inside.

Marc handled the check-in quickly, keeping his voice low as he spoke to the receptionist. Marco stood a little behind him, his heart pounding in his chest as he took in the surroundings. Everything felt surreal, like they were in a bubble removed from reality, where the usual rules didn’t apply.

When Marc returned with the key, he offered Marco a small, reassuring smile before leading him toward the elevators. They stood close together as the doors slid shut, the quiet hum of the elevator the only sound between them. Marc’s hand found its way back to Marco’s, squeezing it gently as if to remind him that he wasn’t alone in this.

The room they entered was simple, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the privacy, the sense of sanctuary it offered. Marc closed the door behind them, the soft click echoing in the stillness of the room. They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, both searching for the right thing to say, but words seemed inadequate.

Finally, Marc took a step closer, his hand cupping Marco’s face as he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to his lips. It wasn’t rushed or desperate like before, but slow, careful, as if Marc was savoring the moment, memorizing the feel of Marco’s lips against his. Marco’s eyes fluttered shut, and he kissed back, the tension in his body slowly easing as he let himself be pulled into the warmth of Marc’s embrace.

They moved together, Marco’s hands finding their way to Marc’s shoulders, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly become uncertain. The kiss deepened, but this time there was no urgency, no need to prove anything — just a quiet, shared understanding that whatever came next, they would face it together.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and a little unsteady, Marc rested his forehead against Marco’s, their breaths mingling in the space between them. “Stay with me tonight,” Marc whispered, his voice low, laced with a vulnerability that Marco hadn’t heard from him before.

Marco nodded, unable to find his voice, but the answer was clear in the way he tightened his hold on Marc.

Marc’s eyes softened at Marco’s silent agreement, and for a moment, all the tension between them seemed to dissipate. He let out a shaky breath, pressing a gentle kiss to Marco’s temple before pulling back slightly to look at him, really look at him. The uncertainty in Marco’s eyes was still there, but there was also something else — something that gave Marc hope.

Slowly, Marc led Marco to the bed, their hands still entwined. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamps casting a warm, intimate light over the space. Marc sat down first, pulling Marco down beside him. They sat there, side by side, their shoulders touching, both of them acutely aware of how close they were, yet neither making a move to close the remaining distance.

Marc turned his head slightly, his eyes searching Marco's face, lingering on the curve of his lips. There was a quiet tension between them, an unspoken understanding that had been building for so long. Marc's breath hitched as he lifted a hand to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from Marco's face, his fingers lingering on Marco's cheek, the touch light, almost hesitant.

Marco leaned into the touch, his eyes half-lidded as he let out a shaky breath. The air between them felt charged, electric, and Marc could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the intensity of his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He knew what he wanted — what they both wanted — but still, he hesitated, as if waiting for Marco to make the first move.

Marco, feeling the weight of Marc's gaze, finally turned to face him fully, his lips parting slightly as he met Marc's eyes. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the world around them fading away until it was just the two of them, alone in the quiet of the room.

Then, almost as if drawn together by an invisible force, Marc leaned in, his eyes fluttering closed as his lips brushed against Marco's in a tentative, searching kiss. Marco responded immediately, a soft sound escaping his throat as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss.

The world seemed to slow down as their mouths moved together, lips and tongues exploring each other with a mix of tenderness and hunger. Marc's hand slid to the back of Marco's neck, pulling him closer, while Marco's hands found their way to Marc's chest, clutching at his shirt as if to ground himself in the moment.

The kiss grew more urgent, more desperate, as if they were both trying to make up for lost time, for all the moments they had held back. Marc's hand tangled in Marco's hair, tilting his head back to gain better access as he kissed him deeper, their breaths mingling, hearts racing.

Marco wants to bite him.

He doesn’t — he feigns smugness instead, a confidence he doesn’t have right now as their lips part, his body feels like it’s about to crumble under Marc's touch. He grabs the headboard behind Marc with both hands, one arm on each side of Marc's head — it’s either this, or his hands will start wandering, touching and grabbing and exploring because they have seen each other naked, but Marco wants everything. He wants to swallow Marc in the physical and metaphorical sense, he wants Marc to be his and also a part of him at the same time, he wants Marc in his mouth and down his throat and around his neck.

Marc lifts a hand and grazes the fingertips on Marco’s cheekbone to move some tendrils of hair that have escaped his fluro yellow claw clip, of course it's the vr46 colour, which he then tucks behind Marco’s ear. Marc looks at him like he knows that Marco would splay himself open for him - does he know? Marco wants to tell him, but he fears he’ll run - and Marco feels that gaze right in the middle of his sternum.

“I know I might fail,” Marc rests his hand on Marco's cheek now and Marco's grin freezes on his face, “But do I have permission to try?”

Fuck.

Marco doesn’t even know why Marc is asking— well, he does know, and it’s because Marc is being way too fucking nice, and will keep asking for consent until his throat is dry, and god if that isn’t so fucking sexy of him. Marco swallows and nods frantically, suddenly unable to make a sound — but he knows what Marc is going to want from him, so he takes a deep breath to ready himself for the demand.

“Words, lindo.”

Marco only has one word, and that’s “fuck” yelled out loudly for an hour straight ideally — but he’s ready, so he clears his throat to answer.

“Yes, please.”

Marc smiles contentedly. “Good boy. Come here?” He says in a low tone, sliding his fingers along Marco's cheek and then under Marco's ears until he can gently hook them behind Marco's neck to pull him into a kiss.

And what a kiss, Marco thinks when he leans down for it, bracing himself by wrapping his arms around Marc's shoulders.

Marc always kisses him like he’s delicate, like he’s the most succulent of meals, like he wants all of him and at the same time wants to make sure he’s kept safe. One hand on Marco's cheek and the other on his thigh, Marc holds him through the kiss as if Marco was even thinking of going anywhere.

Marc's kisses almost make Marco think Marc would want to keep him.

Marco pushes the thought away by deepening the kiss and tightening the hold of his arms around Marc's shoulders, using them to push himself against Marc's chest and also give Marc's crotch a little rub with his own. It can’t hurt, can it?, to make Marc feel how much Marco wants him at all times, including right now when all he had to do was have Marco sit in his lap and Marco is desperately hard in his sweatpants.

Marc's fingers dig into Marco's skin in all the spots Marc is touching him — Marco feels them on his jaw and right behind his knee. He drinks the little “mmhh” that Marc releases in the middle of the kiss like it’s ambrosia, he can almost physically feel it fill up his mouth and slide down his throat, leaving fire in its wake. And Marco would burn, he would do it gladly if only Marc asked him to — but Marc doesn’t ask. He'd never dare to beg for anything. Never again. Instead, he pulls back from the kiss just a little, leaving Marco's lips open and wanting.

“You need to learn how to slow down, darling.” Marc whispers, lifting a hand to rub his whole palm on Marco's forehead to brush more strands of hair back. He’s smirking, still, and Marco can’t help but huff out a little laugh in response. He’s been caught red-handed, but this is not news for either of them: they’ve known each other long enough for it not to be a big revelation — he’s the one who wants things and wants them right now, Marc is the patient soul who reins him in. Except, this whole dynamic has gained a whole new layer now that one of the things Marco is allowing himself to want is Marc himself. It has made Marco more demanding, and Marc more firm.

And Marco loves it.

“You know me, amore. I haven’t slowed down one day in my entire life.” Marco grins, cupping Marc's jaw with one hand and rubbing the pad of his thumb on Marc's lips. Marc purses them to kiss Marco's finger, and Marco's eyelids and chest and stomach flutter.

“I know.” Marc nods, resting both hands on Marco's sides. He rubs them up and down until Marco's team shirt lifts up enough for him to slide under it and press his fingers into the softness just above his hips. “And I wouldn’t have you any other way. But I wonder—” Marc inhales sharply, furrowing his brows in the exaggerated expression of someone who is concocting the most articulate thought (he’s an absolute loser, Marco adores him), “Is there any way I could perhaps help you do that? Pause, for a moment?”

It’s a twinkle in Marc's eyes, and Marco catches it immediately. His whole body lights up.

“Maybe.” He arches an eyebrow, “You could try. You’re a very resourceful person.”

“Well. I do have something in mind.” Marc sits up, wrapping his arms around Marco's waist and straightening his back up until their faces are incredibly close again. “But I’m going to need you to be a very good boy for me. And some lube.”

It’s a good thing that Marco is being securely held in Marc's lap, because the bout of dizziness he feels all at once almost sends him flying straight to the floor. Fuck, is he actually insane? Marc knows by now the effect he has on him — and the bastard knows how to use it to his advantage too, because why would he call him a ‘good boy’ from that distance, lips that almost touch, breaths that almost combine?

“Gesù. Yes.” Marco breathes out, starting to reluctantly slide a leg off of Marc lap to turn around. “It’s just—”

“Now, now.” Marc grabs him promptly by his hips and Marco stops immediately, eyes fixed on him and his shit-eating grin that Marco wants to bite, “What did I just tell you? You need to settle down.” Marc tells him, and his tone is gentle but doesn’t give Marco any room for complaining. Not that Marco would want to, anyway — he feels his bones melt at the vigorous hold on his sides and at the rumble in Marc's voice, but he still manages to slide back into place and sit where Marco wants him.

“Where is it?” Marc asks him, running his hands over the small of Marco’s back purely because he wants to touch him. Marc has never been the tactile one between them, but Marco's love language is touch — which basically means that he has subjected Marc to his hugs, touches, caresses, to his fidgeting with various edges of various pieces of Marc's clothing until the whole thing rubbed off on Marc, and now every time he runs his hands over Marco's body, his skin goes up in flames.

“There’s a small bottle in the smallest pouch of my zaino.” Marco’s voice isn’t even stable right now — it trembles just as his body is doing — but he knows that Marc wants him to be present, and he doesn’t want to let him down.

Luckily his whole being is shaken back into existence the moment Marc's hand on the small of his back slides around his waist so that Marc's arm can hug him, holding Marco against his toned chest with one firm movement; Marco feels Marc's torso lean forward and instinctively wraps his arms around Marc's shoulders to avoid falling backwards, a surprised yelp escaping his lips.

“Marc, cristo—” Marco chuckles as he hugs him, pressing his cheek against Marc's as the man leans over and stretches an arm out to reach the bag.

They’re both laughing now, and Marc's laughter so close to Marco's ears makes Marco's insides feel like they will never be solid again. How could he live without this?

“See? It worked, and you didn’t have to move a muscle.” Marc chirps happily and kisses Marco right under his ear — then on his jaw, on his cheekbone, on the corner of his lips while he sits back again and takes Marco with him. Marco's eyelids flutter closed and he holds Marc's face again, a soft breath breaking against Marc'z lips a few moments before Marc kisses him once more.

It really feels like Marc kisses him because he likes to do it, and Marco lets himself believe it; one hand still splayed open on Marco's back, Marc holds him as he savours Marco, sucking on his bottom lip, taking up all the space that Marco has in his mouth — Marco gives it up gladly — until he breaks the kiss with one of his little moans that make Marco's ears tingle.

“You took my fingers so well last time,” Marc whispers right against Marco's lips, and wow, shit, he’s going straight for it, okay, “Do you want to show me how good you are with my cock?”

At this point, the hold Marco has on Marc's face is more of an anchoring point than something borne of affection, because he feels like he’s going to tumble right off Marc's lap even though he’s securely sitting on it. Who taught him to speak like that?!

“Cazzo, mate—” Marco drops his head forward, eyes closed as if it’s enough to soften the blow of the fucking punch in the chest he just received, “God, yes. I want nothing more. Please.” He remembers, in the haze of the moment, what Marc had told him to do the last time they had found themselves in this situation — he likes it when Marco asks nicely, and Marco is hellbent on not letting him down.

And sure enough, Marc smiles — Marco would fight a thousand wars if it meant he could always see him like this — and he pops the lube open with the flick of a thumb. They don’t even look at the bottle — they only have eyes for each other, with Marc's hand still in the small of Marco's back and Marco's hands delicately resting on the line of Marc's jaw. They stare at each other in what frankly looks like a silent battle for who can hold the most affection for the other in their gaze. Marco hopes it’s a tie. Convinces himself it is.

He shifts his hips back a bit and reaches for the band of Marc's jeans, but Marc tuts, arching his eyebrows. “Ah-ha. Don’t move.” He says, slow and low — and they’re so close that the words roar in Marco's chest. He puts his hand back on Marco's upper arm, finger grazing lightly over the scars litering his skin as he forced himself to keep as still as possible. It’s quite the undertaking for him, as someone who wants to touch, move, get things going. He has no patience and that is especially true when what he wants is right in front of him, but Marc has made it very clear what the rules are, so Marco waits. The last thing he wants is to be kicked aside again.

He waits, but he watches — he watches as Marc wriggles his hips enough to be able to slide his bottoms down. Not all the way, because of course he wouldn’t want Marco to move an inch — but then he takes his cock out, which is already half-hard just by making out with Marco, and he can’t help but feel a tinge of pride at the sight.

“You are so beautiful.” It comes out of Marco before he can even stop it, and his breath hitches a bit at the end of the sentence, but now it’s too late to take it back anyway. They’ve always had words of praise for each other, regardless of the context in which they were said — and yet these words now taste like a brand new thing. Like something that isn’t blooming yet but it’s desperately asking to, something that feels tentative and shy and that maybe Marco should’ve kept for himself, on second thought.

He searches for Marc's gaze in a subtle panic — he needs to know immediately if he has ruined everything, if he has given away too much, if Marc hates him—

He finds Marc's hazel eyes staring straight back at him, and for a moment Marco could swear something flashes in them, just as Marc's eyelids flutter for an instant. His lips part ever so slightly, almost as if Marc would like to say something but he's stopping himself at the last second. his stomach drops a bit, because what is Marc thinking right now? Perhaps that he's not beautiful? That he doesn't deserve the compliment? And he doesn't know how to fix it, he doesn't know how to tell him without breaking the atmosphere of the moment, so Marco holds his face gently, softly, fingertips subtly rubbing the skin under them. You are, you are, you are, one small rub, and then another, then another, you are, you are, you are.

Marc takes a deep breath, slowly, and Marco feels the hand on his back give him a very quick caress. “Nothing, compared to you, tesoro.”

No, no, no, Marco pulls him into a kiss, his thumbs rubbing Marc's cheekbones, you are, you are, you are, and he vaguely registers Marc drizzling the lube on his cock and his own fingers as they kiss, you are beautiful, you are so beautiful, you are the most beautiful, and now one of Marc's hands is wrapping around his waist and ending up on his back and it’s sliding, lower and lower and lower, you are the most gorgeous creature I have ever laid eyes on, and it slips inside Marco's pants and surpasses his boxers, and Marco is still kissing him, there’s no one more beautiful than you, and then the first finger breaches him, and the whimper he lets out into Marc's mouth sounds a lot like his name.

“Si, amor?” Marc murmurs and oh, maybe Marco did say his name.

“I— I want— I need you, Marc, please—”

In a different universe - one where the mere act of looking at Marc doesn’t make Marco want to drop to his knees — Marco would be telling himself to get it together. That the state he’s in after a short makeout session and one mere finger is way too much, that he needs to reel it in — but in this universe, the one where Marc is smiling at him as he adds a second finger, Marco is not holding back.

“You need to be patient, Marco.” Marc's words follow Marco's moan almost in one unified sound — they’re an extension of Marco's noises, Marc fits them in between one whimper and the other like they belong there — and they do, like puzzle pieces perfectly coming together.

Patience, patience — by the time Marc has added a third finger Marco is a writhing, whimpering mess, desperately seeking some sort of relief by attempting to push his hips against Marc's fingers. He can’t, though, because Marc told him not to, he told him to stand still and be patient, and Marco feels like his head is about to explode. He knows why Marc is doing that — he wants Marco to learn to take his time, to not rush things, to wait, but all Marco wants is this beautiful man to be inside him and he is not sure if he’s learning any lessons here.

“Right,” Marc breathes out just as his fingers still, earning a disapproving moan from Marco, “You’re being so very good for me”, Marco squirms ever so slightly as the fingers slide out with ease, “But last time I forgot to ask you something very important and the mistake has been eating at me.”

Marco's brain is way too liquified to even focus properly on Marc's words, but what Marco knows is that there is nothing he would change about their first time. He has been replaying that night over and over in his head, and if Marc asked him what he would change, he wouldn't have an answer.

“What—” Marco swallows, trying to get his words out, “What is it? You were perfect.”

Marc shakes his head. “No, Marco, and I'm sorry. I'm— still learning.”

Marco catches a hint of hesitation in Marc's voice. He doesn't understand why, but if Marc doesn't tell him immediately what the issue is, he's going to go insane.

“I didn't ask you what your safeword is,” Marc sighs, rubbing Marco's side with his other hand. “And I'm so sorry. I should have.”

Leave it to Marc Marquez to apologise for not properly taking care of him. Leave it to Marc Marquez to realize he was far too similar to Valentino. To realise he'd rather die than continue to hurt Marco how Vale had hurt him.

God, Marco could start crying.

“Amore, it's fine, I promise,” Marco tries to reassure him, cupping his jaw with both hands to direct Marc's gaze into his own — and oh, Marc's eyebrows are knotted in the middle, and he's concerned, so very concerned. “I know you wouldn't hurt me—”

“Marco, please, don't brush it off.” Marc's hand on Marco's hips grabs him firmly enough to get Marco's attention, “It's always important to know. I— people— should be asking you, and you should make it known.”

It doesn't feel like Marc is telling him off — rather, this sounds a lot like something he's been reprimanding himself about for days.

“I— I want— I need you to be safe, Marco, please—”

Marco's hands almost scramble to grab Marc's face to pull him in until their foreheads touch.

“I am, I promise, I am.” Marco tells him gently, rubbing circles into Marc's skin with his thumbs.

Marc speaks as if Marco would be able to sleep with anyone else now — as if he could desire someone else the way he desires Marc, viscerally, primordially— and Marco knows it's true that Marc would never hurt him — not physically — but his heart still swells up at the thought that Marc is being so attentive towards him.

Their faces are still close when Marco speaks again.

“Lavender.”

Marc looks up at him. “Mh?”

Marco smiles. “Lavender. My safeword.”

Marc's shoulders relax all at once, his face painted with relief.

“I’m sorry,” He says, low and soft, “I’m trying.”

Marco frowns. Trying what? Marc doesn’t have to try, not with him at least. No one knows Marco more than Marc does, embarrassingly enough, and there is nothing he could do wrong when it comes to dealing with him in Marco's eyes. He could do no wrong. His pedestal was far too high for him to be making lowly mistakes.

But the words are cut off right from Marco's throat when Marc wraps a hand around his own cock, taking his lower lip between his teeth as he slowly strokes it a couple times. It is a vision to behold — this perfect man with this perfect face and these perfect hands and this perfect cock — and Marco's jaw falls open, quite literally. He fears he’s going to start salivating in a moment, and he’s thankful for Marc manoeuvring him to lift himself up just a little while he pulls the elastic of Marco's pants and boxers low enough to leave his ass uncovered.

“Just like that… good boy.” Marc's voice guides Marco as he sits back down, the praise making him feel dizzy — as if the feeling of Marc's cock sliding inside wasn't exhilarating enough.

It fills Marco up, inch by inch, and he feels like he's not taking it fast enough — he wants Marc inside him, and he says it with a whimpering moan as he tries to take him to the hilt. But Marc isn't only dictating Marco's movements with his voice, no — his firm grip on Marco's hip is deciding the speed at which Marco is going, and it's too much and it's not enough.

“Marc—” Marco moans in frustration, receiving a gentle shush and a hand stroking his hair in response.

“It's okay, mi amor. Patience. There's no rush. You're being so good for me.”

Marc's praise stays with him until Marco has taken him to the full length, until he's sitting back down in Marc's lap with a groan and he's full, and Marc is all around him and inside him and outside of him, and he's safe.

“Well done, good boy.” Marc strokes Marco's sides gently with both hands, in stark contrast with Marco's fingers gripping Marc's shoulders for dear life.

He wants to move — he wants to make Marc feel good, to show him what a good boy he is for him — and he tries it, he pushes himself up just slightly, even though it doesn't last long. Marc's hands are promptly back on his hips, keeping him down and still.

“It's alright, darling. Just sit still for a minute. You feel so good around me.” Marc says softly as he's smiling at him, and jesus fuck, does he want him dead? Not only is he talking to him like that, but now he’s stopping him from moving, from allowing Marco to give him what he wants, and Marco whimpers again. He likes Marc so fucking much, and the mere idea that Marc might like him back enough to at least want to do this with him makes him want to scream — fucking god, why is Marc Marquez so hard to understand.

“Marc, I—” Marco wants to say it, he wants to ask him why and when and why again. Why does Marc take care of him like this, why does he love him and cherish him and touch him in a way no one has ever touched him before, and when will Marc tell him that this is all just for fun, just so they can fool around for a while, and why.

And what's more frustrating out of this whole fucking situation is that Marco is still hellbent on giving Marc all that he can and all that he has, he wants to see Marc lost in the throes of pleasure because of him and his body, he wants Marc to look at him the way he looked at him before his crash — the lump that forms inside Marco's throat is heavy and painful and Marco lets out a choked noise.

“You'll be okay, amor. I promise. Sit still, I'll take care of you.” Marc's words slide across Marco's skin just like Marc's hands are doing, touching and caressing and caring, “Please, let me fix this. I'll make it up to you. I'll never hurt you again, tesoro.”

Deep down, Marco knows that Marc is right — that things are not as dramatic as he’s making them out to be, that they're both adults who aren't even commited to eachother how Marco so deeply wishes they were — but in reality, Marco's hands are itching and his brain is buzzing.

And if it’s because of the thought of that night or because of Marc, Marco doesn’t want to investigate this further either; all he knows is that he’s trying really hard to be good for Marc, to stay still like he’s asking him — and he doesn’t even realise that his hands have slid from Marc's shoulders to his chest and are now holding Marc's shirt in two tight fists. Marco wants Marc to kiss him, he wants Marc to fuck him into the cheap hotel bed, he wants Marc to tell him he loves him— oh fuck, he loves Marc, doesn’t he? Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

The sob leaves his throat before Marco can even notice, and when he does, his hand flies to his mouth to try and stop himself from releasing any more. His eyes are warm and his vision is getting blurry, and— shit, this is a terrible time to start crying. What would Marc think? He is equipped to carry the weight of Marco's emotions - though he wasn't the best as sticking around - but this is a completely different situation they find themselves in.

He’s sitting on Marc's cock, crying over the fact that he's not so different from Eos, the goddess of the dawn. He feels powerless in this love he has for Marc, much like Eos's unrequited feelings for Ares. No matter how hard Eos tries, Ares will always return to Aphrodite. Just as Marc will always go back to Gemma.

“Marco, oh, amor—” Marc's soothing voice reaches him very quickly and so do Marc's hands, cupping his face and drying a tear with the pad of a thumb. “Are you okay? Do you want to stop?”

Marco knows that he could use the safeword at any point. They have never been in this predicament before, but just by knowing the type of person Marc is, Marco knows he can trust him fully to respect their agreement. He knows that, and for some reason the thought makes him feel much better about his decision.

He shakes his head, uncovering his mouth. “No,” he says, voice quivering, “No, I’m okay. I’m just very overwhelmed.”

Marc strokes rebel strands of hair away from Marco's face with so much care and softness that Marco could genuinely sob about it for a day or two; he knows Marc is trying to calm him down though, and he wants to stop crying before his brain starts telling him he’s ruining everything, so he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Good job.” Marc whispers, and it takes Marco all his willpower not to whimper in the midst of his own tears, which would be absolutely ridiculous.

“You are doing so well.” The Spanish man continues. Marco decides to keep his eyes closed for a while longer, to focus on Marc's voice and hands stroking his face. “I know it’s hard for you to calm down. But it’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you, you’re safe. No need to be scared right now. I just want to feel you around me for a little while longer. You feel so good. I wish you could stay here forever.”

Marc doesn’t know, but Marco would. Marco would stay there, in his lap, in his hands, for the rest of time if necessary.

He does his best, anyway: he breathes in and out slowly, and soon it feels like Marc is breathing in sync with him — maybe to regulate Marco's breaths, maybe because they just do that, but it helps a lot, and soon Marco calms down fully. It’s like magic.

The sensation of Marc filling him up is still very much there. Marco comes down to Earth with another whimper, his back arching when a little giggle from Marc makes both shake slightly.

“There you are.” Marc coos. Marco finally opens his eyes, his vision still a little blurry, but he’s blushing like a schoolgirl now, because Marc is smiling at him with that smile Marco keeps so close to his heart — the slightly crooked one, with his eyebrows gently bending upwards in the middle like he’s constantly looking at the most beautiful thing in the world.

Marco wants to be that, for him.

“Good boy. See? You did it.”

Marco feels his brain snap into place.

He wraps his arms around Marc's shoulders and pulls him in, slowly, almost lazily, their bodies impossibly closer now and then kisses him. He realises only halfway through opening his lips up for Marc that he didn’t ask for permission, he didn’t say please — but Marc's hands immediately run up his torso, from Marco's hips to his shoulder blades and take Marco's shirt with them; the fabric bunches up in Marc's fists and leaves the lower part of Marco's torso bare.

Without breaking the kiss, Marc keeps Marco's shirt up with one hand, while the other one slides lower and lower until it reaches Marco's entrance, fingertips running over his outstretched rim, right in the spot where their bodies are, statically and frustratingly so, joined together. Marco moans into the kiss, biting down on Marc's lower lip.

“Mh,” Marc smiles, pulling back just a bit, “You really feel so good, you know?” He continues, using his fingers to push onto the underside of his cock so that it sinks even further inside, eliciting a begging moan from Marco.

“You can ask me, now.” Marc smirks.

Marco needs to take a deep breath before speaking. “Ask what?”

“Ask me to fuck you, Marco.”

And it comes out of Marco like a landslide, like something Marco can’t run away from: he pushes his knees into the mattress at Marc's sides, pressing even further against him with a long, drawn out moan as he arches his back, ready to start moving the moment Marc allows him to.

“Amore, please— please, fuck me.”

He thinks Marc is going to grab his hips, to finally allow him to start bouncing up and down like his body is craving to do — instead, Marco feels Marc's arms lock around his waist and, in a moment, he finds himself being lifted up and laid on his back on the bed quicker than his brain can even begin to process.

“Good boy.” Marc growls into Marco's mouth before reclaiming it with the hunger of a man starved; Marco's mouth and body and soul are all for him — they open up for Marc like a blossoming flower, letting the man in as much as Marco is able to handle.

Which — turns out — is more than Marco imagined, because Marc is soon thrusting into him, half-kneeling on the bed, one foot planted on the ground. Marco barely has time to gasp, kick his pants all the way off to wrap his legs around Marc's waist and arms around his shoulders, and then his brain fully disconnects once more; Marc pounds into him like he’s trying to mark him — Marco likes to think that Marc is making him his own, and even if Marc's thrusts mean something else to his friend, to Marco they’re saying mine, yours, mine, yours, mine.

“Oh, tesoro, you feel so good—” Marc pants in Marco's ear and Marco closes his eyes; maybe, if he doesn’t look, he can pretend that Marc is saying this as he lazily wraps his arms around his waist on a warm Sunday morning in their bed in the house they share, pressing himself against Marco's back and leaving a kiss behind the shell of his ear, both of them smelling of sex and fresh sheets, right before Marc gets up to cook breakfast.

And then Marc's cock hits that spot inside Marco that makes him let out a moan that is much louder than the others and arch his back, and Marco really doesn't know if the ringing he hears is from Marc's phone or from his own ears — but it doesn't matter. He tightens the grip of his legs around Marc's hips to get him to go deeper, deeper, deeper, and Marc does — he plants his knee into the duvet and his foot solidly on the floor and shifts his hips forwards just enough to pound into Marco with a relentlessness that makes Marco feel dizzy.

Marc's cheek is still pressed against Marco's when he cups his jaw on the opposite side with a hand; Marco turns his head into the touch, eyes closed, until Marc's thumb grazes his bottom lip. He opens his eyes, then, and without hesitation, he tilts his head forward to take the finger in his mouth, wrapping his lips softly around it. He feels Marc's thrusts stutter and has to do his best not to smirk around Marc's digit, especially because Marc is now lifting his head up to look at the pretty picture in front of him and Marco is not going to miss the opportunity to employ his best doe eyes if he can.

He looks up at Marc, thumb in his mouth, and gives the pad a quick lick before sucking on it. Marc is looking at him like he has never seen anything so beautiful — at least, that’s what Marco makes himself think in order to stay sane — with his lips parted in surprise and a little gasp that escapes them when his eyes land on his finger being enveloped by Marco's supple lips.

“Fuck,” Marc mutters, pushing the thumb deeper — Marco feels it slide across his tongue and thinks about Marc's cock doing the same — “You are so beautiful, amor. I’m so - ah - I’m so lucky I get to have you like this—”

Marc isn’t the lucky one, Marco thinks. Looking up at him, brunette locks falling over his forehead and bouncing to the rhythm of his thrust, mouth agape in the throes of pleasure — Marco wants to tell him. He wants to tell him that he’s pretty sure he loves him, and that he’s sorry if this ruins everything between them, and that it’s fine if Marco doesn’t love him back — it’s not fine, but what else is he going to do? Lose him? Again?

He says nothing, though. He hums around Marc's thumb as his lips hit the base of it and he keeps sucking and licking just as he feels Marc's thrust get faster and more frantic. Marc presses the other four fingers against Marco's jaw and now he’s practically holding his head, and Marco's eyes roll to the back of his head at the thought of Marc handling him that way. He slides one hand away from Marc's side to try and reach his own neglected cock, but Marc is faster, always. He pushes Marco away with his free hand and wraps his own fingers around Marco's erection instead.

“No. Mine.” Marc growls, and Marco would cry again if he wasn’t too busy trying not to come on the spot.

Marco is literally everywhere, he’s inside Marco and around his cock and in his mouth and on top of him and Marco sucks on his finger like it’s the source of the oxygen he needs to live; Marc looks mesmerised and Marco believes him, he believes that Marc loves him back within the confines of the orgasm that is building up inside both of them — that it’s real for a moment, for a brief, intense moment where their bellies tighten and the pressure builds up and their moans almost become one, and Marc is pounding and pounding and pounding and saying Marco's name over and over again — and then Marc comes, and then they both come, and Marc is filling him up and Marco is spilling all over his stomach and Marc's fist, and it’s bliss.

Marco loves him, in the space of their panting breaths. Marco loves him, with their cheeks pressed together once Marc flops forward for a moment. Marco loves him, with his fingers carding through the waves of his hair.

And he imagines that Marc loves him too, with his thumb slipping out of Marco's mouth but his hand still firmly pressed against his face. He imagines that Marc loves him too, with the little sigh of relief when Marco mindlessly and softly scratches his back with his nails, delicate as he can be. He imagines that Marc loves him too, in the little giggle he releases before kissing his neck.

“Did your phone ring?” Marco asks lazily, as if they’ve just woken up from a good night’s sleep.

“Mh,” Marc hums, face still hidden against Marco's neck.

“Want me to leave you alone while you call them back?” Marco asks, Marc only throws but a glance at his phone on the bedside table next to them. He thinks about the idea of leaving, and he feels like things matter a little less.

It can wait.

“No,” He mumbles, turning his head again and wrapping Marc into a hug, closing his eyes so that he can smell him. “I'll stay.”

And he did, for that night. Stayed in bed with Marco, their limbs entertwined the whole night before they had to wake up and return to the paddock. Before Marc had to return Gemma's calls.

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