#the way Marc ignores Bez even when Bez says his name

[chemistry-in-sports]

Pecco and Bez talking about the race while Marc walks awkwardly behind them

[scrollonso]

for certain legal reasons i can't respond to op... so i'll be commenting here! thx xx

@formulapookie 😸

NOT ONLY DID MARCO LEAN FORWARD BUT HE MADE HIMSELF SMALLER.

OH MY FUCKING GOD YOU GUYS DONT UNDERSTAND

HE LOWERED HIS GAZE FROM MARC'S EYES TO HIS BODY.

IM ACTUALLY GOING INSANE BC WDYM HSHSAHJASJXJAZAJ

ok let me continue analyzing it

"GET A BETTER LOOK" YES.

HE LEANED FORWARD WITH THE INTENT OF LOOKING AT MARC. JUST MARC.

THE LAST TIMES WE'VE SEEN MARCMARC AT THESE PRESS CONS TOGETHER BEZ HAS REFUSED TO EVEN LOOK AT MARC WHILE HES SPEAKING.

HE'S BEEN CHOOSING TO IGNORE MARC'S EXISTANCE BC WE KNOW HE'S WELL AWARE OF IT YET ACTIVELY DECIDED TO STARE INTO THE CROWD OF REPORTERS.

UNTIL NOW.

nvm i checked the date and im backtracking but what i said still stands...

MARCO DOESN'T CARE THAT MARC REFUSES TO PAY HIM ANY MIND

REFUSES TO CALL HIM HIS NAME.

REFUSES TO GIVE HIM ANY OUNCE OF THE RESPECT, THE ATTENTION, THE PRAISE THAT HE SO OBVIOUSLY CRAVES FROM THOSE AROUND HIM.

MARC INCLUDED.

IT DOESN'T MATTER THAT HE'S VALE'S BOY. DOESN'T MATTER THAT THIS IS THE LITTLE BASTARD MARC MARQUEZ IS TALKING ABOUT BECAUAE BEZ CRAVES HIS TOUCH ALL THE SAME.

give me a second to watch the press con...

ok so i'm at school so my connection is so bad and i keep having to deal w the video buffering but this is what ive seen so far

marco's go-to method is to look at pecco first then marc then turn and look away like he just got caught doing something he isnt supposed to

marc went on about smth (i couldnt hear bc my audio is down so low but it doesnt matter) and the whole time marco was leaned forward either looking at him or around him

when marc mentioned pointing at the sky for his grandfather marco looked at him again

he keeps like catching himself staring when the camera is on him and getting embarrassed then "fixing it" so he's looking literally anywhere else

you know when you can see someone but you dont wanna stare and make it obvious so you try and nonchalantly look over? yeah thats what marco is doing this whole press con.

and even though marc refuses to call him his name, to say marco while bez is so quick to say marc, marco continues to watch him.

like he did in 2015. like he did when he took that picture with marc in qatar. watching from afar, as if marc is this god, unable to be touched, to be dirtied, to be whatever the fuck else i cant think rn i'm doing this instead of classwork

moral of the story, bez puts himsself second and marc third. you cant fake your body language, whether he's leaning forward to hear the questions better or to be more comfortable or whatever he'd say if you asked

his eyes are on marc. and if they arent they're finding their way to marc. even if its just for a fleeting second he's unable to stay away for long.

ty now i have to do college prep work xx

[scrollonso]

Before — 2 (out of 3) (last part)

It had been four months since Bez last had a one-on-one conversation with Marc. Twenty-one weeks since he had screamed profanities at him in Valencia. One hundred fifty days since he had felt the warmth of another body against his.

He finally felt clean. He was over it, over that one night, over the feeling of being with Marc Marquez.

Until.

The race ended, and Bez could see Pecco and Marc ahead of him. He was third, on the podium with Marc, and now had to spend the next hour with the guy he had slept with months ago and his best friend, whom he had thought about sleeping with too many times to count.

They walked toward the cooldown room, Pecco and Bez chatting about the race.

"I only saw Martin because I'd already overtaken Marc—" fuck, Marc? Seriously? "at turn thirteen, and then a few laps later, Martin crashed. You created the gap, and when he realized, he overtook me because he had better pace than me."

It was pathetic, really, the way Bez pointed back at Marquez after calling him by his name, and the way Marquez simply fixed his cap and looked away.

Bez was embarrassed, hardly paying attention as Pecco continued, still talking about when he got the lead from Martin.

Marc remained unfazed despite their proximity as they entered the cooldown room, still talking to the man by his side, avoiding Bez's gaze even though he could feel the Italian's sad, brown puppy eyes on him as they walked.

Cameras were everywhere; all Bez had to do was act normal.

His hand found its way to Marc's lower back, tapping him gently before holding out his hand.

"Congrats, Marc."

Marc looked at him, nodding slightly as he muttered a half-assed congrats to Bez before continuing his conversation with Pecco, going over the twists and turns of the track all over again.

Surprisingly, Pecco didn’t know. The two of them told each other everything—what they ate, what pissed them off, and especially who they slept with. But Bez was too ashamed to admit he had slept with Marc Marquez.

Bez watched the small screen in front of them, trying to ignore Marc in his peripheral vision.

"I was like this—" He heard Marc, with Pecco nodding as they spoke. It felt surreal. Being there, but not really. He felt like a ghost, as if he was watching from afar, not in his own body but viewing from home. Viewing himself awkwardly fidgeting with the plastic bottle in his hand as Marc continued as if nothing had happened.

Bez tried. Tried to continue like Marc did. Tried to look at him without seeing his olive skin bent over the dark brown table in his motorhome, without hearing the filthy words Marc spat at him that night in Spain.

They were in Spain again, together again, breathing the same air at the same time, but Bez felt no anger. Only shame. It was as if it ran through his veins, the gut-wrenching regret of being that close with another man, especially the one man his mentor could never forgive.

What would Vale say if he knew what had happened between them? His academy rider had slept with his ex-boyfriend. His ex-boyfriend who had been dating someone for the past 11 months.

11 months.

What would Marc's girlfriend say if she knew that 6 months ago they had slept together? Did she know? Did Marc regret it? Did he feel guilty too? Had he broken down into sobs over it like Bez had? He wasn’t sure.

"Oh shit, Martin," he said, the rider's crash pulling him out of his thoughts.

Marc turned his head as soon as the Italian spoke, the room falling silent for a second.

"Bez, we made the pass of the weekend," Pecco said, glancing at the younger man.

"Mother of God," he started, turning to look at his friend, glad he had started talking first.

It continued like that for a bit, just the two of them. Bez wasn’t sure why, but he felt wrong talking just the two of them. He felt like he needed to speak to Marc as well.

"You overtook me in the first laps," he said, without anger. Surprisingly.

"Yes, because behind you, the temperature at the front was..." Marc started, trailing off as the screen cut to one of the few times Marc overtook Pecco during the race.

Marc's leathers rubbed against the wheel, a detail Bez had noticed earlier as they stood in Parc Fermé.

He stepped back, holding out his thumb to graze against the residue the minor collision had left behind.

Touching him felt almost natural, yet Marc moved his arm as if by instinct, as if the younger man's touch burned.

Bez didn’t fight it, just put his arm back down and continued going over the race highlights, ashamed.

He felt like a zombie the rest of the afternoon, smiling through the podium and zoning out during the press conference. He just wanted to run to his motorhome and throw himself on his bed.

He was happy, of course. He got third and got to celebrate with his best friend. It would be stupid not to be happy. But knowing Marc was there—behind him, beside him, in front of him—was a constant reminder of a night he wished to forget.

He was overjoyed when he finally unlocked the door and peeled his shirt off, wanting nothing more than to just lay down and sleep.

Then there was a knock.

You have to be joking. There’s more?

His shirt was too far gone (on the floor at his feet) to be put back on, so whoever was there would have to deal with seeing him half-naked. He earned it after that race.

He opened the door, already greeting the person before he registered who it was.

"Cia—" Oh.

Why was Marc Marquez at his door? There was no way he had pissed the Spaniard off in the five minutes since he'd seen him.

"What is it?" Bez asked.

"God, I don’t even get a ciao?" Marc asked, welcoming himself into the Italian's motorhome, a situation all too familiar for the pair.

"Ciao," Bez said, then continued, "Shouldn’t you be celebrating your P2 with Gemma?" He cocked his head to the side, looking down at Marc with those big brown eyes. Marc was fucked.

"Do you want me to leave?" Marc asked, his eyes saying things he'd never dare to vocalize, begging for Bez to let him stay.

Bez's heart raced, his mind a chaotic swirl of emotions as he closed the door behind Marc. The sight of the Spaniard in his motorhome felt both surreal and painfully familiar. They stood there, in a heavy silence, the memories of their past encounter hanging between them like a dense fog.

"You shouldn't be here," Bez finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Marc shrugged, his eyes never leaving Bez's. "Maybe not. But here I am."

Bez sighed, running a hand through his hair. "What do you want, Marc? We can’t keep doing this."

Marc stepped closer, the intensity in his gaze making Bez's breath catch. "I needed to see you. Needed to be with you. Talk to you"

Bez's resolve wavered. He had tried so hard to bury his feelings, to move past that night. But now, with Marc standing so close, all those suppressed emotions threatened to surface.

"Talk about what?" Bez asked, his voice strained. "About how we made a mistake? About how you’ve moved on and I’m left dealing with the aftermath?"

Marc's expression softened, a hint of regret in his eyes. "I haven’t moved on, Bez. Not really. I thought I could, but every time I see you, it’s like I'm back in Valencia."

Bez looked away, unable to bear the vulnerability in Marc's gaze. "You have a girlfriend, Marc. She deserves better than this... better than you coming to me instead of being with her."

Marc reached out, gently tilting Bez’s chin up to meet his eyes. "I know. But I can’t forget." He trailed off, biting at the skin on his lips before speaking "Let me kiss you."

Bez's heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat. The room seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with tension. He could see the raw emotion in Marc's eyes, a mirror to his own feelings.

"You can't just come here and say that," Bez whispered, his voice trembling. "It's not fair. Marc please."

Marc's thumb gently brushed against Bez's cheek, his touch sending a shiver down Bez's spine. "I know it’s not fair. But I can't help it, Marco." So, Now he was Marco. Now that there weren't cameras on them he wasn't Bezzecchi anymore.

Bez's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He wanted to push Marc away, to tell him to leave and never come back. But a deeper part of him, the part that had been yearning for this moment, wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them.

"Marc..." Bez began, but his voice faltered. He was caught between what he knew was right and what his heart desperately wanted.

"Marco, please," Marc whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "Just one kiss."

Bez felt his resolve crumbling. He knew the risks, the complications, the potential for heartbreak. But in that moment, with Marc so close, all he could think about was the memory of their last kiss, the fire and passion that had consumed them both.

Slowly, hesitantly, Bez closed the distance between them. He could feel Marc’s breath on his lips, see the hope and fear in his eyes. Time seemed to stand still as they hovered on the edge of something monumental.

And then, with a trembling sigh, Bez closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Marc's.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative and gentle. But as the seconds passed, it deepened, a flood of suppressed emotions pouring out. Marc's hands slid around Bez's waist, pulling him closer, and Bez's arms wrapped around Marc's neck, their bodies melding together as if they were made to fit.

He brings his hands up to frame Bez’s face, and God, it’s euphoric. It’s the first time in ages he gets to feel brown curls interlaced with his fingers and soft lips against his and taste something on his tongue that he can only describe as Marco. He pushes him down onto his bed. Bez’s eager to let him take control, and Marc knows he’s been waiting.

Marc presses his hand against Bez's cock through too many layers of clothing, hearing Bez groan into his mouth. He’s already fumbling with the button on Bez's jeans, has to get them out of their clothes right now. He’s desperate, and he can tell Bez's in the same state. He breaks away from the kiss for a second to pull the Italians jeans down, and he kicks them off onto the ground.

“Shit,” he mumbles, undoing the button on his jeans. “Been too long.”

“Yeah,” Bez breathes, and Marc presses his hand against his cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. “Marc, shit,” he hisses, pressing his hips closer against his hand.

He moves away from him to push Bez's half unpacked bag onto the floor and get both of them fully onto the bed. He climbs on top of him, his weight pressing Bez against the mattress. He strips himself of his shirt, glad Bez's was already off. Marc's hands are hot against his chest, head spinning as he pulls his shirt over his head. His eyes scan over Bez's body, up to down, up to down, and his cock throbs. He brings his own jeans down, kicking them off into the floor with what can only be described as desperation.

"So fucking pretty , Bez," he curses, bringing his hands down to the waistband of Bez's boxers and taking them off. Bez still likes to be praised, Marc assesses when he notices his cheeks flush red at the statement.

“Missed you,” he says, his voice low. Marc spits into his hand before wrapping it around Bez's cock and stroking it, feeling as his cock hardens in his hand. “Looks like you did, too,” he smirks, though he’s already breathless and his smug expression hardly lasts a second before it’s warped into one of pleasure.

“Sì. Fuck. I did,” he admits, palming himself with his other hand, already throbbing. He dips his head down to his neck, pressing his teeth into the skin of Bez's neck. He lets out a whine and Marc feels his heart pound in his chest. “even she doesn't sound this pretty for me,” he sighs before pressing his lips to another spot on his neck and biting down hard. Bez didn't have time to react, to register what was said before he broke into whines, adoring the sensation of the Spaniard gnawing at his skin.

“You’re gonna leave a mark,” Bez says, hands digging into the sheets beneath them. It’s less of a protest and more of a statement, and, really, Marc's going to leave a mark either way—he was here, he has to leave some kind of evidence.

“Good,” he hisses, thumb swiping up the length of Bez's cock. He bites the tender flesh of his neck one more time before breaking away, hot breath hitting the skin. “Do you have lube?”

“ ‘Course,” he answers, backing away from Marc to reach into the bag that'd been previously discarded to grab a bottle of lube. It’s partially empty, Marc notes, but he knows better than to comment on that. He reaches for it, pouring some of it out onto his index finger.

“Flip over,” he requests, and Marc does as he asks. Bez snakes one hand down to Marc's waist, letting his fingers press into the skin. Bez’s nails are short, too short to dig into Marc's skin like he wants them to. He presses a finger into his ass. “You’re gorgeous. Fuck.” He inserts another finger, feeling Marc stretch around his fingers. He’s aching at this point, having to desperately rub himself to relieve some of the tension in his core. Marc lets out a whine as Bez hits his prostate, and he has to stifle a moan from just hearing the sound. He pulls his fingers out and drizzles more lube onto his fingers, and he pushes three fingers back inside of him.

“Fuck,” Marc groans, pressing himself back onto Bez's fingers until they’re fully inside. he pauses for a second, letting Marc adjust. Bez sucks a sharp breath in, drawing his hand away from his cock to rub his hand against Marc's hip. “Move.” He thrusts his fingers in and out of Marc, his walls tight around them. Bez's fingers press against his prostate, and his hands come grabbing for the sheets. “Marco, Marc—” he chokes out, squirming against the mattress, and shit, it’s the hottest thing Bez's seen in years.

“Doing so good,” he soothes, pressing into the side of his hip with a firm hand to still him. “So fucking good.” He eases into a rhythm with his thrusts, and he can see how Marc's chest is heaving. “I’m so hard, Marc, I— fuck,” he admits, an airy laugh falling past his lips when he realizes how pathetic he sounds. It doesn’t deter Marc, who presses his hips back to fuck himself onto Bez's fingers.

“Shit. Fuck me,” he groans, twisting his head around to look at him. His eyes are slightly glossed over and he already looks unkempt, he’s sweaty and desperate and his cheeks are flushed red and Bez's cock is aching.

“Yeah. Okay. Shit,” He says, stripping himself of his boxers before reaching for the lube again and putting some of it on his cock, already slick from precum, and lining himself up with Marc's entrance. “Fuck. It’s not fair. I want you so fucking bad,” he whispers, squeezing his hip as he pushes his cock into Marc.

“Marco, fuck,” He groans, and Bez sucks a sharp breath in. Marc's ass is tight around Marc's cock as he inches it inside of him and it's filthy. “I don’t— I don’t think I’m going to last," he admits. Bez notices how his chest heaves.

"Me neither," he says, voice breathy as he pushes his cock fully inside of him with a final thrust. "’S been too long."

"Yeah," he murmurs, shifting as he adjusts to Bez's size. “Been way too long.” He squeezes his hip again, hands pressing against the flesh. “You can move.”

Bez's hips move slowly, taking care to be gentle with him. “Fucking perfect,” he purrs, and it sends Marc pressing his cock against the sheets and whining. Bez thinks about pinning his hands over his head, thinks about holding him down and watching him squirm when an idea pops into his mind.

“Marc,” he rasps. “Can I tie your hands back?”

“Uh-huh,” he says, nodding his head though he hardly registered the question.

“Fuck.” he mutters, pulling out of him for a second. Marc whines at the sensation, but lets Bez find what he needed. He fishes through the drawer before pulling out a neatly folded and branded vr46 bandana. This would have to work. “Fuck, fuck,” he curses, climbing on top of Marc and pinning his hands above his head and wrapping the cloth around his pale skin before tying it into a knot that he only remembers by some kind of miracle. Bez lets go of it, the knot leaving Marc's hands tied together above his head. “So pretty like this,” he marvels, reapplying the lube from earlier before thrusting his cock back inside of Marc. He goes significantly quicker this time, but Marc's walls stretch around his cock accordingly, a choked moan escaping from his throat to accompany the sound of Marc's panting. “Taking it so well.”

Marc lets out a whine as Bez thrust his cock in and out of him, pleasure searing through his core. “Marco,” he whimpers, letting Bez press him further against the mattress. “God. Marco, faster,” he pleads, and shit, Bez can’t remember why he ever felt guilty for this. He snaps his hips in and out of him, hitting Marc's prostate as he does.

“Shit, you’re tight,” Bez groans, fingers pressing into the side of Marc's hip. He dips his head down to bite against his neck, needing to mark him. To claim him.. Marc's breath hitches, and the sound is beautiful on Bez's ears. He speeds up his thrusts.

"Oh my fucking God,"  Marc curses, choking on his breath as Bez thrusts into him. His hands tug against the bandana, not caring about the initials and number littering it as his fingers awkwardly grabbing for the sheets. Bez bites down hard on the base of his neck and Marc whines.

"So fucking good," Bez hisses, pleasure making his head spin. His thrusts are becoming sloppy, he knows, but shit, he needs it like this and it's been way too long since he's gotten it. "You're beautiful, Marc, perfect like this," he praises breathlessly.

"I'm close," Marc groans, head pressed to the mattress as Bez slams into him.

"Already?" he marvels, barely even able to speak. "You're so—"

"Oh my God, oh my God, Marco," Marc gasps, clenching around Bez and writhing between him and the bed. " Marco, Marco, please," he chokes out, coming undone underneath him.

"Fuck, fuck," Bez groans, grabbing Marc's hips as close as he can get them before squeezing his eyes shut and coming hard inside of him. It's the best thing he's felt in months, like he's fucking flying. His muscles are tense when he rakes his hands through Marc's hair, groaning and shuddering as he does. "Oh my God," he breathes, orgasm fading.

He pulls out of his ass, his hands reaching for the bandana around Marc's wrists to untie him. Marc lets out a sigh and Bez coils it back up, watching as Marc rolls over onto his back, his chest heaving. Bez sets the merch onto the bed before laying down beside Marc, who reaches for the blankets beside them. Bez takes his hand and Marc squeezes it. He squeezes his back and tries his hardest not to think about his life outside of this motorhome. The girl waiting for him. He fails.

"It goes without saying that we never did anything, right?" he breathes, his thumb flicking over the back of Bez's hand.

"Never," Bez confirms, shaking his head as he lets go of Marc's hand and leans over the bed to put his clothes back on. The Spaniard following close behind in order to get back to the Gresini garage before Gemma realized where he'd wandered off to.

(next part)