martianluvr

[martianluvr]

(MotoGP via Instagram Story | 18.11.2019)

#i think i hauve covid #andrea dovizioso #motogp

[martianluvr]

if i saw it correctly the back of bezz's shirt (WHICH HE WORE ON INTERNATIONAL BROADCAST) said 'ama chi te pare' which (according to google translate) means 'love whoever you want'. OKAY!

You did see correctly and certified Italian @dobbiamo-capire told me the same thing for the translation 🤗

#Ummmmmm #um #im so normal abt this #marco bezzecchi #motogp

[martianluvr]

how long a ruined thing will burn pt.8 : vr46 rider!marc au / 2.3k words (pt.7 here)

Marc is fraught like an exposed nerve before Q2. Valentino isn’t here, not yet — isn’t meant to arrive at the track until right before the sprint. He feels like a sacrificial lamb on the bike, having blazed through exposing his underbelly, rolling over and letting the soft, weak parts of him show. He’d given Valentino the knife that night at the ranch. And then he’d laid down on the altar, all of his own accord.

So his stomach churns through each left-hand corner, usual confidence and control shaky under threat. There’s no grip, which he knows — which he’s used to. But today the rear is threatening to slide out from underneath him, and it feels too much like saying things he shouldn’t have said. He rolls back into the box in P9. Every set of eyes is a needle in his spine. It’s a small mercy that Valentino’s not around.

He takes his helmet off, eyes drifting to the TV, to Bez’s P4 qualifying. To Bez clawing his hair into something neat, talking animatedly with —

Valentino.

Marc’s eyes snap to the floor. It’s like a gun going off, the sudden surge of anxiety, the burning need to be anywhere else. He stands, making brief eye contact with his engineer to confirm he’s no longer needed. Valentino’s seen the movement, though, pushing away from where he’d been speaking to Bez and slouching over, hands in his pockets. Marc scrambles for an escape route.

There’s a gap, if he can just get by these people, if he can squeeze and be closer to the door than to Valentino — except someone steps back into him and he stumbles and then Valentino’s got a hand on his shoulder, planting him firmly back on two feet. Marc yanks himself away, feeling branded even through his leathers. There’s a charge between them, dark and rippling, and Marc wills it to lie flat, wills his face to settle into something without the anticipation of hurt.

Valentino says nothing for a moment. Drops his hand and stares down his nose at Marc. When Marc shifts his weight, itching to leave, Valentino takes a step back. It’s too careful. It’s making him nervous.

“What is happening with the bike?”

Marc blinks, eyes darting around the box to gauge who’s listening in on their conversation.

“Nothing,” he answers, hesitant, unsure of where this is going. But Valentino doesn’t say anything. He’s just watching Marc, searching, calculating. Trying to read between all the lines that Marc has thrown up. When it looks like Vale is preparing to open his mouth again, Marc pivots, nimble like a prey animal and gone before he can hear Vale’s teeth click together.

He manages to avoid Vale entirely right up until the start of the sprint. He’s just swung his leg over, relinquished his weight to the bike and ducked his chin. Valentino draws himself away from Bagnaia seconds later. Marc doesn’t mean to notice — really, he tries not to, but it’s like Valentino’s got a magnet tucked between his teeth. That and Marc could pick the slope of his shoulders from a crowd of millions, years spent tracing the lines.

He bows his head before Valentino reaches him. Praying he takes it for the door closure it’s meant to be. Valentino’s sneakers appear in his vision and stay there, and his self-preservation instincts aren’t strong enough to keep him from looking up.

Valentino’s face is pulled tight — frustration in the scrunch of his brow and contempt in the curl of his mouth. Marc doesn’t need this. Doesn’t need whatever Valentino is about to say, doesn’t need the sick scrape of cut glass against his stomach lining. Marc won’t glare. He won’t even meet Valentino’s eyes. Keeps his focus somewhere beneath the other man’s chin, on his pulse point, his Adam's apple. Anywhere else. Valentino hisses through his teeth, and it startles Marc’s attention up to his mouth.

Valentino whispers, “what is your problem,” and it’s not even that Marc hears it — he watches it, Valentino’s lips forming each word, tight in the corners. Valentino walks away and the moment hardens like cement in Marc’s stomach.

He manages to climb a couple places in the sprint, the asymmetric tyre enough use over the short distance that he can push each corner without nursing it like a baby. It’s a feat that he races clean with the ball of mess rattling between his ears. He passes Fabio and tries not to look at the blue of the Yamaha any more than he has to.

P5 feels like a monstrous achievement, and he climbs off the bike foal-like, legs not yet ready to support him. Valentino’s looking at him again in the box, rolling his lips like he wants to say something. Accommodating this — accommodating all the extra shit in his head, the singe-spot of Valentino’s inevitable pull back like a cigarette burn on his brain — it makes the hours longer, tucks weight into the legs of his leathers and draws him down like an anchor. He ducks away when Valentino makes towards him, putting a desk and a mechanic between them and then beelining for his motorhome.

There’s a splinter of pride wedged between all the nausea. That’s he’s committing to it, finally, after years of bleeding. That it took one good knock, granted, a lightning bolt of vulnerability that he shouldn’t have allowed, but he’s getting out of it. And he’s doing it for self-preservation, a concept so foreign to him that it’s laughable as a driving force. The world isn’t ending, his heart isn’t stopping. It just feels like it is, and he can deal with feeling, because he’s been doing it for years — feeling written into the very core of him. Always pain, of course, as much a part of him as his heart, lungs, his teeth and tongue.

Álex finds him not long after. Knocks on the door to Marc’s motorhome — and for a second Marc seizes up, neural pathways firing glitter between each other because it could be Valentino — but he opens the door to his brother and pushes down the disappointment, sick with himself. All that perceived work, the heavy bricks of ego crumbling at the first glint of light. Álex catches the look in his eyes, mouth turning down at the corners at whatever he recognises it to be.

Marc lets him in wordlessly, offering a tired smile and closing the door to bustle around getting changed into sweats and packing things away. Álex falls into his couch, watching Marc cut laps across the room with all the composure of a caged animal.

“Are you doing okay?” he asks, finally, when Marc stills long enough to catch his gaze. Marc cracks a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. The last thing he wants is for Álex to be preoccupied with his bullshit. They’d had — well. Marc had spoken to him after the ranch. Briefly, on Thursday. He’d given nothing away in words, but in body language and posture he’s sure Alex had been able to read the bible of him.

“Yes, ha. Is just the grip, you know. I need to be careful with the rear tomorrow — nearly lost it a couple times today.”

“Not on the track, Marc,” Álex intones, eyes too knowing for Marc’s liking.

“Ah, so?” Marc waves his hands, unfolding and refolding a shirt that had been perfectly fine the way it was. He grits his teeth.

“Did something happen at the ranch?”

Cold shoots up his spine. He shakes his head minutely, but it’s too late. He already knows he’s going to tell Álex. He’ll let him push one more time.

“You can tell me, Marc. I don’t want to see you like this.”

He gives up on folding the shirt, balls it in his hands and holds it close to his chest like a shield.

“I think everything is finally ending, is all.”

Álex waits for more.

“I drank — too much, and said some things, apparently. And Bezzecchi said Valentino reacted weird, and now I think — I can tell he is acting different; mean, you know how he started to get after the first time around, yes? But I do not — I don’t think I can hold all that again.”

He swallows, trying to organise his thoughts. He hadn’t even really put a plan together, nothing more substantial than a desire to shut down, to close the blast doors before the missile hits.

“So, I am just going to stop reaching for him.” That’s open — that’s vulnerable. Álex doesn’t — he’d never exactly gone over all the twists and ties in his head about Valentino with Álex. But there’s enough there, enough in the rough, worn choke of his voice for Álex to fill in the gaps. Even if Marc doesn’t explicitly know them himself. The admission drips down the back of his throat like syrup. Sweet and bitter.

He pastes the trembling smile back on. Álex winces.

“It would be nice to win tomorrow, huh? Give him a hit.”

“Well, do it for yourself, though,” Álex replies, standing. He’s good at knowing when Marc has nothing left to say. Even better at knocking him off-balance with a simple comment, wise beyond his years. Álex presses a kiss to his cheek before he leaves, and Marc diligently keeps the fear out of his voice when he says goodnight.

He half expects something to have dislodged in his chest the next morning. Nothing’s moved, though, still packed to the brim with red memories and bone. A slow process, his therapist would call it. Like drops of tar, something that burns all the way down till it settles at the bottom. He shakes the empty rattle of his bones, knocks all the loose bits back into place as he makes his way out on track for the warmup. He takes it easy. Counts the corners, breathes with the bike. It feels like a meditation more than anything, even with the pre-race buzz simmering beneath his skin.

Soon after, he’s the last one to haul himself up onto the float for the parade. Álex is deep in a head-down conversation with Di Giannantonio, and Marc doesn’t want to be clingy, so when Bez catches his eye, he moves that way with little hesitation. They clap hands, and Marc leans back against the railing, playing at casualness. He still thinks Bez knows more than he’s letting on, and being on the outside is starting to grate on him.

“Feeling good?” Bez asks, looking at Marc through his sunglasses. Marc doesn’t like not being able to see his eyes. It reminds him of Valentino.

Cut that out.

“So-so,” he replies, releasing his bottom lip from the sharp capture of his teeth. “Yesterday was not good. Better today, I hope.”

“Yeah, hard when you get caught up in all the middle.”

They drift into race talk that Marc doesn’t need to use his brain power on. Bez doesn’t ask any suspicious questions, and Marc manages to keep all the sick feelings to himself. The hours left before the race blink by in minutes, and then he’s opening the throttle to a roaring crowd.

The start is rough — someone goes into his flank and he bounces through it, shoulders straining to keep the bike on the track, already down five places. From there things become monotonous fairly quickly. Gain a place, lose it to no grip, find himself faster than the others through the lefthanders — enough to be productive only half the time. Rinse and repeat. Viñales goes down right ahead of him on lap twenty, and he veers to avoid the bike and rider skittering across the asphalt. It takes a chunk out of his pace, but then Miller and Rins take each other wide and he manages to cut ahead of them.

The sun streams down on him through the clouds, and his mind flashes back to desperation, to lightning, cooling heat, hunting and seeking and it never being enough. He shakes his head. 

Are you choosing to be fast today?

Does he want the fight? Does he honest to God prefer the snap of teeth at his neck over icy nothing? He leans down into a corner, shoulder scraping the ground. The bike twitches beneath him, nervy. He can’t think about that.

In the last eight laps, he drags himself up to seventh. Something dark whispers that he should’ve binned it, summoned Valentino to his motorhome in the dark, all set with nothing nice to say. He could open the door with his leathers around his waist.

But P7 is a non-event after the race he’s had. And he can see Bez shaking his head up behind the podium finishers.

A slow process, he thinks, climbing off the bike so the mechanics can roll it back into the box. He meets Valentino’s eyes on his way in. Not to say anything, not to project any message. Just to get used to the emptiness. Valentino takes it as a fish hook, meeting Marc halfway across the garage with an unkind hand on his shoulder, one that doesn’t leave room for Marc to pull away. He can see the tilt of Valentino’s head, searching the side of Marc’s face, vying for attention and eye contact. There’s something Marc doesn’t like in the planes of his face — something too open. It doesn’t suit him. Marc keeps his gaze on the floor.

“If you are going to be this way, at least do what I hired you for,” Valentino says, watching, waiting for the cut, for Marc to flinch or protest or argue. Marc doesn’t do anything. When he finally lifts his eyes to Valentino’s face, the other man’s lips have drawn tight with irritation.

So, there, Marc thinks.

#this fic gen makes my heart ache like . Omg #it all feels so reallll #i need it to end well but i have a feeling it won’t #rosquez #motogp

[martianluvr]

February 2014 (text from Mat Oxley's The Valentino Rossi Files: Everything I've ever written about VR: From 2008 to now):

During the winter the nine-time champ spent more time than usual thrashing round his dirt track ranch, keeping himself mentally and physically sharp and getting used to a motorcycle moving around beneath him. He knows that Marc Marquez’s ability to ride on the ragged edge with a more muscular, more sideways style is changing MotoGP, so he needs to change with it. Rossi may never look as spectacular as Marquez on a dirt bike or a MotoGP bike, but both his former and current crew chiefs believe he can do better than he did last year, when Marquez made him look rather second rate.

Rossi on inviting Marquez to the ranch:

"Yeah, for sure, a lot of time. But I think that Emilio [Alzamora, Marquez's manager] is not very happy that Marc come because he said that after we make a race and maybe it's dangerous." (x)

A Sideways Glance at Misano 2014, including pre-event karting on Wednesday night where Marquez reportedly struggled:

Misano 2014 (text from Mat Oxley's Valentino Rossi: All His Races):

^ Márquez won the first ten races of 2014 and this was the first time all year he was beaten in a straight duel. He couldn't handle Rossi's pace at Misano, so he ended up losing the front and falling.

Valentino was fast throughout practice and secured his first front-row start of 2014. [Rossi was asked after qualifying about the threat posed by Marquez and Lorenzo, identifying Lorenzo as the favourite before adding, "But you never know with Marc. He's a bastard."] In the race he rode better than in years, hanging his upper body inside the motorcycle more than ever before to increase turning. He snatched the lead from Lorenzo and then fended off Márquez, who struggled to find enough grip to match Vale. At one-third distance the world champion pushed it too far and slid off, so Vale cruised home 1.6 second ahead of Lorenzo. His crew had done a great job of creating maximum grip via adjustment to chassis balance and electronics set-up. His 107th GP victory showed he was once again as fast as anyone, because when he won at Assen 2013 he didn't have to beat Márquez, Lorenzo or Pedrosa, who were all injured. "It's fantastic to come back to victory again," he beamed after his first win with [new crew chief Silvano] Galbusera. "I knew we could fight and I pushed from the start. I always work hard and never give up and trust that days like this can happen."

^ The breakthrough win at Misano. For the first time since his return to Yamaha he had gone head-to-head with Jorge Lorenzo and Marc Márquez and beaten them both. From this moment another world title was a possibility.

(x for more details)

Aragon 2014 press conference:

Rossi: Revenge at the ranch! No, first of all, we enjoy a lot, because have a lot of riders and also from superbike and a lot of bike on the track and was a good day, yeah. Marc was very fast, already fast like me at the first time, as always, and I think he did the best lap time but I won the race so is 1-1, so is... come si dice, pareggio pareggio [tied]. Marquez: Yeah, yeah, was really nice, you know, I was really [impressed] to see his circuit, his home, because in the future I would like to have, because was impressive and riding there was all the riders was really nice and... like Valentino says, we were there fighting together like in Misano race more or less, but yeah... the important thing is that we enjoy it and was really nice to ride there with him and also with the other riders.

Valentino Rossi, Marc Marquez and the Ranch

#i’m gonna throw up #Ueggvvbfbb #rosquez #2014 ranch #motogp

[martianluvr]

somewhere in argentina...

#i HATE this i want to cry everytime i see this sequence of events #like marc WHYYY DID U REACH OUT TO HIM #WHAT DID U THINK WAS GONNA HAPPEN #the immediate regret of it all … oughhhfbbg it was so over #motogp #rosquez

[martianluvr]

🫢

#i actually miss him sm guys it’s not even funny anymore #by this point last year he’d already won argentina .. sighhhh #motogp #marco bezzecchi

[martianluvr]

Pre-press conference chatter.

#licks lips licks lips licks lips licks l #marc marquez #andrea dovizioso #cal crutchlow #motogp

[martianluvr]

CELIN P10 I CALL THIS A WIN

#coints!!!! #celestino vietti #moto2 #motogp

[martianluvr]

Atleast there is still this. Even amongst the ruins of floppage there exists this.

#😞💗💗💗💗 #i miss them sm #i need a beznaia podium again this year or i might end it all #pecco bagnaia #marco bezzecchi #pecco/bezz #motogp

[martianluvr]

Plse vr46pertamina admi stop including uccio in the marco and digia promos i get jumpcare evritime I have to see his face

#i actually sighed out loud when i saw him #bcuz that pic of bezz and diggia arriving is so cute and then . …. #i need to cut him out #motogp

[martianluvr]

so he shaves his entire body with a electric razor ?? *freak*

and i’m sorry but who is this ??? and what happened to his hair ?????????

#WHY DID HE DO THIS #MARC YOUR BEAUTIFUL HAIRRRR #YOU FREAK #motogp #marc marquez

[martianluvr]

ANDREA DOVIZIOSO

Phillip Island, Australia - October 2, 2008

© Paul Crock

#OJHHMYMHHGH #i need him…. #andrea dovizioso #motogp

[martianluvr]

MotoGP Miami MotoGP Vegas MotoGP let's remove Valencia and Portimao add New York MotoGP £1000 tickets MotoGP Tiktok MotoGP Ride to Survive

#motogp

[martianluvr]

#goodmorning everyone

[martianluvr]

Another thing re: Dovi that adds a little pizazz a little je ne sais quoi is that he has been a dad for really long. I don't think any other rider has children of the age that Dovi's daughter is, casey being the only exception but his daughters were raised after he was done with his career. Like Dovi was actively a father while also riding, and seems to be close to his daughter in a trademark dad to Teenage girl way. It's compelling to me that this is an active family man with a child at home that wasn't a baby and was still participating in scary death sport spectacle. I want to hear what you think about that.

YEAH.. became a dad at 23.. and separated from her mom shortly after her birth right. my thoughts on this are more along the lines of that specifically bc i find it fascinating that hes managed to stay involved with her despite that, like by all accounts its already hard so be an involved parent when you're that busy as an athlete and traveling so much. then you of course also have the gender disparity there, some current on grid dads are Not shy about talking about how proud they are to offload all the childcare to their partners LOL nasty asses. but it seems dovi had her with him so much and like you said was actively parenting as much as he could while riding which is bonkers!! he couldve just..not. like many others do. i love this quote its so dovi. immediately talking about the planning and logistical side of it all

yknow its funny bc ive Been in the dovi mines just by extension of trying to gobble up as much about marc and related to marc as possible. but he didnt Click for me until i watched him buy groceries and go for the stuff on sale and do the dishes and cook for himself and his friends and clean and tidy up lol i agree w u i think hes so compelling bc hes really the anti-thesis to the usual male athlete

#i think dovi is like . the man ever #i’m so crazy about him i think he’s great he’s awesome and i miss him so so much #andrea dovizioso #motogp

[martianluvr]

how long a ruined thing will burn pt.5 : vr46 rider!marc au / 1.9k words (pt.4 here)

For once, Marc isn’t in either of the press conferences on Thursday. Instead, he’s changing back into a team polo in the box after taking a handful of promotional merch photos on track. Things are still buzzing, even with the grandstands empty and the bikes silent. There’s a hum in his bones that he just can’t ignore. He thinks of something he read once. The fear birds feel before they migrate, and how the only release from that feeling is flight; the fast beating of wings. He stares down at his hands, turns them over. Allows each joint to stretch and curl back. This year, it’s not fear in his stomach before a race weekend — not quite. It’s something just as much a cinder block, though. Heavy and punishing. 

He says ‘before a race’, but that’s not accurate. 

Before seeing Valentino.

The honesty prickles his neck. Even trapped in his head, the words are too much. He finds a seat against the back wall and settles in to wait until the next media activity on his calendar. Each slow breath draws the thought further into the distance. Movement in his peripheral vision draws his attention, and he lifts his eyes to watch Valentino emerge from the sunlight into the shade of the garage. In the same moment, the Gresini social media admin taps him on the shoulder, standing with Marco in tow. He rips his gaze from Valentino, lifting out of his seat and following instructions to go wait at the mouth of the box.

“Morning,” he says to Marco, who’s stifling a wide yawn in his elbow. The younger rider cracks a smile, blinking back watery eyes as they line up against the wall.

“Good break?”

Marc hums.

“Needed. You?”

“Yeah, good. I went to the Formula 1.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw. Fast, no?”

Marco launches into a retelling of the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix, and Marc’s attention drifts to Valentino. He’s noticed the pair of them standing there, clearly, as Marc can tell by his face that he’s weighing up the pros and cons of coming over to speak to them.

Marc being there is likely in the ‘cons’ column.

Apparently it’s not significant enough to disparage him, as he steps out of his current conversation with a polite grin and makes his way over.

“Ciao-o,” he calls as he reaches them, pulling Marco into a hug. Marc goes rigid watching the exchange, ice forming in the pit of his stomach. Valentino turns to look Marc up and down, and Marc offers a smile that’s tight at the edges. Marco starts talking about the Formula 1 again, and Valentino takes a step closer, eyes on Marc’s neck as he lifts his arm. It happens in a second. Marc sees the approach of his hand, the curve of Valentino's palm, and some baser instinct has him turn his cheek to it, tilting his head like a dog, pliant and willing. His eyes flutter closed without meaning to, and there’s an intake of breath, a sound that stirs the air in front of him and jolts him back to the moment. Valentino is staring at him, wide-eyed. Hand pulled back to himself, fingers curled tight in a fist. Marco’s stopped talking. Marc flinches. 

He doesn’t — there’s no — his brain had gone offline, braced his skin for the warmth of soft touch. The look on Valentino’s face brings everything back to a sharp point. Confusion, something hard and dark among it. He goes hot with shame.

“Your collar,” Valentino says finally, voice hollow. Marc feels for it, feels the stiff bend where it’s folded in on itself. He fixes it, heart hammering like a drum. Marco’s eyes are flicking back and forth between the two of them.

“Thank you,” he croaks. And then he walks away before the ground can open up beneath him. What the fuck was that. His brain spins, neurons firing and coming up empty as he weaves between people till he’s alone, back against a cold wall. 

Why. Maybe it’s the devotion, a dog-like trait that goes hand in hand with his delusion. That unforgiving whisper in the back of his mind each time they see each other, waiting for Valentino to smile at Marc like he used to. To grab him by the shoulders, hands kind and not angry. To say, “I’ve come back to get you. I was always going to come back.” There’s no logic to his thinking, but he’d kind of always figured Valentino would come around.

So maybe that’s why he’d done that. Exposed the soft skin of his neck like a prey animal — like it hasn’t been years since Valentino had touched him without some complication behind the action. He tries to shake the embarrassment off, pacing behind the garages and knowing he’s got maybe five minutes before he’s needed back in the box.

When he returns, still red in the face but all in one piece, Valentino isn’t there. Marco gives him a look that is far too knowing for his liking. He shrugs it off, puts on an air of complete neutrality — one with only a few cracks in its fine porcelain armour.

Already on shaky footing and desperate not to trigger an earthquake, he puts his head down through Friday and Saturday, right till he’s lining up for the sprint. He’d swept into Q2 with considerable ease, but lost his quickest quali lap to yellow flags and wound up P7.

Marco’s directly ahead of him, and Marc keeps his eyes focused on the slick black of the VR46 bike’s fairings, breath tight in his chest. The machine of his heart is a completely different monster from race to race. Today, cold unease pumps through his veins. Between his ribs, a patchwork — the empty look on Valentino’s face at the prospect of openness, the idea of Marc’s pulse under his fingertips.

It stings just as bad after almost nine years. Stings like it did back in his motorhome, two little numbers unstitching the space between them and packing it full of hurt and questions. He wants to take it. Ball it into something sharp and shiny, jam it into the part of his brain that makes him go. But it’s not fuel — not flammable, not when it’s wet and heavy like this, choked up like clotted eyelashes and a lump in his throat. When it isn’t knife-like, he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

He finishes P8, and Valentino’s there when he and Marco return to the garage. Marc keeps his helmet on until the cameras leave. He knows they can see the weight in his face. Feels Valentino look at him and knows he’s catching the round stone-ache of eyebags and bitten lips.

The feeling lingers through to Sunday, and Marc starts to notice the prickling nail of anxiety at the back of his neck. It keeps him flighty, stretched so thin he’s almost transparent. Marco catches his arm before they head out to the grid, face tight with concern. There’s a camera only a few feet away from them, and it makes Marc go rigid, praying Marco’s noticed it too.

“Is your arm okay?” He asks.

Marc blinks. It’s — he opens his mouth and Marco beats him to it.

“But you’ll be fine on the bike.” There’s something in his tone, the way he slows each word, that makes Marc think he isn’t actually asking about his arm. For a second he thinks maybe Marco can see the fine web of fear stretched across the entirety of him. Marco tips his head, waiting for an answer.

“A little bit of pain,” Marc whispers. This whole situation is bad. Whatever Marco thinks he knows — whatever Valentino has told him. Marc feels sick. “But I’ll be fine on the bike.” It feels like a mantra when he repeats it. Marco leans back, drops his hand from the bend of Marc’s elbow and offers him a shuttered smile. The world only stops spinning when he sits down on the bike. The lights go out, and he buries the shrill ring of panic under the roar of twenty two engines.

Peace probably comes about two laps in. When the hum of each individual engine, each fan in the stands, bleeds to one thick line in his ears. Like a static compress that pushes all of him together, keeps each part attached, braking and leaning and flinging his leg out.

The line snaps on lap seventeen.

He just loses it. A stupid fucking mistake — one he shouldn’t be making anymore; one he makes all the time. He hits the ground soft, slides across the track and rolls through the gravel. When he finally stops moving and everything darts back into focus, he thinks about just staying down. But he’s better than that, and his blood is on fire, and a moment later he’s back on the bike, pushed until it shudders to life again and chasing down the pack.

His name in P20 on the track TVs feels like a slap in the face. This time, the helmet comes off as soon as he’s seated. It’s too tight — too much, and he doesn’t care that the exhaustion shows clear as day on his face. Valentino, on the far side of the garage, listens to Marco like he’s committing each word to memory. It sends a viperous wave of jealousy through Marc’s bloodstream. Marco had finished P13, fucked over by a jumble at the start and a wide run off towards the end. They hug, and then Valentino starts in his direction.

He scrubs a hand through his hair and over his eyes, and when he can make out Valentino’s sneakers through the space between his fingers, he chokes out the only words rattling around his skull.

“Fuck, sorry. My fault.” He cringes at the rattle in his voice, wishes Valentino would say whatever stupid shit is brewing on his tongue and then piss off. When nothing comes, he looks up. Valentino is staring off to the side, eyes unfocused. His face is tense, lines drawn somewhere between discomfort and distance.

“Happens,” he says, voice an octave lower than usual. Marc blinks, not entirely confident in what he just heard.

“What?”

Valentino looks back at him. He shrugs his shoulders. Casual, but the motion is stiff.

“It happens.”

If Marc wasn’t already six feet deep in a pool of wallowing, he’d laugh. Unsurprisingly, the conversation doesn’t progress from there. Valentino flits away the second Marc’s trainer arrives, energy likely spent having said something actually half decent. Right to Marc’s face, no less. Safe to say, Marc is tired of being thrown off balance. He can’t even process that right now. Not when his brain is running laps, barking like a dog, “is that him coming back?”

Later, Marco traps him before he can leave the track.

“You are coming to the ranch, yes?”

Fuck. He’d managed to forget, mind fraught with the crash among other things. His nerves set alight all over again.

“I — yeah. I should be photographed there. Good for the brand.”

Marco blinks like Marc’s speaking another language.

“Sure. Carpool with me. I can drive us tomorrow.”

Something deflates like a popped balloon in his chest. Two hours in the car with one of Valentino’s prodigal sons, acting like he’s not got the man hardwired into the tissue of his heart. Perfect. Marco is watching his expression way too closely, eyes bright like he’s counting the time it takes for Marc to reply.

“Yeah. Yep,” Marc bites out quickly. “Thank you.”

Marco reels off a time and a meeting spot, and when Marc collapses into his hotel room twenty minutes later, he might as well be falling apart.

#just caught up w all the chapters oml #this is still my fav series ever #and BEZZZ 😭💗💗 #he knowssss he knows he understands u marc #pls keep writing this series forever and ever #motogp

[martianluvr]

oh vale will definitely speak soon

ominous

#is anon uccio?