any combination of 4 and 5 (whatever suits your fancy) and rosquez 🙏
4 / 5. where it hurts / where it doesn’t hurt
2013 - Laguna Seca, USA.
“Are you seriously still catching on your breath? Is this what being old is like? I thought you were an athlete.”
With one arm still covering his eyes, Valentino blindly aims in the direction of Marc’s voice, his hand first hitting the mattress and then Marc’s side, making him giggle.
When Valentino finally moves his first arm up, he turns his head and finds Marc on his side next to him, elbow on the mattress, fist supporting his face. He’s stil naked, a couple of curls matted to his forehead, a trail of sweat glistening on his neck.
He cleaned himself and if it weren’t for the small signs, you could almost believe Valentino didn’t pull an orgasm out of him a mere couple of minutes ago.
It’s the kind of thing that serves to remind Valentino of how much younger Marc is, compared to him. How young he is, period. It goes with that honking laugh he manages to get out so often, the words he says sometimes that shows he still has hope for things Valentino has stopped believing in a while ago.
Marc has lived, though. Valentino can’t deny that. He’s lived more things (both incredible and traumatic) than most people his age. By the time you’re 20, you’re not supposed to have two world championships under your belt and to already have had to decide which part of your vision you were willing to lose to keep your dream alive.
Marc’s innocence also lies in the way he interacts with Valentino. The tentative flirting at first that eventually led to bold moves once Valentino let it transpire that he could be interested in him. The way he moved around Valentino now, uncaring of people’s opinion about them. The amount of time he wanted to spend with him, not realizing this is not how things are supposed to be with one of your closest opponents.
Valentino brings one hand up to Marc’s face to push the sweaty locks away from his forehead. “You’re insatiable, aren’t you?”
Marc smiles, his teeth bright, a contrast to his tan skin. Valentino remembers that session of testing in Austin, back in February. Himself back on that Yamaha after the two yeas of hell in Ducati and Marc already impressing everyone. All the riders had been hanging together at a bar that one night, and Marc had invented him to play darts -or, well, had dared him really, telling Vale he had to buy Marc a drink if he won- and then he stood so close to him, aiming that same exact smile at him.
Valentino had lost. He caught Jorge snickering when they met at the bar, Valentino holding one beer in each hand.
“Sorry,” Marc of the present says. “I thought you’d be able to keep up but maybe I took too much of your energy on the track today.”
Valentino rolls his eyes, poking Marc’s shoulder while he’s at it. They’d had nice battles today and that had been great even if Valentino knew he was going to have to hear about that corkscrew overtake and the parallel with his own on Casey for a while.
“Using my own moves on me like that? I don’t know if I’m proud or if that bruised my ego,” Valentino huffs. He’s joking, probably, for the most part.
(Valentino would never talk to Marc about how he’s handling his own feelings regarding his struggles and Marc’s successes this year. This is light banter, though, he’s fine.)
Marc giggles again. Valentino thinks he should stop loving the sound that much. “Aw, probrecito. I’m sorry.”
Valentino is ready to protest but then Marc is moving, leaning over him with one hand on Valentino’s cheek before he kisses the corner of his mouth. “There. Magic kiss. Ego is fixed.” Valentino might actually physically blink at him. Marc doesn’t seem to notice, kissing him properly before setting more of his weight on Valentino, slotting one leg between his. “Now I can get you ready for round two, yeah?”
Marc starts tracing a line of kisses down Valentino’s throat, his nails scraping Valentino’s ribs.
Valentino lets his head fall back on the pillow behind him.
His cheek feels the warmest where Marc’s lips initially pressed against his skin first.
It’s nice.
2023 - Jerez, Spain.
Valentino can’t pinpoint the exact moment in time he picked up a Marc Marquez radar for his brain. One day, he was still used to being the head everyone would turn to when entering a room, the next he would know where to find a certain devil no matter the corner of the room he was hiding in.
Sometimes he made it easy with his laugh that carried over. Sometimes it was pure intuition. There had never been rules to the thing. It surprisingly didn’t disappear when their relationship went down the drain.
As things stand, Valentino isn’t exactly surprised when it takes him 7 minutes of having entered a club in Jerez before he notices Marc at the bar, alone.
Tonight is a Wednesday. Valentino is pretty sure he heard from his brother that Marc wasn’t coming back this weekend, still handicapped by the hand he injured in Portugal. He might still go by the paddock tomorrow, considering how this is still a home race to him, Valentino supposes.
With his own previously acquired drink in hand, Valentino settles himself in a dark corner of the VIP section. Easily, his eyes find Marc again, moving on the dancefloor. Valentino watches as Marc’s hips imprint on the rhythm of the pop music playing in the air. He watches as people approach Marc, trying to engage him in conversations or trying to slip hands on his body, inviting him over. Marc refuses them all.
It lasts for exactly three songs and then, Marc locks eyes with him. Valentino instantly feels caught, his cheeks warming up in shame, but he doesn’t budge. Marc’s face doesn’t change. He stays impassible and emotionless like he’s always know how to be. He doesn’t stop dancing and after a couple of beats, he turns his back to Valentino, moves away from yet another person trying to have a go with him.
People used to use that -Marc’s demeanor- to put them against one another. Valentino Rossi and his big mouth and his big expressive eyes, Italian and taking up space in the room. Marc Marquez and his PR face, the tight smile that didn’t tick when asked irritating non-sense questions in press conferences, the closed-off posture that always seemed to be there to protect himself from the rest of the world.
Everyone and their mother had an opinion on which attitude was the best and which one was the less professional of the two, the less entertaining, the less in line with what fans wanted out of the racers they idolized.
Marc didn’t used to be like that. When he started in MotoGP, Marc was sunny, daring and having fun with the journalists, always wearing a smile that showed his teeth and that he couldn’t contain even when he wanted to.
They say 2015 changed him. They say Valentino changed him.
Valentino tries not to think about that. He misses Marc’s real smile more than anybody on the internet who never got to have Marc’s full attention on them.
Eventually, Valentino tears his eyes away from Marc but doesn’t move from his seat. He’s looking at his phone when somebody sits down next to him a handful of minutes later and Valentino knows who it is before he even has the time to pocket his phone away.
Valentino watches as Marc grabs his drink on the table in front of them, fully expects the grimace that passes over Marc’s face and still snickers when it appears. “That’s a gin tonic.”
Marc is still making a disgusted face when he puts the glass back down. “I don’t like gin.”
“I know,” Valentino says, following Marc’s movements as he pushes himself against the back of the bench, shoulder touching Valentino’s, knee bumping against his.
“Were you planning on watching me all night? I should make you pay at this point, seems like you were enjoying the show.”
Valentino snickers, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was just wondering how long you were going to play hard to get. That’s not really your style.”
It’s mean. Valentino knows the moment the words leave his mouth. He sees the moment they hit Marc when a dark cloud passes over his features. He quickly fixes his expression.
(Ever the PR-trained star.)
Regret burns on Valentino’s tongue almost immediately. Hurting Marc intentionally is not something he’s been wanting to do for a long time. It’s the only way he knows how to act around him, though. Especially when Marc is acting detached like that. Especially when Valentino can’t even remember the last time they had to share the same air, even less the last time he knew how to act around Marc in a way that didn’t make him want to yell out of frustration afterward.
When people ask Valentino about his relationship with Marc, Valentino always says there is nowhere for them to go. It’s the easy solution to hide the truth that is the fact Valentino doesn’t know what to do to give them a future that makes him feel at peace.
It’s not even a lie considering Marc’s apparent thoughts on the matter, anyway.
The press of their bodies together makes a long line from shoulder to ankle. It’s both suffocating and hard to ignore. Valentino doesn’t have it in him to put space between them. When Marc puts his hand on Valentino’s thigh, shivers instantly travel down his spine.
“Right,” Marc says. “That was more yours,” he continues while the fingers of his right hand play the piano over Valentino’s jeans. When he looks down, Valentino can catch the fresh scars on his skin. “But you taught me so much, Valentino, haven’t you heard?”
Valentino takes a big breath, trying to keep his brain in the game, trying to ignore the way Marc’s fingers are moving up towards his groin. “Oh yeah? Which thing do you think has been the most useful to you? Or which one did you prefer?”
He didn’t expect Marc to play and Valentino feels rusty as hell. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to hang for the ride, though.
“Hm,” Marc tilts his head to the side, faux-thinking. “I’m not sure.” His hand squeezes Valentino’s thigh. Valentino can feel himself getting hard.
“So what’s tonight about? You want a lesson to help you decide?”
The words feel cringy to his own ears but they’re the best Valentino can provide at that point in time. Looking at Marc, he can’t tell if Marc is affected by the situation at all and it’s maddening in the worst kind of way.
Marc considers him for what feels like an eternity. Valentino tries not to move, tries to win the duel they haven’t pronounced but are probably having anyway. They’re so close the only thing he can fixate on is Marc’s terrible attempt at a mustache. He’s about to say something about it when Marc moves, his hand going to Valentino’s shirt and his head getting closer.
Valentino closes his eyes on instinct.
Marc’s breath is hot when he deposits his next words right into Valentino’s ear.
“I already made one big mistake in the first Grand Prix of the season, might be better to wait before the second one, no?”
His eyes still closed, Valentino feels his heart ringing in his ears. And then, the warmth of Marc’s lips when they press against the corner of his mouth.
It takes Valentino a moment to open his eyes. When he does, Marc is gone.
The left side of his body feels intensely cold.
The skin on his cheek burns.
It hurts.
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