Chapter Text
Bez’s already terrible mood sours even more as he watches the celebrations commencing around him. Another race weekend marred by subpar and deeply depressing results – first, his crash in the sprint with Franky, and then a not so great (but not terrible) finish in Sunday’s race. Sure, he’s happy for Pecco’s podium, and pats him on the back as they make their cool-down lap around the circuit. He congratulates Diggia as well once they’re off their bikes, before they separate into their respective sides of the box.
Sitting in the corner of the VR46 garage, Bez tries very hard to not mope, to not let the dejection he’s feeling show on his face in front of his engineers and his mechanics. It’s difficult, though – over the wall next to him, Bez can hear Diggia chattering away to his team members about his advantageous finish in today’s race. Bez is happy for him, he’s happy for Pecco, too. Somehow, though, the victories of his teammate and his friend make his own defeat sting just a little bit more.
It had seemed, at least to Bez, that weekend after weekend he was only met with more difficulties. Or, worse – he would make what he thought was substantial progress, only to come away with no points at all the very next race.
Bez runs a hand down his face lazily as he reclines further into his chair, mechanically going through the routine of removing some of his gear. He tries desperately to get out of his own head as he immerses himself in the familiarity of the situation. Gloves off. Nasal strip off. Earplugs out.
His mechanics are talking at him, shoving a piece of paper under his nose with a bunch of data. He nods in feigned interest – all he can hear is Diggia’s loud laughter, the smile in the upward cadence of his voice as he echoes a million thank-yous for every congratulations. He grounds himself by continuing his post-race protocol: water. Gear away. Unzip leathers. More water.
At this point in the day is when the paddock is at its busiest. Unfortunately, this means the media presence reaches its peak. A cameraman, flanked by a journalist of no esteemed description lingers at the edge of the VR46 box. Bez catches the reflection of the lens, staring into the blackness as his mechanics gesticulate as they talk, pointing at the numbers on the paper.
Time seems to slow down – things are simultaneously happening too fast, but also standing still. The voices of his team seem muffled, dampened by the internal struggle waging war in his head. He forces himself to nod politely when addressed by one of them, and forces himself to smile through the entire debrief. The cameraman and journalist lose interest in seconds, setting their sights on Diggia’s side of the garage.
When he catches the eyes of his team members, they smile at him. Bez wants to cry – that smile is not congratulatory, nor complimentary – it’s pity. He can tell that even Matteo, his crew chief, is treading carefully, unsure of what Bez needs right now. He doesn’t know himself either.
Never does he feel like more of a failure than when he’s speaking with Matteo. The man was the data engineer of Valentino Rossi, his idol and mentor, for nearly two decades. Back when Bez was in Moto2, comparisons between him and Vale abounded. Which, mind you, Matteo fully fed into. Marco is meticulous, strategic – like Vale. The words echo in Bez’s head, spinning around and pinging like marbles.
Scratch that – never does he feel like more of a failure than when he’s in front of Vale himself. As Matteo shows him some graphs and tables compiling information about the bike and his speed from this weekend, he can’t help the frown that pulls at the corners of his lips. Vale without a doubt had been keeping up with him and Diggia’s performances this weekend, even if he wasn’t at the circuit.
Worry braids its way through Bez’s veins. Vale never scolds him, barely utters harsh words to him – but he knows his mentor will be disappointed. The frown on his face deepens when he imagines the high praise he will undoubtedly be awarding Pecco.
Bez’s insecurities scrape at him as he continues listening to the debrief. He has no place in Vale’s academy, as one of his riders – Pecco is his true successor. Perfect, brilliant Pecco; good result after good result, throwing around the Ducati as if it were weightless every weekend.
Matteo addresses him to ask a question. Bez doesn’t completely hear it – he just hopes a simple ‘yes’ will be what his crew chief is looking for. His eyes flick towards another engineer trying to get his attention. He responds, but he can feel his eyes flit nervously from face to face, and behind them to the quickly emptying pit lane.
As he focuses on the thinning crowd, his mind goes back to Vale. He’s not sure if he’s grateful or not that he isn’t at the circuit this weekend. On one hand, he wants the reassurance and confidence that comes with having his mentor close to him. On the other, he doesn’t think he can bear the self-loathing that threatens to choke him when he fails like this. It hurts terribly, having the backing of Vale and his academy, but being unable to transform that support into anything worthwhile on track.
The chatter around him is finally dissipating – one too many noncommittal responses have led to his engineers talking among themselves about the data. He’s sure that they can sense his frustration and malaise. Bez simply can’t get himself to focus right now, too caught up in the complicated emotions that today’s race is bringing to the surface.
The debrief starts wrapping up a short while later. By then, the paddock has emptied out a bit more – there’s less raucous chatter next door and the media presence is dwindling. Bez coughs into his hand to cover up a yawn. Luckily, none of his team members seem to catch it, but the talk switches from discussing today to discussing the upcoming race.
Bez is excused by his engineers. He thanks each of them, as always, and embraces Matteo, who smiles at him again. This smile is not pity, no – it’s genuine, almost hopeful. Bez sighs internally, his immediate cynicism telling him that any hope Matteo has in him is a mistake.
He makes his way through the paddock, purposefully taking the long way to his motorhome. While he is desperate to get out of the public eye, he’s fearful of the silence waiting for him in his trailer. His thoughts, which are already loud, might just be unbearable. He keeps his head down, cap hiding his eyes from any curious passerby.
He reaches his motorhome, and toes off his boots after loosening the protective straps and buckles. He breathes a sigh of relief as he finally climbs out of his sweat-soaked leathers, peeling off the mesh shirt he wears underneath them. He hops into a cold shower immediately, closing his eyes as the icy stream hits his back. He doesn’t deserve the comforts of a warm shower, of something easy – this weekend has proven that he’s become complacent, stagnant, a mere spectator of his own life. He needs something to shock him back to life, to reignite the spark inside of him that can push him to ride harder; to ride faster.
Needless to say, the cold shower doesn’t do much to calm his racing thoughts. He paces around his motorhome as his hair dries, seeking to do everything but sit still. He tidies the trailer – which is usually the last thing he wants to do during a race weekend – and starts to pack up in preparation of leaving the circuit. He even rearranges the furniture in the room a bit, before finally collapsing onto the bed in a fit of exhaustion.
His body aches, a reminder of a weekend of hard racing. Stretching out on the bed, he can’t help but curse himself for the situation he’s found himself in. If anyone had told him how disastrous this year would be, especially after coming in third in the world standings in 2023, Bez would have scoffed in their face. Now, he’s fighting – and sometimes losing – battles for eighth place, and crashing out left and right.
He gets up again, although his stiff joints and sore muscles protest with each movement. He has an idea of something that might quell the anxiety swirling inside of him – if he can find it.
Ah, yes – it’s here, in Bez’s suitcase, wrapped in plastic that’s tied with a secure bow. A tremor of anticipation flutters to life in his hands as he gets his hand on the contents of the bag.
It’s a shirt, one of Vale’s. It’s emblazoned with a giant neon green 46 across the front. Bez had stolen it from the locker room at the ranch earlier in the year. At first, he made up excuses for the odd behavior – it was just a piece of Vale that he liked to have near him, a reminder of the good times at the ranch, a keepsake of sorts.
Gradually, it became harder to find excuses. The shirt became something that Bez took with him every race weekend, a sort of talisman to hopefully protect him from injuries and DNFs. If Vale couldn’t be with him, at least he had something to remember him by.
Bez brings the shirt to his nose, inhaling deeply. The comforting scent of Vale’s aftershave, and the type of laundry detergent that he uses at the ranch fills up his senses, instantly lessening the pounding ache in his head.
Bez groans softly as he buries his nose in the shirt, sitting down on the floor next to his suitcase. It smells so good, and so strongly of Vale. He feels a bout of momentary guilt working its way through his system at what he’s doing – he knows his mentor may not appreciate Bez stealing his shirt, or the way he’s currently rubbing his nose into it.
Bez lets his mind wander to Vale as he takes in his scent. He wishes he were here, he would do anything for one of Vale’s hugs right now.
Everything he does – his racing, certain stylistic choices, his attitude – it’s all been a never-ending endeavor to mirror Vale. The way Vale moves his body on the bike, his methodical virtue – replicating that, it’s all for Vale. To impress Vale, hoping to edge his way into that sphere of exclusivity that Vale inhabits. A class of his own; of which Bez wants in.
He wants in, of course, not just for the prestige that would come with it. Because you love him, Bez’s brain supplies for him before he can even feel the emotions lurking in his heart. You want to be his.
Bez shakes his head, aware that nobody but himself can see his actions, can hear his thoughts, but he feels the need to disagree with himself. Even though, deep down, he knows this is no revelation. It’s something that has followed Bez around his whole life, something he has tried desperately to bury while under Vale’s tutelage. A crush that began when he was young, watching Vale run circles around his opponents on his father’s TV, had only grown deeper after Bez joined the academy.
He thought it was normal – admiration for a rider of Vale’s caliber is natural. Bez refused to be another starry-eyed, eager fanboy around his mentor. Here, though, in the privacy of his motorhome, he allows himself to indulge in some of his favorite fantasies surrounding the older man.
Sometimes, walking this line is intoxicating. The nights Bez spent sleeping over at Vale’s ranch, cock in hand, so aroused that he wasn’t thinking logically – they were just as alluring as they were dangerous. He can recall multiple times when he’d been just a bit too loud, just a bit too careless – begging for Vale to walk in on him. Desperate for Vale to see how much he wanted his attention, wanted to please him in any way he could.
Bez groans again, louder this time, into the shirt. He imagines Vale is here with him – Vale, in all his glory. His lithe and wiry frame pressed up against Bez, the smell of his shampoo, the dangerous glint in his eyes. Maybe he’d whisper in Bez’s ear, the sweet words tickling his neck. Maybe he’d pull Bez into his lap, big hands encircling his waist.
Bez feels his cock hardening in his pants, unsurprisingly. He tried to not feel shameful about his desires – he knew there was no chance of him ever being with Vale in any intimate capacity. He is satisfied enough being a part of the academy, getting advice from Vale, hopelessly jerking off to the thought of him spreading Bez open after a day of training –
– oh yes. That was one of his favorite scenarios. Vale pulling Bez aside after some laps around the dirt track, telling him to come with him to discuss something personal. Of course, this was their special code; an indicator that Vale would be requesting something from Bez. Maybe this time, Vale needed Bez to relieve some of his stress. So he would – who was he to ever refuse Vale? Not like he’d ever even want to. He would pleasure Vale with his hands and his tongue, taking his mentor’s big cock in his mouth. Vale would fuck him, after that – Bez would already be stretched and prepared. Maybe Vale would prepare him the morning before, fucking Bez with his fingers.
Bez squeezes the length of his cock through his boxers. He gives the shirt another insistent sniff, imagining waking up in Vale’s bed after a night of debauchery surrounded by his scent. God, how he wishes he could be lucky enough to just spend one night with him. He could manage, though – he had learned to be careful. For example, nobody could see through the tinted visor of his helmet, so while training at the ranch he allowed his eyes to wander over Vale’s frame, his shoulders, his hips, his ass.
Bez repositions himself so that he’s leaning back against the wall as he frees his cock from the confines of his boxers. He’s definitely hard, but he doesn’t have the energy to get himself off, instead just watching as his cock twitches in his hand. He wishes Vale were here to take care of him, even though he had a bad race.
Bez curls a loose fist around his cock, stroking slowly, without any real aim of giving himself pleasure. He supposes he doesn’t deserve it after the poor weekend he’s had. He’s content to just sit here, denying himself the gratification of release. It’s probably what Vale would want for him, anyway.
He lifts a fistful of the shirt up to his nose again, images of Vale dancing across the back of his eyelids as he inhales again. He sighs, squeezing his cock and then dropping the shirt to the soft carpet beside him in frustration. He is hit with a sudden wave of profound disinterest as he surveys the scene around him – why on earth was he doing this?
His mentor? Of all people? Bez swallows, watching as his cock softens slightly in his hand.
He frowns, dejection over his poor weekend returning. The dull tremor of sadness that he had thought he could put a momentary bandaid on is back. Bez sighs, but his breath catches in his throat, and it sounds a bit more like a sob. He rises from his place on the floor, but not before carefully folding Vale’s shirt and putting it back into his suitcase in its own designated plastic bag.
He crosses the room and collapses on the bed, face first, closing his eyes as his gloomy thoughts return.
He feels a few tears slip down his cheeks as he lays his head against the pillow. He abandons his tasks for the day, wishing for a deep sleep that will fix everything.