Archive of Our Own

It all starts during preseason.

More specifically in Barcelona. Their first official day as teammates, when the world's eyes had turned to them, scrutinising every moment, desperate for just an ounce of drama. Pecco was determined not to give it to them, there’s no reason why this year would be different then any of the others. He was going to focus on his side of the box and treat his new teammate the same way he would anyone else. Then Marc had turned up with that ridiculous testing livery. Exuding his overabundance of natural charisma and charm that Pecco himself could never hope to master. The world, and more importantly Italy's, media had been clamouring over themselves to get a word with the seven times world champion. Pecco knew logically it was all just mind games. He tried not to be drawn in, helplessly captivated by the sight of the other man. His dark eyes wide as the tech’s and mechanics explained everything to him, eagerly drinking in his new surroundings. 

Throughout the day Marc made a point of introducing himself to each member of the team, despite being on the grid with most of them for over a decade. He went about his task with quiet humility, listening attentively to everything he was told. Pecco watched the subtle transformation out of the corner of his eye, pretending to study the papers in front of him. With each system explained, each run on the bike, the smaller man seemed to come to life. His magnetic charm expanding to fill the space around him as he smiled easily at every new person, fitting like a glove into the team he'd been fighting his entire career. Pecco couldn't help but be fascinated. Especially as Marc hadn’t kept to his side of the garage, introducing himself to Pecco’s people with little fuss, managing to find the most natural moments, his presence unobtrusive and sanguine.

The press, Valentino, his own logic, they all warned him that Marquez was dangerous. That he would be his greatest challenge, the enemy within. He took their warnings to heart but couldn't bring himself to hate blindly. Even with his own past dealings with Marquez the amount of caution he was being told to exercise seemed excessive. He knew who he was and he’d never had to play dirty before, if he was to beat Marquez he would do it fairly. Mind games only worked if the other party engages, if that's how Marquez wants to play this, Pecco will let him waste his energy. Davide called him too polite, ‘ You can’t always be a gentleman’ rings in his ears but what exactly did Ducati want him to do? He wouldn't be the one to start a war in their box, that's not how teams win championships. Marquez was one of the best riders of all time but Pecco himself didn't have three world championships for nothing, they could be the greatest force the sport had ever seen taking Ducati to new heights. 

Deep down he yearned to form a partnership with the other rider. It didn't help that Marc was making all the right noises to the press, talking about the importance of teamwork and how eager he was to work with Pecco. Even coming over after their second runs, sitting at Pecco's feet with the mechanics and engineers to hear his feedback. It was distracting. It was flattering. It was just another mind game. 

Marc knew Pecco knew that it was all for his benefit. This humble act. The way he seems perfectly happy kneeling on the floor, in that ridiculous, obnoxious get up, talking testing as if his words weren't all laced with ulterior motives. As if Pecco could trust anything that comes out of his mouth. As if he valued Pecco's opinion and wasn't just searching for information about the bike he could use to beat the other man. It was all fairly standard inter team rivalry, Pecco had somehow expected more from the great manipulator himself. 

He knew he shouldn't let his ego be stroked but he couldn't help it. As the day drew to a close and people started to pack up he was unsettled, Marc had spent time with or introduced himself to every member of the team. Every member that is, except him, all day the other man hadn't once spoken directly to the younger rider, hadn’t sort him out like he had everyone else. He’d like to think he doesn't care but as Carola asks if he’s ready to leave Pecco feels a pang of panic that he won't be seeing the other man until December at the earliest. He doesn't want to be the one to leave without saying goodbye, it would give the wrong impression. Telling his sister he’ll catch her up he fiddles with his wrist zips, unsure what exactly he wants to say to the man sitting just two temporary walls and six meters away.

He’s not sure how many people are still in the box, the everpresent radio is turned down low but he can’t pick out any helpful sounds over the general noise of a working racetrack. Marc only brought one crew member with him, glancing at the time Pecco knows the Ducati guys will be getting dinner before beginning the long process of stripping the box, it’s likely this is the quietest the box will be. He can’t decide if it would be better to talk to Marc alone or with many witnesses. Unsure what the point of this particular game is, he could be playing right into his hands. Still, Pecco thinks somethings need to be said. He stands, mind made up, taking a purposefully step forward, sound swallowed by the Ducati carpet. Now he can see the whole box he realises they are alone. Marc has his back to him, studying the bike on its stands, his large hands skimming over the bodywork reverently, head tilted to the side. Pecco feels like he’s intruding on a private moment. Man with machine, matching red running in unbroken waves from front fairing up Marquez's left arm into the curve of his shoulders. Pecco’s eyes travel over the protective hump of the suit, sweeping down to the man's waist, the Ducati branding large on his back, until finally resting on the tagline he’d first seen in Marc’s instagram video this morning. Todo Al Rojo. His first reaction had been to roll his eyes, passing the phone back to his press officer. Annoyed and confused by the blush creeping over his cheeks.  

The silence stretches out, if only for Pecco, who begins to feel awkward, observing his new teammate unawares, like some sort of voyeur. Marc and the GP25 look good together, natural like a matching set. It’s another mind game. He frowns unsettled, thinking maybe Valentino was right about Marquez. The Spaniard leans forward, studying something on the centre dash, Pecco almost chokes on his own saliva, eyes draw to the subtle arch of his back. As it is he must make some sort of noise because the smaller man looks over, smile lighting his eyes when he notices Pecco stood there.

“Hey, heading out?” Marc straightens up, turning to face him. Heading out? He says it so casually, like he hadn't spent all day pointedly ignoring the others' presence. The heat from Pecco’s cheeks increases with annoyance, something like hurt (but definitely not, Marquez couldn't hurt his feelings) burns in his chest. Marc tilts his head, batting his eyes as he looks up at Pecco, waiting for a response. Pecco’s brain is spinning, he thought he was ready for any angle Marquez might try, but this. This nothing. Being perfectly amicable and courteous while also ignoring him, he’s not sure what the aim is but he needs Marquez to know it’s not going to work. Two can play that game.

“All in red?” He questions, in what he hopes is a casual manner. Motioning to Marc’s testing leathers. Trying to show he’s unaffected by that particular mind game, while also figuring it's a safe topic to not allow the smaller man anyway to try and get under his skin. Marc grins, laughing with his eyes.

“Yes. You like? I wanted to make a good first impression.” He puts his hands on his hips, almost doubling over with laughter, as if he’s telling an in-joke between the two of them. It’s overly familiar, not the way he’d ever acted before with Pecco, in press conferences or in front of cameras, the only ways they’d communicated this past year. Recorded conversations where the jokes were always double sided, a performance for the room rather than an actual exchange of information. Pecco always felt in front of the camera it didn't matter if he was there or not, Marc could work the room like a pro, barely even turning to acknowledge the man at his side most days. Right now it’s just the two of them. They're not side by side, pitted against each other but face to face. Pecco doesn't know what he expected, more of the same possibly or something slightly less professional now they can both say what they mean. Of course he didn't expect the man to turn around and detail how this was all part of a master scheme to usurp Pecco’s position in the team and ultimately his well previously his world championship.

What he was unprepared for was Marc treating him not just with the professional courtesy he had shown the rest of the team but with what seemed to be genuine warmth. Marquez spoke as if they were friends. He has to try twice to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, falling into his prepared speech. 

“I wanted to say that what the media expect or you know… the history between us. I’m planning on ignoring it. I hope we can start fresh and form our own opinions of each other.” Marc's head tilts the other way, his eyes crinkling as his tongue darts out across his cracked lip, drawing Pecco gaze. He kicks himself, realising he'd defaulted to Italian in his nerves, hoping Marc doesn't think he’s being an asshole talking at him in his second or third language when Marc had used english.

“Okay.” The spaniard draws out the word, taking a step forward. “Why would we need to start fresh? There's no bad feelings here, at least on my side. Besides, we've known each other a long time, no?” Marc answers in Italian, standing just out of arm's reach. Pecco’s not sure what to say.

We’ve known each other for a long time . Not really. They've been on the grid together, sure but before this year their careers hadn't rally overlapped in any significant way on or off the track. Before that Pecco was busy working his way through the ranks and Marc was busy breaking records and winning world championships. Thinking about Marc winning his championships. The Marc he remembers, in his mind casts the man in front of him in a ghostly light.

He sees Marc Marquez in Thailand, on a tiny garage TV, larger than life. Lifting a pool ball above his head, resplendent in the white and orange of Repsol Honda. Any other leathers would be unthinkable. Repsol Honda, Marc Marquez. The two were synonymous. Maybe that’s why he had not linked those moments in his head with his new teammate. But ghost Marc is right. Pecco had grown up dreaming of the world championship. As a child he'd watched Valentino Rossi dominating, those years feel so far away the memories are more like half remembered legends. As he grew into adolescence and his dream became more possible, more tangible, a path to glory opening up with each hard fought step up the categories, he’d continued to watch the pinnacle of the sport. Only now the players had changed, he has much more distinct, real memories of watching Marc Marquez winning. Again and Again and Again. As if it’s all he knew how to do. Sometimes beaten but never broken.

Marc’s always been many different things to different people. There’s Marc Marquez, Repsol Honda starlet. Youngest ever world champion, who won in his rookie year against the aliens and did things on a Motogp bike no one else could match. Pecco also knew Marquez, who Valentino would talk about first as an example, then as a warning. A boogeyman haunting the grid. Of course Pecco had known of Marc almost as long as the Italian had been racing, hearing about a kid just four years his senior who was carving through the junior series'. Who was tiny and quick and maybe the next Dani Pedrosa. Marc who had come to the ranch, left all the academy boys (privately) open mouthed in awe when he broke the lap record like it was easy, laughing maniacally. Spending the time he wasn't on track with his body pressed close to Valentino, heads bent together as the older man showed the younger a map of the ranch or some memorabilia he was proud of. Soon after that he became Marquez only. A danger to be avoided. A trickster, a manipulator, a master deceiver who rode dirty without regard for other and hurt everyone he came in contact with.

Then of course, there had been his terrible accident and for over a year it was all the paddock could talk about. When will he be back? WILL he be back? Who will take his place? Pecco had witnessed it all from the sidelines, firmly focused on pushing himself, pushing his bike. He didn't stop to think about Marc Marquez. His style wasn't anything like Pecco’s, there was nothing to be learnt from watching him. Too dangerous, too uncontrolled, too wild. So yes, Pecco had know Marc for a long time but he wouldn’t say they knew each other. He's not confident he can explain any of that to the older man so he crosses his arms, defending himself against an attack he’s beginning to think will never come, at least not in the way he expects. He wishes he’d gone with Carola, got changed and left without ever having a second thought about Marquez… Marc. Whatever.

“What was your nickname again, red cloud?”  Marc’s obviously decided the awkward silence has gone on long enough. Pecco nods dumbly, tripping over his thoughts. The moniker sounding strange in his accent.

“It suits you.” Marc’s looking straight at his face and Pecco thinks he must be bright red. His silence is obviously getting to Marc, Pecco can see his eyes narrow. Good, this whole mess started because Marc was ignoring him, now he knows how it feels. 

“Nuvola Rossa is a family.” He's not sure why he says it. Wanting to let Marc know it wasn't just a gimmick but a representation of everything he's worked to build here. It won't be so easy to steal. Marc hums like he understands, taking a step closer, hands clasped behind his back.

“You're a family man. I like that about you. It's admirable. You really should be proud, it's obvious from the moment you step in here how much this team likes you. You don’t need to worry about working together, it's your team, I'm just happy to be a part of it. Let's try and win some races, eh?” Marc leans forward to clap him on the arm, forced casual. Pecco's thrown him off. Good. 

Marc’s hand lingers a second too long. Pecco looks down at the fingers curled in the soft leather of his elbow. White, celebrating Ducati's history. He agrees with everything the other man had said which only makes him more suspicious. Knowing the fight will come, he has to keep himself on alert, to not get caught unawares or he risks waking up with Marquez’s knife in his back and him on Pecco's bike. Still Marc hasn't actually said or done anything worthy of derision…Yet. so he pushes past his subconscious thoughts that sound suspiciously like Valentino. Choosing to be the bigger man, he's his own rider, he won't let history colour his actions, especially if Marc is determined to pretend it doesn't exist. 

“Yes, the team is very good. I hope they will make you welcome.”

“Oh they have, everyone's been very nice. It's a bit like the first day of school. Nerves, excitement you know.” Marc smiles easily again, he's lent back on his bike looking as relaxed and comfortable as if he'd been in the garage for years. Pecco’s surprised he would openly admit to feeling nervous, he certainly hadn’t show it on the outside. It’s not something Pecco would ever admit to a rival, an indefensible weakness. Does Marc trust him not to use any weapons he’s given. Does he think Pecco so meek? So unworthy of the respect of trying to hide your emotions. Despite Marc's words he gets the feeling the other man doesn't consider him a serious threat. Pecco used to being underestimated, despite being the first person to defend the number one plate since Mick Doohan.

“You remember your first day in the paddock?” Marc continues to Pecco surprise, expecting him to take the lull in conversation as a sign to move on. He's probing, Pecco's not sure what for. He steps back as well, unsure when he'd strayed onto other's side. He's delivered his message, Marc can play his games if he wants, Pecco won't allow himself to be pulled in.

“Si, it was a long time ago.” He answers vaguely, determined not to give anything away.

“Longer for me.” Marc laughs again, the sound equal parts intoxicating and grating. “Someone showed me a picture of us. I think it’s from 2010.” Marc’s studying his face again, eyes assessing. Pecco feels pinned to the spot.

“You know, your features were much more feminine back then, if they hadn’t told me it was you I would have thought it was a young girl.” The way the shorter man says it like an interesting fact. Conversational tone dulling any immediate reaction Pecco might have had. The words settle deep in his subconscious before he can truly puzzle out their meaning. It's difficult when someone's speaking a second language to be completely sure of one's true meaning. When the words do register he feels all the breath leave his body, heart pounding in his chest

“I didn't remember, of course but it was touching to see that the champion of Ducati,” Here he says ‘campione Ducatisti’ but Pecco translates his meaning into something less exalting. “Nuvola Rossa himself used to be my fan. It’s how I know we can work well together, our history is positive.” 

Marquez looks pleased with himself, Pecco’s sure he's being teased. He can't quite find the mocking tone but Marquez has no reason to be saying these things other than to trick Pecco into revealing some personal information. Trying to fluster him and draw out seemingly innocuous words for future use, an olive branch sharpened to a spear. The November air between them has dropped a degree or two during their exchange. Pecco rubs his hands together while Marc appears unaffected.

“So how are you finding the bike?” He tries to steer back to safer ground. Away from how Marc's eyes follow his movements, flickering to his unzipped leathers, or how he wants to lean in and see if, even after a whole day of testing, his olive skin still holds that intoxicating cherry scent.

“Fast wouldn't you say?” Marc's whole demeanour changes back to its original relaxed state, turning to his new machine eagerly, leaving Pecco without the warmth of his attention. He should feel relieved the topic familiar and safe but his stomach twinges with disappointment to have lost the older man’s sole attention.

Marc tops the timesheets in Sepang. Now Pecco will admit he's hooked. Obsessively pouring over the other man's data, he can't quite understand how he’s getting performance out of the bike that he simply can't. Not that Pecco's far behind, barely a tenth. Still it feels like a mountain when by all accounts Marc shouldn't be faster than him. 

Frustrated, trying not to look like he has his tail between his legs, he decides just to ask the other man. Knocking on the wall to his side of the box while he talks rapid Spanish with a engine technician. Marc's eyes light up, like he's genuinely happy to see his teammate. Pecco tries not to let it get to him, stomach swooping despite himself.

“Hi, I erm hope I’m not interrupting.” He stumbles in Spanish, hoping to be more polite then their last encounter, clutching his data sheet in a closed fist. Marc’s probably tired from speaking Italian all day.

“No problem, we were finished anyway.” Marc smiles. The tech, Pecco's trying to remember his name, he was part of Enea’s team last year, makes a face but gathers his sheets, departing with grace. Marc doesn't stand, his posture remains unchanged, relaxed and at ease.

“Good times today, the front end feels solid no?” 

Pecco stands awkwardly on the threshold of Marc's space. He frowns, his front end is decidedly not as stable as he would like. He questions whether this is a good idea. Will it only give Marc more opportunity to search out his weaknesses. Every time they speak Pecco feels like he's revealing another card he didn't mean to show. He feels uneasy standing over the other man, so he takes a seat to the side, how he normally would talking to one of his Academy mates, something cold crawls down his spine at the comparison.

“I wondered if we could talk about the hard braking zones, the data isn't clear towards the second half of the tyre life.” He points to the lines on his print out, swallowing his pride and caution to get the answers he needs.

Marc pulls out his track map, leaning forward, eyes completely focused. He rests it on his knees between them. The Italian shuffles closer, pointing out his exact issue, ignoring how Marc's attention makes him feel. The Spaniard watches Pecco's fingers trace the thick black line, nodding to his observations. As the minutes tick by his apprehension eases, enjoying the chance to talk to someone on the same level as him, without having to hide anything since they're on the same machinery. 

Marc's insights are thorough and thoughtful, he approaches riding differently to Pecco, to how he's been taught. Having to hum noncommittally when Marc describes a feeling so natural to him that Pecco's not sure he's ever experienced. He must be an unconvincing actor because Marc smiles sympathetically at him.

“I wouldn't worry about it. I bet you're still going to come out on top in Thailand.”

“Not if this data has anything to go by.” He scoffs, defences completely down. Jumping when he realises he's talking to Marc Marquez as he would a close friend, teasing and joking coming naturally. Adrenaline floods through him like he just woke up with a lion in his bed. Marc pats his hand.

“That bikes made for you, I’m just trying to keep up.” Again he laughs open mouthed, like they're all in on the joke, only this time it doesn’t feel exaggerated. Marc eyes on him are tender, Pecco feels a pull of connection, throbbing with caustic understanding.

“I know what it's like when the bike under you feels like it’s made for you, when it feels so natural, so right. You become a team, you and the machine. That's why there's a riders championship even though you can never win anything alone, it’s always a team effort. The machinery becomes an extension of you, you're so intune with each other she will know all your limits and you hers. You can trust her to react exactly how you want. It's a special feeling. It’s normal to be possessive, I don't take it personally.” Marc lets go of their hands, gaze faraway over Pecco’s shoulder before pulling back to their discussion.

“It doesn't last. It can't. Enjoy it, because that feeling…Wow, there's nothing like it.” He sounds so honestly wistful, lost in his own words. The connection between them twinges with sympathetic grief.

“You’ll get it back, you’ve already proven you can win again. 'Nothing's lost forever. If you feel something inside. Let it touch you, it can never truly be gone'.” Pecco quotes one of his favourite poems. One his mother used to read him, back when she would tuck him in to bed every night, before he started travelling away for races two, three, four nights a week, twice a months or more. Parts of his own history he hangs on to when things are hard, when the sacrifices feel like they may never be worth it. Marc’s grief pulls out his own unresolved trauma. It’s hard sometimes. On track is one thing, with the visor down and over 250 horsepower at his fingertips, everything is simple but off track, there he’s never felt the need to become hard, become jaded like Davide wants, like Valentino can be sometimes, like the world seems to think he needs to be. Harsh and guarded and uncaring like Marc is supposed to be.

This isn't how being teammates with him was supposed to go. Marc was supposed to be hiding information, doing dummy runs and bogging laps to try and mess with Pecco. Praising him to the media then whispering criticism in others ears. Here he is, sat looking up at supposedly his greatest enemy, willingly walking into the lion's den if it will bring back his smile. After all there's no honor in fighting a defeated man.

Marc studies him hard. Pecco must imagine how his eyes are shiny, a cruel trick of the light designed to squeeze his heart. ‘This is not a sentimental creature’, Valentino whispers to him from his subconscious, ‘See how Marquez has angled his face just right for the light to catch’ , ‘How he’s made his eyes so big and brown, looking away coyly to trick you into believe his games’. 

Marc coughs, rolling his shoulders back, eyes flitting around the room. Pecco takes a steadying breath, lump in his throat. Quickly becoming uncomfortable by how close they just were.

“Thanks for the..” Pecco gestures to the forgotten data sheets spread between them. “I’ll try to put this to good use in Thailand.” It’s meant to be reminder to them both of the stakes. Pre-season won’t last forever, soon they will be competing for real. Teammates or not there can only be one winner.

“How about a bet?” Marc clicks his tongue, sitting back. Vulnerability, friendliness, rivalry all sparkle in his eyes. His grin is wolfish, incisors visible, yet Pecco doesn’t sense danger, after all he’s not some innocent sheep.

“Like what?” He stretches, reclining back on his arms, legs out straight in front of him. That way it’s easier to tilt his chin up, keeping eye contact with the other man without craning his neck.

“We’re teammates no? What if whoever wins in Thailand gets to pick a team building activity, just between us. Nothing extreme, just a bit of fun.”

It’s broad. Too broad. He could be agreeing to anything, really it's just a terrible idea. Pecco should laugh in his face the way Marc has taken to doing. 

“What if neither of us win?” Is the only question he thinks to ask.

“When frogs grow hair.” Marc smiles cheekily. Pecco frowns, sure of his translation but the response means nothing to him. Marc rolls his eyes.”Your face is far too expressive Bagnaia, you really need to work on that. Anyway I’ll tell Gigi you think so little of his dream team. Really who do you think will beat us? Martins on that Aprilia?” Marc quips, talking fast. Pecco can imagine him in a booth of some bar, alcohol flush on his cheeks, commanding the attention of the whole room with his easy confidence and enthralling grace. 

It’s Marc the way he talks to his brother, or a handful of other Spaniards. In reality there’s very few people in the paddock Marc is his true self with. Another reason the manipulator accusations have hung around longer than they should have. Marc's very rarely open, Pecco can't understand why he’s choosing to be so with him of all people, when they both know the million reasons he shouldn't be. He’s busy puzzling out the enigma of Marc Marquez, enjoying the others company so much that he fails to react to the teasing or the flattery, unsure which is which.

“What sort of activity?”

“Something we can do that night or the next day. Nothing crazy tio, don’t worry. It’s just a bit of fun. Maybe I’ll get you to make a post saying Lorenzo was the best Ducati rider of all time and tag him in it.” Pecco rolls his eyes, cringing with embarrassment at the thought, nodding distractedly at the laugh lines around Marc’s eyes.

“Or maybe we’ll try to recapture some of your old girlish features and I’ll get you all dressed up in a pretty red dress.”

Marc’s fucking with him but it’s the kind of easy familiar teasing Pecco’s used to with his friends. Pecco tells him to fuck off, kicking at his feet with a laugh. It comes as a relief after months of background worry over the winter break about what kind of games Marc would come into the season playing. Right now things are comfortable with Marquez even with Pecco still unable to identify his game, other then to make him blush. The Italian finds himself agreeing to the bet without a second thought, forgetting about it as soon as he has something else to focus on. 

Martín tops the final pre-season test in Thailand. Difficult weather conditions throwing up unexpected challenges on the new machine that Marc and Pecco will both have to work through. Still the fans don't seem disillusioned. A poll by MotoGP social has them voting in a dead heat between the two factory Ducati men to take the first victory. Everyone is convinced Pecco's hiding something and he's sure that neither of them have their cards fully on the table.

He is quietly optimistic for the season. More than that, he's enjoying having Marc as his teammate, his relationship with the older rider much more kindred spirits then rivals. His confidence only growing that this will work out, maybe they can show the past is the past. Proving finally that Pecco's his own rider who wants to do things the right way, with mutual respect. He knows he shouldn't read the articles that crop up almost daily, the ones that say Marc will crush him, the ones that say Marc's washed, the ones that prophesies disaster. He  struggles not to feel like a side character in his own team, not that it matters of course. Ducati management, Davide, Gigi, Marc they all insist it will be an equal garage. The fans analyse every interaction, half of them convinced he's already mentally destroyed, the other half actively wishing it.

It’s hits him when he arrives at the track for the first race of the season that he might have miscalculated slightly. He walks into the Ducati box, his home for over half a decade. Marc’s already there, fresh out the bag team shirt on, laughing with Gigi. The older rider greets him warmly, like he genuinely missed him, like it's his place to welcome Pecco into his own box. Pecco can feel where the Spaniards hand had brushed his lower back for the rest of the day, the area glowing with a gentle warmth. Friday morning Gigi sits next to him as they discuss the plan after FP1, Marc sits on the floor to his left eagerly listening to the feedback and offering his own. Neither man act like this is anything unusual, so Pecco doesn't pay any mind to the way his stomach flutters. He refuses to be the one who causes a fuss or gets flustered. Pecco finishes the day above Marc in both sessions, the commentators call it an 'unusually strong start for the ex-world champion'. Overnight there's more articles, in various languages, talking about how this is his chance to prove himself. If he can stand up against Marc, go toe to toe and come out on top more often than not, he will have earnt his place amongst the greats. As if back-to-back championships and being responsible for Ducati's revival wasn't enough. It doesn't mean anything. Only he knows what he's capable of and he'll do his talking on track he thinks, biting his fingernails to stubs. 

Marc's dad visits the box between sessions, splitting his time between his two sons. Pecco's noticed how he watches with pride his son working, staying out of the way and not interfering. Trusting. Of course his own parents come to a lot of the races but it feels different in a way he refuses to acknowledge. Valentino's absence has been noted by the fans, even some of the journalists question him. Has he given any advice? Have you altered your training coming into this season? Will Valentino be attending more races? Did it affect you that he wasn't in Barcelona?  It’s a sticky subject. Valentino hasn't changed at all towards him, they speak like they always have but Pecco can feel unasked questions. Unspoken words hang heavy in the air as Pecco talks about how pre-seasons going or bike development. He's getting tired of the thinly veiled probing about how the team is working and the atmosphere. The only person who seems to want to hear what Pecco has to say, without looking for the imprint of Marc in his words, is the man himself. 

Marc wins the first race in a stunning yet ominous display, Pecco bringing it home a close second. On the podium he aims straight for the smaller man, swallow disappointment when Marc focuses on the team below.

The celebrations in the garage are in full swing when he makes it back from the media pen. Music turnt up. Red coloured wine cups filled with champagne decorate most surfaces. Marc has somehow beat him back, appearing from a circle of men, face flushed, wet hair peeking out under a backwards winners cap, a giant bottle of cava clutched in his right hand. Practically jumping into Pecco’s arms with a grin that screams. I told you so.

“You were amazing.” He pats him on the back, taken aback by the rowdiness on display. He kicks himself as soon as he says it.

“You could say I had some extra motivation.” For a man who appears unsteady on his feet Marc's smile is sharp as knives. The smell of champagne clings to him, making Pecco’s head spin. He gulps, all at once remembering the bet, butterflies of anticipation explode from his chest leaving him gaping at the empty space Marc had occupied a moment ago. Pecco had witnessed Marc’s victory celebrations from afar last year, being in the middle of one is like being caught in a hurricane. Marc has an uncanny ability to get everyone on board, managing to sweep everyone up in his joy. The way he exudes determination, passion, love for the sport overflows, infecting even Pecco himself who happily fist pumps on the edge of the circle. He vaguely wonders what the academy will say when they inevitably see the videos. The thought sobers him up immediately, weaving his way to the side of the party after their group picture. Purposefully avoiding Marc’s searching gaze with sweaty palms.

Slowly people start dispersing. Being one of the first to leave would give the wrong impression so he mills around for a while longer, talking to some of the catering staff he’s never had a full conversation with before. Ignoring the noise from behind him. Even when, at one point he’s stumbled into by a mass of mechanics with Marc on their shoulders, throwing him up in the air.  He hears murmurs of an afterparty and is surprised when Marc himself is the dissenter, claiming he’s too old for Thailand's party scene when he has an early flight and beginning to say his goodbyes. Pecco glances at his watch 19:24, hardly the middle of the night. A warm hand finds his waist then Marc is pressing close to him, arm around his shoulders.

“My hotel room 21:00. Don't make me wait, Francesco. I’ll have dinner ready, don't dress up.” With that he’s gone, sweeping out the door. Pecco walks to his taxi in stunned silence.

Marc could have planned anything in what Pecco has convinced himself will be a humiliation ritual. He's not even sure why he's going through with it. He could just not turn up. It's highly likely that he's going to walk in on Marc's entire family and crew, possibly even a camera setup, all there laughing at him. The sensible thing to do would be to go to bed and forget about it. He's not bound by anything more than his pride and the sneaking suspicion that maybe Marc's not playing games. He has no clues as to what the other man has planned other then his remarks at the test, which were crazy. In the garage he’d mention dinner but there had to be more to it then that, some kind of forfeit, he’d lost the bet after all. Maybe Marc just wants to see if he'll show up but he has a sneaking suspicion the other man is just crazy enough to hold him to his word.

They're staying in the same hotel, a 10-minute taxi ride from the circuit. Pecco takes a shower scrubbing away the sweat, champagne and track dust. Ignoring the fact that last night he’d shaved his legs, biting his lip thinking about the pictures he’d seen on Marc's Instagram, clear evidence that Marc waxes everywhere shutting his brain down. Questioning himself constantly, his feet move on autopilot. Why was he taking part in this practical joke? but as he runs his hand over his smooth legs, the flush on his skin and excitement building in his gut is answer enough. 

He steps out of the shower, again running his hands over his legs, obsessed with how tantalisingly smooth his own skin is. The taboo sensation, the sense he’s doing something wrong is intoxicating. He spends far too long getting ready, his alarm jolts him out of his daydream, hurriedly tugging on his least wrinkled jeans. He loses a further ten minutes picking out which pair of shoes he will wear, going with his latest Jordans for confidence. He doesn't know why he’s so nervous. Caught between the worry this is some elaborate prank and the suspicion it could be something a lot more meaningful, he can’t settle on a state of being.

He arrives two minutes early, out of breath. Marc takes twenty seconds to open the door, cheshire cat grin firmly in place. He lets himself be ushered into the room, scanning the visible areas for any clue about Marc’s plans. It’s more of a suite then a room, identical to Pecco’s own. Everything appears normal, doing nothing to quell the anxiety in his stomach. 

“The bathrooms over there.” Marc hands him a large bag, shooing him towards a door on the far side of the room. “Dinner will be here soon.” The door's pushed closed behind the Italian without another word.

Pecco’s left gaping in a identical bathroom to the one he was in just thirty minutes ago, trying to make sense of that interaction. Numbly he opens the bag, pulling out a red folded garment. The fabric's luxurious, like something one of his ex-girlfriends would have brought with his card. Running his fingers through it he shivers, Letting it flow through his hands until the full length unfurls, pooling on the floor. It’s a dress. Fuck, surely Marc doesn't expect him to actually wear this. He frowns at the complicated looking straps, turning it to try to identify how you would even begin to put it on. He almost marches back out into the main room to throw the offending article at Marquez’s feet. Calling him disturbed and perverted and leave with his dignity in tact. His intuition tells him that's the wrong call. Too close to freaking out, to letting the other man see he’s affected by these games. No the best thing to do is to play along, force Marquez to show his whole hand and never show that he’s getting under his skin.

After some experimentation he figures out it’s backless, skin prickling in anticipation. Locating a hidden zip on the side he swallows, the point of no return looming. He doesn't want to overthink this, talking himself in circles over what to do. Something Marc had said offhand in Buriram comes to mind, the older man had been commenting how ‘Sometimes it better to not think, just let instinct lead. ’ Mixing with Valentinos advice of ‘The best way to beat Marquez is to make him think you’re playing his game. If he thinks he’s winning it’s easier to spot his tricks’. Decidedly not thinking he pulls off his jeans, not allowing any time for his anxiety to get in the way. 

He pauses at his boxers, would Marc expect him to wear something more fitting? The outline may be visible through the delicate fabric of the dress. Pecco doesn't want to ruin the image, he’s a man of his word even for a stupid bet. Plus he wants to look good for Marc. Tongue between his teeth he slips off his underwear, checking the bag again just incase Marc had provided  something for him to wear. Empty. Of course, because this was a dumb bet, Marc wasn't actually interested in seeing him in womens clothing. He comes back to himself, realising there is still a high chance he’s going to open the door to a gathering of laughing Spaniards. Visions of having to run back to his family in shame, Valentino looking at him with embarrassment, asking how he could be so stupid? How he could fall for Marquez's tricks? Does he value Valentino’s advise so little that he allowed himself to be played by the elder Spaniard.

“Pecco, are you okay?” There’s a soft knock on the door. Shit he’s taking to long, thankfully the handle doesn't move. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts.

“Si..Sorry, yes, I’ll be just a minute.” He kicks himself, clearing his throat, refocusing on the task at hand. He just has to get through tonight, whatever it may bring and he can forget this whole thing. One thing’s for certain he’s going to be more careful around Marquez in the future. Already planning on finding some time with Bez just to help reset his mind to where he needs it to be. 

He steps into the skirt first, pulling up the zip halfway so it sits on his hips, hands brushing the fabric against his legs. It feels nice, sliding over his skin, airy and light. He wonders if all skirts feel like this. It’s strangely exposing despite being floor length, he triple checks the fabrics not see through in any way, the barely there fluid feeling disconcerting. Fingertips fret at the mid-thigh slit on the right side he hadn't noticed, sticking his leg through experimentally, trying to remember his own partners wearing anything similar. Attempting to picture the movement as they walked, not wanting to look silly. His motion catches his eye in the mirror, reminding him the job is only half finished. He releases a steadying breath. It’s just a bet, it doesn't mean anything, he will walk out of this room tonight with a funny memory and nothing more.

The bodice wraps around, allowing him to easily see where the fabric should go on his body, only getting tangled once before realising the straps should cross at the back in an X over his  shoulder blades, the remaining string he tries to loop around the waist, aware his physique isn't what the designer had in mind. It doesn't look right, clashing with the stylish folds at the front. Then he notices three tiny rings on the fabric along his side. Feeding the string through much like how you lace a shoe he has to stretch, tying a sloppy bow on his lower back, neck straining over his shoulder to use his reflection as a guide. 

When he finishes he’s sweating. Whether it’s from nerves or exertion he’s not sure, self consciously dabbing at his brow, checking in the mirror he’s made no obvious mistakes. Why would women's clothing be so complicated? It’s almost as difficult as the race suit to put on solo.

His palm rests on the zip, assuring himself it’s secure. The swooping back sits low, exposing his lower back with a curve that’s matched across his chest. He fusses making sure it’s not going to slip and expose too much. Lightweight folds hug his buttocks making just standing here feel indecent. The dress hugging him like a second skin, accentuating curves that don't really exist. His heart pounds in his chest, studying his own face in the mirror, a stranger stares back. He didn't style his hair out of the shower, soft curls wick around his ear. He can’t tell if the flush on his cheeks is from the physical effort, embarrassment or something deeper. The bright scarlett of the dress reflecting colour into his lips that’s not normally there. On the dress itself Marc’s attentions to detail shines through, Pecco doesn’t think he could have picked better himself. Not that he ever would. He can’t deny it looks good, fighting down a bag full of confused feelings to admit that to himself. Rolling his shoulders back, dragging his gaze from the mirror he pulls every ounce of confidence he has. If Marquez is going to play these games he’s not going to act like some helpless victim. Pushing open the door just a crack, he peeks into the larger room. It appears empty. With a death grip on his summoned courage he pulls the door open wider.

“Marc?” He pokes his head out hesitantly, seeking out the older man. The silence making him nervous. Marc’s head appears around a pillar, his eyes go wide, Pecco can feel himself blushing, hand twirling on the door knob.

“Whoa, Peccuito…” Marc seems lost for words, coming to stand in front of the other man, his shirt sleeves rolled up, curls tousled like he’s been running his hands through them.

“You look beautiful.” His voice is breathless and Pecco’s head snaps up to study him for signs of the joke, completely thrown by the absence of other people or a camera to point and laugh at him. Marc looks ernest, there’s something else in his genuine gaze, curiosity maybe, maybe something darker. The smaller man takes a deep breath before holding out his hand. Pecco knows he’s as red as his dress, allowing himself to be pulled into the intimidating open space, Marc keeps a respectable distance, smiling gently as if Pecco was some skittish animal. He tries to pull himself together, he’s a world champion for god sake not some blushing virgin. He stands up straighter.

“Is this what you wanted?” He motions down himself. Cringing as his tone comes out hasher then intended. Marc’s eyes flicker, unreadable and Pecco shirks again. He steps into Pecco’s space, eyes tracking up his body, scrutinising. The room holds its breath, waiting for Marc’s response, Pecco can feel the satin alluringly smooth against his shaved legs. Marc’s eyes linger on his face, travelling over his lips, his cheekbones, his eyes. Pecco’s never felt so exposed, eventually a large hand comes up, brushing his hair behind his ear, it takes everything in him not to shiver even as his knees go weak.

“In the picture you had an earring but I assumed it would have closed up.” He looks disappointed. Pecco can smell his cologne, expensive, subtle, Marc. He’s made an effort, maybe an attempt at intimidation? Pecco seriously doubts that suit has been out of the wardrobe since the last gala. Marc’s eyes blaze into him, Pecco realises he’s waiting for a response. He nods gently, disappointed when Marc drops his hand.

“Yeah, I think it probably has.” His voice is scratchy, mouth dry. Marc nods eyes travelling down again, his hand sliding over the the straps crossing Pecco’s back. The touch nowhere near being indecent in any other context here is undeniably lewd. Fingers press into his spine, large palm bleeding warmth through this trapezius, Pecco feels naked.

“Ah, you managed the straps, I thought maybe I should choose something simpler but ..” He pauses, considering his words.

“I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see you in this.” His eyes linger on the folds against Pecco's chest, where anyone else would have an eye catching yet classy amount of cleavage visible. Pecco feels self conscious about his obvious lacking in this area. 

“It’s a nice dress.” He doesn't know what else to say.

“Hmm, it just need’s a little something to tie it together. Come, I think I have just the thing.” Marc turns on his heel heading over to what Pecco assumes is the master bedroom. He blushes, handprint burning on his back, stumbling to catch up with the other man's purposeful strides. This whole encounter has flipped his world upside down, the floor feels like it's giving way with each step.

Marc stops in front of a full length mirror. There's a table to his right with a small bag on and... Pecco almost turns to leave right then, make up. His feet continue without his consent, drawn by some invisible force. Entire scene perfectly choreographed by Marc. Pecco remembers all at once everything he’s been told about this man. Smart, manipulative, deadly.

He forces himself not to look in the mirror, refusing to lose eyes contact  and give Marc another card. Marc doesn't seem affected by any of this, acting like it's all completely normal. He picks up the bag, gently pulling out a long gold necklace. It dances delicately in the light. 

“May I?” 

He’s so out of his depth he might as well be in the Marianas Trench, nodding despite himself.

Marc walks behind him, Pecco has to resist turning to follow. Hackles raised at the man being out of his sight, he can't suppress an jump when warm hands rest on his shoulders, catching the corner of his mouth twitch upwards in the mirror, a low chuckle ghosts across his neck. Marc moves with practised ease, effortlessly clipping the jewellery into place. It falls in a Y shape, the tail resting between his pecs brushing the folded fabric on his chest. 

Marc reappears in front of him, the whole ordeal taking seconds. The Spaniards dark eyes focus on the addition to his outfit, mouth pressed in a firm line of concentration. His fingers ghost over the length, warmth bleeding into Pecco's skin. It's almost unintentional, how Marc's touch dances across his skin. He has to remind himself Marc’s just doing this for the bet, he’s not touching Pecco because he wants to. He misses his chest plate, feeling exposed in a totally new way, unconsciously moving to wrap his arms around his stomach, forearm accidently brushing Marc’s front where he’s stood so close. He juts out his chin, hands falling to his sides, trying to hang on to some thread of masculinity. 

“Bello.” Marc whispers, finger tips tracing over his collar bones. Pecco needs this to stop. It’s too confusing, the softness, the comfort. Marc studying him like he’s a treasure. Pecco searches hopelessly for some sort of ridicule or attack. He needs Marc to get to the point of all this because he can’t stand here, feeling like an idiot, unable to quash the hope in his chest.

“Marc I..”

“Just one more thing.” Marc cuts him off, reaching over to the table again, picking up a lipstick. There Pecco does step back. It’s too far, he never would have agreed to this if he’d know what Marc was planning. 

“No, that’s enough. I've put on the outfit, you've had your fun. There’s a line here Marquez.” He tries to sound annoyed and not the panicked he’s feeling. Convinced now, this is all some dumb joke to humiliate him, his heart dropping at the realisation. Marc, the bastard, rolls his eyes, hands coming up placating. Offending lipstick held clearly between his fingers.

“Peccuito, calm down. It’s only lip gloss.” Marc’s warm voice washes over him. He forgives the eye roll, body reacting to the calming tone instantly, reducing his heart rate. 

“You don't have to wear it if it’s really a line. I just thought since I won the bet and the race, you would be good enough to honour our agreement.” He steps forward, arm’s dropping with a shrug, leaving Pecco plenty of space to escape if he wanted to. Pecco does want to. Really. He wants to march out of this god forsaken hotel room with it’s confusing feelings and it’s confusing occupant and never deal with any of the feelings this is dredging up. 

But he stays, because he knows that if he was to storm out he’d regret it forever. Because Marquez is looking at him like no one ever has before similar to his mother when she tucked him into bed. Similar to Valentino on the track when he’d just won his first championship. Like he believes Pecco’s worth something beyond his achievements. Conscious that his hands are sweating again he takes Marc's offered hand, stepping back into the older mans orbit. Eyes fixed on their entwined fingers. Tanned skin pressing against his own, prophesied to be his downfall Pecco wonders if he’s making a huge mistake. Marc’s hands are somehow larger but Pecco’s fingers are longer, closing around the entire appendage, the fit somehow perfect.

The sound of the lipstick. Gloss. Whatever. Opening breaks the silence of the room.

“See, clear gloss. Just something to help you shine.” Marc’s voice is low, lighting a fire in Pecco, stoked by his touches. He holds the stick up to show the younger man he’s telling the truth. Clear gloss glistens but doesn't move closer. Pecco nods not trusting his voice, seeking Marc’s eyes for reassurance that he can be trusted. That Pecco hasn’t walked into a trap.

Focus colours Marc’s features, his eyes squint happily with Pecco’s acquiesce, steeping further into his space so they’re almost chest to chest. The angles awkward, Marc’s face so close that Pecco tried to hold his breath, the alien drag of the brush over his lip sensual and off putting at the same time, only adding to the jumble that his insides have become. All too soon Marc’s stepping back, placing the gloss down while Pecco smacks his lips experimentally.

“Don't lick it off.” Marc chides, grabbing another tube. Pecco frowns at his tone, unused to being bossed about.  “This is mascara, it’s the only other thing I have. Are you going to freak out about it as well?” Marc teasing but Pecco is embarrassed about his reaction earlier. Amazed Marc has been able to humiliate him without involving anyone else and while Pecco was enjoying it. If he thought he was in too deep before he’s definitely hit the bottom now. Defensive despite himself.

“Just get on with it.” He crosses his arms again, biting his cheek when the skirt shift against his legs. Frowning when Marquez nods grimly, the warm comfortable atmosphere tinted sour. Marc steps forward again, Pecco flinches as his thumb sweeps over his cheek. Before rough fingers softly tilt his chin down. Pecco fights to keep in a groan, his mind running wild with the touch, imagining the ghost of those fingers on his hips, making indents in the soft meat of inner thighs, brushing against his…

He stops himself, wrestling back control from his subconscious before he’s left with a bigger problem then being in his rivals hotel room, commando, in a dress. It doesn't help that Marc’s staring at his eyes, completely focused and intent, brushing a wand over his eyelashes. Pecco blinks against the odd feeling. Marc goes in for a second run, movements precise.

“You're good at this.” He stutters nervously. Marc hums back, tongue between his teeth as he looks from eye to eye. Pecco can’t look away from his lips. He feels relaxed with Marc, both incredibly seen yet unobserved in a way he never feels day to day. Always someone watching, waiting to write a story or publish a video. The hand leaves his chin.

“There all done.” Marc pseudo-whispers, stepping back. Pecco realises he was on his tiptoes. 

“Thank you.” He’s not sure why he’s thanking Marc, after all Pecco didn't want this in the first place, still it feels like the other man has done him a service, plus Pecco was quite rude earlier, practising his manners can’t hurt. Marc smiles wide, images of him on his tiptoes, tilting his head up for Pecco to capture those lips fill his head. Fuck. He’s desperately trying not to get hard, praying Marc’s finished and they can just have dinner so he can leave. Already resigning himself to perhaps the most shameful wank in history. The gods are not in his favour because Marc put his hands on Pecco’s waist, holding him still.

“It’s looks really good. Of course if you had a waist it would look even better but your ass makes up for it.”  He laughs low, smacking his side and moving to go back into the main room.

His hands find Pecco’s hips in passing. The casual touch falters, lingering agonisingly. Pecco stops confused before realising where exactly Marc is touching. He sees it in the way Marc’s jaw twitches and his finger spasm. Marc feels the absence of panty lines, he knows Pecco’s wearing the dress and ONLY the dress. Before either of them can speak there's a knock on the door. Marc’s head whips up.

“Stay here.” He practically growls, eyes dark, squeezing the flesh in his fingers before moving off. His body brushing against Pecco side, all hard lines and muscle. The door is pulled closed, Pecco releases a breath, heart hammering against his rib cage. In the living area he hears movement, Marc talking casually to someone and his heart drops again, adrenaline spiking. Surely Marc hasn’t invited anyone else, surely this isn't some fucked up mind game. He looks around desperately. Marc’s clothes won’t fit him. Maybe he can hide in the ensuite, lock the door and refuse to leave until morning. Before he can decide the door opens, Marc slips back in smiling in that easy way of his. There’s no knife in his hands, nothing held behind his back, the open door reveals an empty room.

“Dinners served." 

He fidgets nervously, sipping his wine, it’s good. Now that he’s sure Marc’s not going to roll out a documentary camera crew, he’s left wondering what Marc is getting out of this. What he expects for his hospitality. His nerves must show through.

“Pecco relax, please. It’s just dinner.”

The talk is cordial, Marc asks about him, his family, it doesn’t feel like prying. He’s not used to speaking about himself so openly, with someone who’s genuinely interested and not just looking for major point to make a story. Still he’s being careful not to open up too much, refusing a third glass of wine. Marc himself reciprocates, telling Pecco about his own life, things the documentaries and interviews miss out. He really gets the sense of how important his brother is to him. It’s odd, he berates himself, somewhere in his mind he had the notion that Marc was a one man operation, that winning and being competitive trumped all other emotions. A man who had dedicated his life to the game and would do whatever it takes to win. All that is still there of course but the Marc Marquez in front of him is startlingly human.

They enjoy a hearty meal of smoked salmon, it’s refreshing to be with someone who understands training plans and the demands of a riders lifestyle. There's no need to wait while the other person finishes their side or desert or eat slowly to offset the difference in a normal person's meal. He enjoys the way his dress moves with his body, so different from a shirt and trousers.

Marc’s telling him how he’s had to alter his training since his arm injury. He speaks about it lightly, as if it’s just another thing, when Pecco had seen the immediate aftermath, knew it still affected him to this day. He wants to say it’s okay, that he doesn't need to hide this, that he would never dream of using Marc’s injury to gain an advantage on track but he can’t. He can’t promise that. At the end of the day when the visor goes down any weakness, any failing that can be exploited is fair game and if it comes down to it Pecco will do whatever it takes to win. He's always considered himself a fair competitor. He likes to always show respect to his opponants, even to his detriment according to others. The realisation of how far he would go to win sits uncomfortably, deep in his chest. 

Eventually when they’ve both pushed their plates to the centre of the table, the conversations starts to dry up. It's pushing midnight and they both do have early flights. Still Pecco lingers, the whole day has felt like a fever dream he’s not ready to wake up from. He can’t understand, Marc’s gone through all this effort, all this planning, for what? He’s been the perfect gentlemen, never once probing with his words into anything Pecco would consider dangerous. Taking his evasions to some questions with grace, allowing subject changes on a whim. Other then the brief moment in the bedroom he’s kept his hands to himself. All in all Pecco tries not to feel disappointed. The only reason he’s not sitting here trying to convince himself he imagined the moments earlier are the Spaniards darks eyes which have not left him all evening. Watching him with a hunger no food can cure. Pecco feels it himself, a bone deep lust Marquez has somehow unlocked in him. A desire to be seen, truly seen with no barriers or obstructions, by an equal. Marc twirls his fork while telling a story, Pecco watches his hands, wanting. God help him he wants him. Wants Marc Marquez in every sense of the word. There’s nothing controlled or measured about how he’s feeling. Somehow, over the course of the evening Marc’s found a way to smuggle discontent, desire, wildness into him, it fills him with a violent energy.

Marc sits across the table, three buttons of his shirt open, bare chest temptingly close. It’s unfair, borderline cruel. The way Pecco just has to sit here, unused to not just taking what he wants. Minutes pass and he can't handle it any longer.

“This has been nice but I have to go.” He makes to stand. Marc’s hand on his arm stops him.

“Wait, carino.” Pecco flushes at the pet name. He wants to scream at Marquez to stop teasing him. 

“I wanted to thank you. You didn't have to come tonight or do any of this. It proves the kind of man you are. Integrity, commitment, bravery these things are rare these days. It’s nice knowing I share the box with a man of his word.” Marc smiles tapping his pulse point.

Pecco scrabbles back out of the chair. The ocean rushing in his ears. He tears out of the room, unable to stand the others presence any longer. Only after making it back to his room one floor down and locking the door does he remember what he’s wearing. Shit. Anyone could have seen him. His heart might just explode. Marc’s words running through his head. Share a box . Did Marc really only see them as teammates. Had this whole evening really been to fuck with him, some insane way to suss him out. He wobbles the four steps to the bed. Red wine, even the small amount he’d had, mixing with the earlier champagne to leave him forlorn and lovesick. Despite everything, how careful he’d been all pre-season, Marquez had still managed to make a fool of him. Not only had Pecco allowed it, he’d enjoyed it. He feels like a fool, lips sticky, throat dry. Insistent pressure between his legs letting him know his shame isn’t over for the evening. He rolls over on the bed, skirt caught under him, the satin rubs against his dick, coming back to life despite his mental anguish. Now that he’s alone his body refuses to wait any longer. Head spinning he sits up, balling the long fabric of the skirt into his fist, rubbing lazily with a groan. Phantom touches ghost over his skin, the memory of warm hands on his face, deep eyes looking so intently. Pecco’s only human.

He grabs his phone that he’d left in his room. Worried one of Marquez crew who was there to laugh at him might try something. It seems crazy now but the paranoia had been so deeply instilled in him, finding out he’d managed to underestimate Marquez was earth shattering. Marquez was all the things Valentino said he was. Dangerous, manipulative, selfish. Dangerously Handsome, Pecco imagines him manipulating his body into any position he likes, seeking his pleasure selfishly. Pecco would enjoy it nonetheless. He squeezes harder, his dick pulsing with the thought of Marc’s touches, pulling up his instagram with shaky hands he scrolls down, selecting one of the many shirtless beach pictures. It works, hand moving faster, swiping he’s met with his smile, dazzling white teeth stretching his ridiculously attractive face, Pecco imagines he’s smiling at him. 

In an embarrassingly short amount of time, he’s on the edge. Scrolling down further for new material, staining the inside of the dress white while on screen Marc pedals an upright bike, sweat covered chest shining indecently for the gym environment, back arched suggestively, mirroring Pecco's own. The elder riders name falls from his lips, his finger spasms over the screen, tapping twice by accident. One floor up Marc’s phone lights up with a notification.

Two weeks later Pecco arrives in his hotel room in Argentina, there’s a package on the bed with a note.

‘Mr. Bagnaia this was left for you by someone from your team.’      

He frowns opening the box then slamming it shut. His new Jordans he hadn’t seen since Thailand sit atop his other clothes from that night that he’s been trying so hard to forget. A note falls out, floating to the floor, face up.

Re-match? 

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