Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's post-training, and Vale is just a bit at the end of his tether. He feels old, tired and achy – an uncomfortably common feeling these days.

Valentino is the one who suggests it, his tone almost humorous as he offers his place up for the night and his overflowing alcohol cabinet for raiding. It’s a fragile attempt to reconnect to his youth, suggesting a night of drinking with his boys.  He tells Pecco that he has too many unopened or half-finished bottles of the good stuff that shouldn't be wasted. They're young enough to consume it without the kind of hangovers Valentino has been having since he hit his mid-thirties.

They can all stay here, and it’s a sweltering Friday during summer break – no one has anywhere to be.

It makes Vale feel young again, like he did when he just bought the ranch and was turning it into a biker's paradise. When he was throwing parties every weekend, inviting riders and models to flood his house with bad decisions. But now he is 46 and sore, his back protesting as he arranges the fire pit and his knees cracking as he stands.

Ageing is an odd sensation, feeling young but looking in the mirror every day to be reminded otherwise. Valentino knows that he is not old, not in the slightest. His hair only displays the first grey strands, barely noticeable, and his face is only lightly wrinkled, his laugh lines more pronounced now. Yet somehow, the constant presence of young people distorts that. The boys who once circled his track are now men who own houses and have lives of their own. They talk in a language of social media and weird slang that he doesn't understand.

He was running laps around his competitors and winning world championships whilst they were running around playgrounds. It aches, the steady passage of time. But he isn't ancient, so he refuses to act it, letting the boys muck around on track, sometimes joining in, pretending he can still drink like a sailor and not feel like death the next day.

The fire crackles in the warm evening air, filling the sky with smoke. It is peaceful, in the Italian countryside, just them and the scenery.

Bez is roughhousing with Cele to Valentino's left, he thinks that he heard them discussing a bet before they tangled together - something stupid, no doubt. Pecco rolls his eyes at the two, but his mouth threatens to spread into a smile, betraying him. Valentino has been talking to him about the new house he just bought and the bike which he's been doing up, everything but the championship and Marc.

They don’t talk much about that, about his teammate or the championship that he is losing. Pecco seems to be accepting of him, something no one was expecting at the start of the season.

Valentino studies Pecco’s face, wondering what he’s thinking as he takes another gulp of beer from the bottle clutched in his hand.

They have been out here for hours, music pumping from the Bluetooth speaker someone had fished out of Valentino's house. Empty bottles of beer are stacked off to the side, alongside their empty plates. Valentino doesn't want to think about dealing with them right now. The idea of moving is abhorrent.

He had wandered back into the house forty minutes ago, returning with a bottle of whiskey and some wine. And some wine. He had grinned cheekily when the boys cheered, ignoring Luca’s raised brows. He hates how knowing his brother is at times.

The wine is long gone, it was some expensive brand which has been fermenting for 200 years or something, Valentino doesn't remember who bought it for him. The whiskey is still being passed around, bottle to lips, as people drink. Cele takes a sip, instantly wincing and coughing violently, his eyes watering. Bez hits his back, far from effective, as Franky cackles. Celestino shows him the middle finger as he catches his breath.

Vale chuckles. He does not remember being so young that he could not shoot his liquor straight.

God, he’s getting old.

He allows Pecco to get drawn into another conversation whilst he laments his woes of his youth evading him. He grabs one of the half-empty wine bottles, topping up his glass generously and taking a sip.

Everyone is a little buzzed; he can see it in their eyes. Even Luca has drunk a good amount, despite trying to convey a sense of sobriety. His back is too straight, his words curling at the end, rolling out his letters in a blur which betrays him.

 Valentino feels pleasantly tipsy, bordering on drunk, keeping him warm as the air rapidly cools. The sun is setting behind the tree, painting the sky in a watercolour fire.  

They will have to move inside soon.

It feels a little empty tonight, quieter than usual. They often have plenty of people here when they ride, but with it being summer break, it is just him and the boys today. There has always been a sense of peace at the ranch. The way the trees surrounding the track rustle in the breeze and the crickets chirp in the twilight. It feels odd today, an unsettling feeling blanketing him like something or someone is missing. There is a piece of the puzzle which has been lost, but no one can remember what it looks like. Valentino frowns at the thought. He doesn’t know where this mood is coming from. Valentino closes his eyes and breathes, willing away the lingering thoughts.

The breeze brushes the side of his face, the fire crackles, and someone laughs. He exhales and opens his eyes, his gaze falling on the group in front of him. It is odd, he thinks, the dynamic he has with the boys. On one hand, they are his friends, his closest circle, but he is also their mentor, their hero. Valentino frowns. He is an outsider to their gossip, to their relationships. He doesn’t understand some of what they say, how they feel. They follow him, and yet sometimes he feels so different. It was easier when they were teenagers, and none of them were in Motogp. There was a clear divide between him and them, rather than these blurred lines. He is almost double their age. It scares him.

Bez and Celin have stopped messing around and are now in a little world of their own, their knees brushing as they whisper to one another. Their faces are inches apart as they giggle like children. Valentino thinks there is always something with them; he wonders when one of them will finally put the pieces together. Their connection warms him, reminds him of this little family he has built.

Mig has one arm slung over Franky’s shoulder, drawing him in close as he rants about the most recent race. The hand which isn’t draped across Franky is gesticulating rapidly, too fast for Vale to follow without making him feel queasy.

 Luca and Pecco have sat hip to hip, half engaged in Mig’s explanation, although Pecco keeps shooting little glances at Luca. Valentino doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t consider it too hard, it's none of his business. Even from here, Valentino can see that Pecco looks a little hazy and far away, maybe that's what prompts him to bring it up. Or maybe Pecco just has very little self-preservation.

He flicks his head up to Mig, seemingly hearing something which has piqued his interest, tearing his gaze away from Luca for a second. A frown appears on his face, creasing his brows together as he hums thoughtfully and interrupts Mig.

“Ah, but Marc has been very good so far this year, even at the tracks in which he is less strong”, Pecco mutters, almost to himself.

It is kind of funny how quickly everyone falls silent, their heads turning towards Valentino as if to gauge his reaction. Luca groans, and his elbow meets Pecco's side in a move that makes him yelp. Valentino frowns; he did not think that Pecco was fond of Marc.

He can’t really help what happens next; he has never been able to remain silent about Marc.

“Ah, but remember. This is Marc we are talking about. He will push until he can no longer. He makes reckless moves, and it is dangerous for everyone else. You know this, we have spoken about it many times.”  Valentino explains, talking slowly like he is lecturing a group of small children.

Pecco is staring at Valentino with wide eyes. Luca says something under his breath, which Valentino cannot hear- potentially for the best, given the scowl on his younger brother’s face.

“He will ruin you if you let him, that’s why you cannot get too close, Pecco. He is no good at Ducati, you'd be best to stay away from him. He does it with all of his teammates because he is selfish. Marc is not a team player, do not let him fool you into thinking otherwise-”

“Vale, he’s in a competitive sport, how is he meant to be a team player?” Luca interrupts, an exasperated look on his face. Valentino doesn’t even acknowledge Luca, ploughing on with his rant as if he hadn’t heard. His voice is rising in volume as he feels the frustration rising, as it always does with Marc.

“He ruined our sport, yes? I mean, the moves he pulls are frankly ridiculous, pushing the limits of what is possible. He rides like a madman; it is not safe,” Valentino grouses.  

To his right, Luca stands up, attempting to flee the situation, one he has been subjected to too many times. He doesn’t make it very far. Franky captures the back of Luca’s collar with his hand, yanking him back and making him stumble and curse. The younger man spins around and glares, but Franky just shrugs in response.

“If we have to go through this, then you do too.” He hisses.

They have all sat through enough of Vale’s rants to know where this is going. For a man he claims to hate, Valentino talks about Marc an awful lot.

Luca surreptitiously flips him off and falls back into his seat next to Pecco, already zoning out Valentino’s rambling. Luca puts his head in his hands. He could not deal with this tonight.

Valentino’s brain is too far away to comprehend the boy’s disdain. Too busy thinking about how Marc has ruined their sport, of this, he is sure. It’s a universal truth that Marc is reckless, dangerous and willing to do anything for a win.

“Of course, for some, Marc’s riding is impressive, but that is only because he pushes too hard, desperate to clutch onto success. When you know him, you realise how far he will go. How dangerous it is.” He continues, oblivious of the confused stares of the others. He refuses to acknowledge it, like how he ignores the dichotomy between his feelings and words.

Valentino, rather unfortunately, finds himself talking about Marc without a logical thought in his brain more often than he would like.

Now, Marc is a few races away from clinching his 9^th title, from matching Valentino's record and being his equal. He has practically left the others in the dust, and even Pecco has struggled to keep up. He doesn’t want to be impressed by it – Marc’s natural athleticism on a bike, or his comeback from such adversity. But he is just a man, he can appreciate a talent when he sees one. Marc has adapted to the Ducati quickly, instantly showing the world why Gigi picked him. Valentino can’t help but watch in awe as the younger man steers the bike to victory after victory.

Valentino would be enthralled by such a strong performance this season, if not for his intense dislike of the man.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

As per usual, Marc truly does push the bike to its limits, falling off as much as he wins. Valentino can’t help the small sliver of admiration and heat provoked by the thought of his fearless determination on the bike. Marc has never been one to fear failing, to be scared of falling. Even as he has gotten older, Marc has continued to chuck himself into corners like he has a death wish, continually doing interviews whilst bleeding. Valentino hates it. Hates that he’s obsessed with it.

“You know he lost me my tenth. If it wasn’t for him and Lorenzo teaming up, it would have all been fine. But he had to ruin it for his own gain. And then he had the audacity to stare at me with his stupidly big puppy eyes, trying to make me feel guilty for telling the truth,” Valentino laments. Luca exhales loudly, looking on the brink of bursting into either tears or laughter. The others are watching as if Vale has lost his mind, maybe he has. The thought makes him giggle, slightly delirious, very much drunk.

He doesn’t notice Bez nudging Celestino, nor the phone pointed in his direction.

“I mean frankly, it’s ridiculous, the way he thinks that he can go around with his beautiful eyes and pretty face and expect everyone to just give him what he wants-”. Valentino mumbles, more to himself than anything, his face pulled into a frown.

Pecco chokes on nothing, his eyes bugging out as shock courses through him. He cautiously eyes the half-empty bottle in Valentino’s hand. Valentino holds it closer to his chest, as if protecting it from being taken from his clutches.

“Vale, I don’t think he wants everyone to do what he wants. He is a good rider and a good teammate – he always helps me with the data.” Pecco argues.

Valentino pouts theatrically, ever the drama queen. He takes another swig from the bottle. Trying to get his thoughts in order.

There’s a lot about Marc.

“Allora, he is tricking you. How can you not see it?  He’s evil”

“Vale, that’s a bit far.” Luca groans.

“No, no, he’s terrible for the sport. Everyone knows it. They keep him around because of his smile and stupid, addictive laugh. It’s not my fault that he’s stupidly beautiful and everyone likes that. And he’s charismatic, no? Good for the cameras and sponsors.”

There's a moment of awkward silence, only broken by Celestino's gasping attempts to halt his laughter, his phone shaking in his hands. Mig kicks him from across the circle – Franky grins.

“I thought you said he was bad for the sport? But somehow also good for it? You do not make much sense,” quips Franky.

Valentino sighs, his face far too serious for the situation. He gazes at the boys, shaking his head slightly.

“Indeed, you have not raced him. He’s always been like it. He and his stupid doe eyes and golden skin. And now he has all these muscles, and abs and-” Valentino stutters to a halt, imagining Marc, shirtless and laughing, like he used to have him. It has been a part of his fantasies for a while now, if he’s being honest. He is beginning to realise that he is maybe getting a little ahead of himself and tries to shake himself out of it.

The alcohol is hitting hard now, Vale thinks. He doesn’t drink much these days, but he’s managed to polish off at least a bottle of wine, some whiskey and several beers. The fire is dancing, his vision is blurring at the edges. He feels great.

“Anyways, he has no shame, all the dancing and silliness. The shirtless photos online. This is a serious sport. He is ruining it with- his- whatever it is.”

“Beauty?” Franky sniggers.

“Arrogance?” chimes Bez.

“Talent”, Luca deadpans. Mig snorts.

“Wait, no, I’ve got it – his super evil personality”, Pecco concludes sarcastically, prompting all of the boys to finally break, raucous laughter filling the quiet night. It’s addictive, and Valentino joins in, although he somewhat feels that he might be the butt of a joke.

Once they have settled down, and Cele has managed to calm himself, wiping the tears from his eyes, they fall into quiet.

It only lasts half a second. Mig has a thoughtful look on his face, which is never good.

“Vale, how do you know what Marc posts on Instagram?” He asks.

Valentino blanches, his brain scrambling to think of a reason other than his stalking habit. He can't admit that to the boys.

“Um-”

“Valentino Rossi, do you stalk people on Instagram? Marc of all people,” Mig shrieks, it sets them all off again.

Vale scowls.

“I do not stalk him”, he huffs.

“Well, you certainly don’t follow him on your main account”, Bez remarked, waving his phone in evidence.

“Which one is your favourite?” giggles Celin.

“I personally like the one from the beach, y’know, when he was on holiday.” Pecco jokes. Luca scowls at him, nudging him.

“Don’t encourage them”, he whispers.

But it’s too late, the boys are chuckling, invested in throwing out other wild suggestions, much to Luca’s dismay.

“Pre-race”

“Working out, surely?”

“Oh, oh, what about the pre-race stretches. That man is weirdly flexible”

“Definitely after a race where he’s done something crazy. You know, when he looks a little insane, he does the manic laugh. Although shirtless and tanned is a good look, too.” Valentino thinks aloud.

The others stop, conflicted between laughter and pure confusion.

Pecco groans, “Don’t get me started on that look, it always scares me”

“Ohhh, have you seen him after a race, when his hair does the floppy curl thing?” asks Bez.

Franky elbows him, “Hey, I didn’t know you had a crush on Marquez”

“I think we can all appreciate an attractive man, Franco”, Mig huffs.

Luca pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. They are all way too drunk and now arguing over whether finding someone attractive meant you had a crush, with Bex vehemently denying any attraction to Marc in a voice that is getting progressively more high-pitched.

If he were less done with the night, he might find it funny.

He, frankly, does not care if anyone in the circle has a crush on Marc, nor whether they are in love with the man – he just wants to go to bed.

The night is wearing on, it is getting cold and late, and Valentino has definitely had too much to drink. He’s mumbling to himself distantly about Marc, something the others can’t really pick out – and don’t want to.

Luca makes the executive decision. He shouts to the boys to clear up and get ready for bed, pleased when Pecco coaxes them out of their seats. He shoots the other man a grateful look.

“Alright, Vale fun’s over, it’s time for bed”

Luca walks over and taps his arm, cajoling him to his feet. Valentino stumbles slightly once he’s upright but shoos away Luca’s steadying arm. Luca rolls his eyes to the heavens and briefly asks God for strength. At least he’s being cooperative.

“I’m fine, Luca. Not even that drunk,” Vale mumbles

Luca hums, “Do you usually talk about Marquez like that when you’re sober?”

He ignores the boys' shouting and laughter from 10 feet away, hoping Pecco can keep them under control for the time being. He can pick out Celin’s giggling, thinks that maybe he’s doing something to wind the others up, Bez urging him on, despite Franco’s protests.

He nudges Valentino towards the farmhouse, hoping his brother will be able to get himself changed and into bed. He doesn’t fancy that task tonight.

Valentino’s head is beginning to hurt, and the buzz is diminishing, leaving a sickly taste in his mouth and tiredness clogging his brain. He is distantly aware that he’s cold. The house is warm when he stumbles through the threshold. He lets Luca guide him all the way to his room before he is left alone to half-heartedly muddle through his nighttime routine. He forgoes the effort of finding pyjamas, instead stripping down to his underwear and falling into bed, hoping the boys will follow soon so he doesn’t have to hear their racket.

His head feels thick and groggy. He can’t grasp the wisps of memories from the evening. It was fun, though, like old times. Valentino wonders why he keeps thinking about Marc. Maybe, if he considered it a little harder, there would be a fairly obvious answer. But he doesn’t.  Instead, he shrugs it off and promptly forgets it all when his head hits the pillows.

Chapter Text

Valentino wakes up with a headache, a dry mouth, and about 50 unread messages.

It is important to note that he desperately does not want to be up but there is a loud knocking sound in the otherwise silent house, which is making his head protest violently. It’s abundantly clear that he managed to drink like a sailor last night, something which is avoids at all costs these days.

Valentino turns over, groaning and shoving his face into the pillows. He’s an imbecile. His body clearly knows he’s not 20 anymore - he wishes his brain would get the hint. Every part of his body aches, and his head is pounding. There’s nausea in his gut, coming and going in violent throws.

He can’t bring himself to check his phone beyond a cursory look at the time. 12.10 pm. He doesn’t want to know why people have been messaging him all night. He catches a flash of an unsaved number and places it back on his nightstand, face down.

The thumping sound is not going away. Why isn’t it going away? He can hear someone in another room, he closes his eyes and prays that they find out what the noise is and shut it up.

 There’s a muffled whisper-shouting from down the hall.

“Bez, don’t-”

“Why not?”
“Luca?”

“-wish you didn’t do that last night, god we were so-”

“It’s Ma-”

“Franco, shut up-”

“-go back to bed”

Valentino can’t decipher the conversation, unable to parse the muffled pauses between the words he picks out.

There is a moment of silence. He assumes they’ve made their way back into their rooms. Perhaps they have fixed the noise, which has mercifully stopped.

The reprieve is short-lived.

The knocking hasn’t ceased~. If anything, it’s louder, more aggressive.

Vale groans, hauling himself upright and blinking the grogginess away.

It’s the door, he thinks. Why is someone at the door? He has no idea. He isn’t even sure how they managed to get through the gates – that really would be the more pressing issue if he had the brain capacity to worry about it right now.

 Either way, he stumbles to his feet, remembering to grab a pair of joggers so he doesn’t answer the door practically naked.  He pulls them on before treading carefully down the hallway to the front door.

Valentino wrenches it open without checking who is on the other side, which is his first mistake. He blinks against the blinding light, wincing as the pounding in his head intensifies.

It takes a moment for him to squint into the sunlight and work out who’s  in front of him. Valentino momentarily freezes, stunned. It can’t be. He rubs at his eyes, thinking he must be ddreaming. But no. They’re both just watching each other in silence.

Marc breaks first.

“So, are you going to let me in, or just stand there staring at me?” he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Valentino goes to shut the door, but Marc is quick, certainly much faster than Valentino with a hangover. He jams his foot in the door frame and muscles his way into the house before Vale can react.

They stand an inch apart in the hallway, their eyes locked. Marc exhales and steps back, putting a little more distance between them.

It might as well be a chasm.  

Valentino’s brain flickers back online all at once.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he tries not to shout or to give his tumultuous emotions away but he can hear the undisguised anger and confusion in his voice.

Marc is glancing around, cataloguing his surroundings, he barely looks at Valentino as he barges past, walking down the corridor.

“Ah you see, I received a really interesting video last night”, he calls over his shoulder, laughing to himself.

He strides past the living room, eyes darting into the room for a second before he continues to the kitchen, apparently just expecting Valentino to keep up.

(He has to jog to do so, baffled by what is happening in his own house)

“It certainly explained the state you’re in today,” Marc grins.

They finally come to a halt in the kitchen, Marc has turned around to face Valentino, so they are on either side of the rickety wooden table in the centre of the room. An odd piece of furniture to be in the house of a multi-millionaire, Vale will admit. But it had come with him from the first flat he ever owned, and he couldn’t bring himself to part ways with it.

“What do you mean?” Valentino asks.

Marc quirks an eyebrow, amusement colouring his features. If Valentino were a better man, he wouldn’t feel an overwhelming sense of desire at that face.

(He’s never claimed to be a good man)

Valentino can feel Marc’s stare burning into the side of his head. It’s then that Vale remembers he’s actually not wearing a shirt. Embarrassment claws its way up his throat, and he has to swallow the urge to use his arms to cover himself. Instead, he grabs a WEC hoodie off the back of a chair where it had previously been abandoned and pulls it on. Vale glares at Marc when his head pops through the hole.

“Celin sent me this. It looks like you guys had fun, no?”

Marc pulls his phone out of his back pocket, unlocks it before Valentino and loads the messaging app. He pulls up a thread with Cele and clicks on the most recent message, a video from the younger.

(If Valentino had more functioning brain cells this morning, he would question why Cele had Marc’s number in the first place.)

To Valentino’s dismay, the video appears to have been taken last night, midway through his drunken rant. Cazzo, Vale barely remembers what he was talking about – but he seems passionate enough.

Also drunk, very drunk.

He watches in rapt fascination as the video plays, a third-person view of his cloudy memories of last night. The vowels of video-Vale’s words are slurred together, but still distinguishable into rambling sentences, and embarrassing ones at that. The most common word coming out of his mouth appears to be ‘Marc’, and it only gets worse as past-Valentino diverts from his usual slander to begin waxing poetic about Marc’s body.

It explains the smirk currently plastered on Marc’s face.

He groans inwardly. He has no idea what has gotten into him, drinking like a fish, talking about Marquez like he’s a God among mortals, not kicking him out of the house the minute he opened the door.

He’s incredibly fucked.

But, if Valentino is not mistaken, despite his haughty amusement, there is a hint of pink blush on Marc’s cheeks, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

Maybe he isn’t the only one, he muses.

The video ends abruptly, leaving just the black screen of Marc’s phone reflecting Valentino’s stunned face, shaking him out of his stupor.

“So, my abs, huh? My charisma? You’ve been keeping a big secret from me?” Marc chuckles.

Vale reels back as if he’s been hit. Has Marc really come all of this way just to make fun of Valentino? He snarls in Marc’s direction, the consuming mixture of anger and shame threatening to overflow.

Mortification threatens to swallow him whole.

Marc holds his hands up, a sign of peace

But no, that doesn’t make sense.

He tries not to linger on the fact that everything he said last night was unashamedly true. Instead, he considers the dawning truth that Marc has travelled to Tavullia overnight, and doesn’t seem too mad about any of it. Even though Valentino spent the vast majority of the clip complaining about Marc’s dangerous riding, the younger man seemingly does not care. Or cares more about the latter half.

Looking at Marc now, there is something in his posture – the tense set of his shoulders, his stance – like he could be thrown out at any second and would be ready for it.

Marc has gambled high stakes to come here. He’s taken the chance that Valentino would let him in, talk to him after years of silence. Valentino questions what that means.

It's fleeting, but he considers telling Marc to leave, letting him be the embarrassed one. He could do it easily and make sure that he and Marc are never in the same place again. He has that type of sway. Valentino could go back to bed and pretend none of this ever happened.

He could blacklist Marc from his life, hell, from his country, for the rest of their lives and never have to think about last night again.

But he doesn’t want to.

It feels strangely right to have Marc here in his space, a challenging look plastered on his face as he stares at Vale across the kitchen table.

They observe each other, evaluating the next move.

Valentino makes it first.

“Why are you here, Marc?”

Marc grins, evidently pleased that Valentino was the first to break. But Valentino doesn’t stop, he wipes the smile straight off the small bastard’s face.

“Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve flown to Italy overnight to come and see me after one of my boys sent you a video of me slagging you off whilst drunk. A bit desperate, no?”

Marc's smile drops, but he recovers quickly.

“Ah, so you didn’t want to see me smile? Or drool over my stupid abs?”

“Are you offering?” Vale inquires.

Marc baulks, double-takes. He wasn’t expecting that.

‘1-1’ Valentino thinks.

He has a hunch about why Marc is standing in his kitchen; if he’s right, it changes things. Valentino carefully assesses Marc and decides to throw all caution to the wind.

“Fuck this” he whispers, more to himself than anything.  

He strides around the table, eating up the distance between them. Marc’s eyes widen, his attention fully focused on Valentino as he looks up at him from beneath his lashes.                

God, he’s pretty.

Valentino doesn’t give himself enough time to worry about the consequences. He crowds into Marc’s space, pushes him up against the table and bends down to connect their lips.

There’s nothing soft about it. It’s a fight from the start.

Valentino presses close to Marc, moulding their lips together. His hands clutch at Marc, one on his waist, the other in his hair. Tilting Marc's head to keep him in place, he draws the younger man’s lower lip into his mouth and bites. None too gently.

Marc moans, low and guttural.

It makes heat bloom in Valentino’s chest, an intoxicating combination of pride, desire, and hunger. There’s a part of him that recoils, dismayed at the fact that it’s Marc underneath his hand. It’s outweighed by the bells of victory tolling in his head, his heart. Because he is the one who gets Marc to moan like that and as much as he may deny it, he has wanted this for a long time now.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Valentino pulls away and smirks at Marc.

“It's always pain with you, isn't it?”

Marc scowls, tugs him back in.      

Checkmate.

Valentino loses track of time. Kissing Marc is everything he could ever want or need. He can feel every inch of where their bodies meet, the heat radiating off Marc. The younger man meets him for every kiss, pushing up against Valentino as if he could climb into his skin if he tried hard enough.

Valentino pulls back, urging Marc around so he can walk them forward. He continues to kiss Marc, keeping one eye open to guide them to the counters. He pushes Marc up against the ledge and marvels at the way Marc softens like putty in his hands. The younger hums in his throat, melting against Vale, held up by the pressure of hands on his hips and the cool marble behind him.

The pounding in Valentino’s head diminishes as Marc squirms underneath him. He gets a hand under one of Marc’s thick thighs, urging him to jump. Marc obeys immediately, letting Valentino manhandle him until he’s perched on the counter, his legs spread so that Vale can stand between them. Like this, they are finally a similar height.

Vale’s neck thanks him immediately.

When he pulls back, Marc is watching him from underneath his eyelashes, his eyes half lidded and far away. Valentino has to bite down a groan. He looks wrecked just from kissing, his lips swollen and bitten red. Valentino never wants to stop, he wonders why this took him so long.

“Vale”, Marc whines, tugging at the back of Valentino’s neck where his hands have snaked into the thin curls at the base.

Valentino gets the hint. He drops a kiss at the corner of Marc’s mouth, on his cheek, before urging his head to the side and pressing a line of kisses down his neck. Marc sighs softly, transforming into a breathy groan when Vale bites down on the spot below his ear. Valentino grins, pleased.

Suddenly, he has the ridiculous urge to suck, to bite, to claim. He wants to cover Marc in bruises, make sure everyone knows who he belongs to.

Valentino is not well-practised in self-control, nor is he used to denying himself.

He threads a hand into Marc’s hair, admiring the softness of the strands beneath his fingers as his mouth trails back to Marc’s mouth. He presses a soft kiss against Marc’s parted lips before twisting fingers into his hair, gripping tightly and tugging hard. Marc moans, long and loud. He files that information away for later. He can’t help the way he instantly imagines Marc on his knees, his pretty mouth wrapped around Vale’s cock, hands pulling his hair to guide the bobbing of his head. Valentino’s dick twitches in response.

With the hand in Marc’s hair, Valentino directs his head to the side, relishing how easily Marc follows, allowing plenty of access to the sinew of Marc’s neckline. Valentino decorates every inch of visible skin in red blotches, sucking on the column of his throat and biting the skin beneath his earlobe.

When Vale pulls away to admire his handywork, Marc’s head falls forward, his breathing heavy and ragged. It makes him feel rather self-satisfied.

He did this to Marc.

“Look at me?” he requests, the demand in his tone seeping through. He hooks a finger under Marc’s chin and tugs until their eyes meet.

If he thought Marc looked hot before, now is unreal. Marc’s hair is a mess, curls askew as they fall across his forehead. His doe eyes are entirely glazed over, blinking slowly at Valentino. His lips are pink, bitten, and slightly parted, his breath stuttering. There are reddening marks across his throat and neck, contrasting beautifully with his bronze skin.

Valentino can’t help it; he trails his hand across the delicate shape of his neck, fingers brushing over the claiming bruises. He lets his hand rest across Marc’s throat, not squeezing yet, but a suggestion of what he could do. Marc gasps, Valentino grins at the sound. Ever so tentatively, Valentino presses down, just the slightest, concentrating the pressure in his fingers, spread wide on either side of Marc’s neck. The smaller man releases a stuttered exhale and shifts under Valentino’s hands, pushing his neck further forward. Docile and trusting.

Heat coils in Valentino’s gut.

It’s obscene.

He leans back in and reconnects their lips. His free hand comes to rest on Marc’s inner thigh, stroking the soft skin there as his hips thrust forward in tiny jolts, unconscious.

Valentino gently shushes the breathy moans Marc is making against his lips, but doesn’t move his hand from around Marc’s throat. He takes advantage of Marc’s parted mouth, pushing his tongue between teeth whilst increasing the pressure of his fingers. Marc spreads his legs wider, shivering under Valentino’s touch before shifting to wrap both legs around his waist, pulling them flush together. Vale is consumed by the hot press of Marc’s body, all the compact strength against his leanness. He can feel where Marc is hard against his stomach, his own dick painful within the confines of his jeans.

Time slows. Nothing matters to Valentino except Marc coming apart under his hands and lips. He can hear nothing other than their harsh breathing and the gorgeous sounds coming from Marc’s mouth. His thoughts trip over each other in an undignified rush of incoherence.

He desperately wants to move them to the bedroom.

Valentino doesn’t hear the door creak or the muffled swear from behind him, too consumed by everything Marc.

It isn’t until the door slams shut that he’s jolted out of his worship, ripping his hand away from Marc’s throat, probably too late. Marc jumps first and tears away from the kiss. His dazed gaze shoots over Valentino’s shoulder, and a pretty blush stains his cheeks.

Valentino watches Marc for a beat, two, before he turns around, already anticipating the scene behind him.

Luca clears his throat awkwardly, standing at the front of the group, Pecco to his left, looking between Valentino and his teammate in shock. Bez is wearing a strange expression of both confusion and delight, his eyes fixated on Marc.

(Valentino wants to snap at him to look away. He doesn’t.)

Celestino rounds out the group, wearing a shirt which is certainly not his own, standing with his mouth ajar, his hand outstretched as if going to catch the door which slammed shut behind them.

No one speaks.

Awkwardness permeates the air.

Valentino would find it hilarious if he weren’t the one caught with his tongue shoved down his (ex) rival's throat. He’s torn between watching the bemused expression of the boys and cataloguing Marc’s reaction.

The latter wins out.

He turns back to Marc, his gaze assessing. To Valentino’s surprise, Marc looks completely unaffected, if anything, slightly amused.

Someone coughs nervously.

“So, uh- choking, huh?”

Bez.

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Vale hisses a breath through his teeth, wondering if it’s too late to flee.

“Jesus, Bez,” Pecco groans.

“I panicked”, comes Bez’s response, shrill and too loud in the quiet of the kitchen.

Valentino has to fight the urge to facepalm.

Marc looks far too calm for someone who’s just been walked in on with a hand wrapped around his throat.

Valentino does not feel calm.

He exhales forcefully and squeezes his eyes shut. The past 24 hours have been a real test of his ability to handle embarrassment. Between drinking himself into oblivion, talking about Marc like that on camera, and now this. Well, his ego has taken a hit.

Valentino tries to compartmentalise, one step at a time. He offers Marc his hand and helps him to clamber off the counter. They both turn back to the room at large. Marc looks unbothered, smugly satisfied if anything, and completely unashamed.

He eyes the newcomers with curiosity, grinning brazenly at Pecco and nodding at Celin in what Valentino assumes is some kind of twisted “let’s embarrass Vale” camaraderie. Valentino hasn’t forgotten who caused his humiliation, glaring lightly at Cele, who has the decency to look abashed. Unsurprisingly, he is unable to find much real anger – he never has been able to with the boys.

Now that they are facing one another, the group can rather unfortunately see the evidence of what they walked in on. Vale tried to subtly readjust himself whilst facing the other way, but Marc had not.

Shock.

Luca groans, eyeing Marc's neck with distaste. Marc only tilts his head challengingly, showing off the claim. Valentino preens slightly, tries to pretend that he isn’t. He does not miss Cele and Bez’s wide-eyed curiosity, nor their gazes fixated on Marc. Valentino doesn’t hide his glower.

Meanwhile, Marc levels Bez with a reciprocal stare that even Vale would struggle under. He doesn’t understand what the fixation is, but it’s making Bezzecchi blush like no tomorrow.

Pecco looks away, looking a little uncomfortable

“It was only a matter of time, I guess”, he says.

“Although I wish you wouldn’t do it in the kitchen”, Luca grumbles.

“My house”, Valentino snaps back. Sue him, he’s a bit on edge.

“You’ve been fucking” Marc says, completely out of the blue. Valentino turns around, a frown on his face, to find Marc watching Celin and Bez, both of whom are burning bright red and stuttering.

“I-”

“No, we,”

“-uh”

Valentino laughs. Of course, Marc comes in and instantly notices. He pats Marc on the back before realising that he really is wasting his time here and should be dragging the younger man to his room and making him cum as soon as possible.

He grips Marc’s shoulders, relishing in the way Marc sinks into the touch and looks up at him. Valentino begins to guide them out of the room

“Well, this has been fun and all, but you did interrupt us, and we have other things to be doing. Enjoy breakfast and blah blah. Goodbye.” He calls.

“For fuck’s sake” Luca grouses.

 Before they exit the room, Valentino stops, suddenly having a realisation. His hand shifts to Marc’s waist, holding him back, commanding.

“Where are Franky and Mig, by the way?” he questions, brows creasing.

Pecco sighs and shakes his head, “Franky’s room, I think – you don’t want to know.”  

Valentino nodded. That sounds about right.

He gently pushes Marc out of the kitchen, guiding him down to his bedroom so they can finish what they started.