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Marc’s gonna win his ninth title.
Pecco keeps telling him that, sipping his warm sake and popping the occasional wasabi coated peanut in his mouth, more relaxed than Marc has seen him all season.
He doesn’t know why he accepted, when Pecco asked him to hang out at a karaoke bar. Probably it’s just because he would have imploded otherwise – too much nervous energy and nowhere to redirect it.
There’s Vietti with them, talking animatedly about an action figure he bought, some lanky character from an anime Marc has never bothered watching – never had the time.
And there’s Luca.
He joined them later, a warm, happy smile stretched across his features, an easy thing that made Marc feel instantly more welcomed, for some reason. They’ve agreed not to talk too much about work, and they’re having fun eating weird snacks with their sake, listening to the enthusiastic amateurs singing their heart out on a small stage, committed to the bit in a very japanese fashion. Pecco is still trying to choose what to sing. Marc has little to say on that matter, whatever is fine as long as he knows the song as well, and Luca…well.
Let’s say it would be better if Marc didn’t dwell on him too much. There would be a lot to unpack if he was caught staring, and he knows Pecco’s observation skills pretty well. He’s sharp, Pecco. Quiet, laser-focused, hears everything, sees everything. He’s just too good at sticking to his gentlemanly act to flaunt it, but Marc knows him pretty well by now.
“Oh, come on, it shouldn’t be that hard to choose what to sing at a karaoke…”
Marc’s head snaps up from his tiny sake cup – he must have zoned out, because now Vietti is poking at Luca’s ribs and Pecco is chuckling, long, graceful thumb stuck between his teeth.
“I don’t really know,” Luca replies, his mouth stretched in a smile so pretty it makes Marc’s heart catch in his throat. He’s timelessly handsome, in a way that only statues and portraits are, and he’s looking at Marc now, still sporting that expression of warm, gentle familiarity.
Is your singing voice like your brother’s? He wants to ask, so much that his teeth ache with it. Because he heard Valentino sing, he does remember how he sounds like when he’s mindlessly humming around a tune, and that’s an experience he wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy. What he says instead is “Maybe your favorite song will do?” without knowing anything about Luca’s preferences music-wise.
For all he knows, he could like death metal. Or jazz. Or musicals. Either way, he shouldn’t care.
(he shouldn’t be thinking about Valentino’s terrible singing voice, also)
And yet, it’s hard to sit across from Luca, interact with him, without feeling like he’s looking at a ghost.
The ghost of a bright eyed, androgynous Valentino, with his hair cropped short when he couldn’t be older than twenty and had that aura of carefree heroism about him, the same relaxed slouch of his shoulders Luca is displaying now that his guard is down, now that he’s probably feeling at home with people he’s spent most of his life with…and Marc, of course, the only one at this table who’s not in their close-knit cohort.
A bit of an intruder who’s looking rather disrespectfully at Valentino’s little brother. He wonders what it says about him, then he scoffs inwardly, telling himself he’s acting like an idiot for nothing. He just – wishes he could eradicate such stupid thoughts.Crumple them like he would with a piece of badly scribbled paper then throw them away.
He wishes he could focus on all the ways in which Luca isn’t Valentino, instead of the other way around.
Maybe he should pay a little more attention to the fact that Luca is older than Valentino was back then, more mature, carrying himself around with some sort of poise and dignity Valentino will never possess, but it’s hard not to see the spitting image of that twenty year old in the way Luca’s lips curl, how they draw back in a smile that bares his teeth and looks so strikingly similar to Valentino’s – more cutting, perhaps, but that’s just how Luca’s face is; sharper than his brother’s, almost austere in its perfect proportions.
That’s some kind of a timid progress, anyway. He’s found something. Something about Luca that doesn’t resemble too much the younger version of Valentino he sometimes sees him in the little glimpses and bits the internet feeds him through his Instagram or TikTok algorithm, the traitorous system that shoves in his face how fucked up he inherently is on almost a daily basis.
“And you?” Luca asks him, picking apart a sheet of spicy nori – impossible not to glance at how his long fingers dance, quick and practiced, making something in the pit of Marc’s stomach churn like rancid butter. “Do you think you’ll sing solo, other than with Pecco?”
Marc laughs, a PR trained thing, convincing enough to fool anyone who isn’t Álex. Luca still has this look on his face – unguarded, painfully open, half amused.
“Nah, why should I hurt these poor people’s ears? Singing with Pecco is fine. It’s a bonding activity, no?” He turns towards his teammate, finding that he’s chuckling too. He’s still thinking about Luca’s hands anyway, so he dips his lips into the sake, hoping for a bit of alcoholic clarity. What he gets instead is a horrible sense of dejà-vu. Valentino’s elegant fingers cupping his cheek. Valentino’s elegant fingers hooked through his belt loops, pulling him close. Valentino’s elegant fingers wrapped around his cock in the stifling heat of a summer night.
He wonders: would Luca’s fingers feel just the same? They all have almost identical calluses, after all. Him, Luca, Valentino. Where they clutch the brakes, where they twist the throttle grip. That’s where the skin becomes leathery, layered, no matter how much they try to protect their hands. It’s the usual two or three spots – the only thing that changes is how maimed the bones are, how gnarled the underlying structure.
He wonders how Luca would look like in the midst of a fuck and after. Elegantly disheveled like a prince in a movie or beastly and sweaty, just like any other man, red-faced and gasping?
It’s such a dangerous, deranged thought; need surges through him, violent like a slap. Luca’s icy blue gaze is piercing, and he seems very much interested in tracking down every micro expression of Marc’s face. He focuses on his breathing until, at last, his heartbeat slows down, and he smiles, smiles, and his mouth aches at the corners.
“Nobody here is Celine Dion,” Vietti intervenes, with his sort of braying laugh, the sake in his cup sloshing as he rams his shoulder into Luca’s. Something about the way Vietti beams at him tells Marc he’s into Luca somehow, but it’s hard to say if Luca is into him – they’re friendly with each other, of course, how could they not? They come from the same academy, they’ve been entwined for ages by now, probably even competed against each other in the lower category, but of that Marc isn’t sure. He doesn’t know Vietti much. To be honest, he’s never found him talented enough to be worth a second glance. Still, he’s companionable and loud and light-hearted. And he’s got an obvious crush on Luca.
Speaking of which.
Marc would really like to hate Luca on principle, solely for what he represents – for the feelings Marc had so heroically managed to bury deep inside the most unreachable part of his brain that Luca is digging out, one by one, albeit unwittingly. Ten years of history aren’t easily buried, apparently.
The dead don’t stay dead, he thinks, not without a snicker.
Luca stretches over the table, his warm, large palm landing on Marc’s arm, squeezing just so.
“You should help Pecco pick a song, though, unless you want to pull an all-nighter here…we’re running out of snacks, also. Do you think I should ask for more?”
Both Pecco and Vietti nod. Marc, on his part, is trying to ignore the prickle of his skin, the way his hairs stand at attention at once just for that insignificant contact, the huge earthquake that has just thrown him off balance when he was looking at Luca’s glistening lips, shiny with sake and spit. He can comfortably picture him like this, on his knees, a thread of sticky drool stretching from his bottom lip to the tip of Marc’s cock, whimpering obscenely, and he knows full well he shouldn’t – uncanny territory and all. Plus, it’s not the right place, nor the right time to think about Luca giving him head, unless he wants to knock the mic stand with his inconvenient boner while getting on the stage to sing whatever song Pecco will choose.
Admittedly, he doesn’t even know if he’s in the mood for it, right now. There’s a kind of unpleasant swimming in his stomach, the seasick sloshing of bile and acids he can even taste on the back of his throat, ironically; he tells himself that it’s the ibuprofen he’s taken for his stress headache some hours ago that’s making him sick, but he knows better than to try to bullshit himself when it comes to such matters. It’s about Luca and, at the same time, it isn’t.
But the thought of having Luca like that? Fuck, Marc would definitely sell whatever insignificant piece of his soul he’s left for it, tonight. Just to see him a little bit ruined, a little bit messed up, breathless while kneeling at his feet.
The epitome of beauty and grace reduced to a free use, whimpering thing in his bedroom. Or maybe he could be a service top, though Marc knows better it’s a label that doesn’t really apply to real life, only to those books that make girls all blushy and giggly.
But the point still stands. He’s never been obsessed with Luca like he is tonight, and he doesn’t know why it’s happening now, when he’s not in the right mental space to cope with it – much less without doing something incredibly stupid even for his own self-destructive standards.
Marc closes his eyes for a second, trying to ease his racing thoughts. His jaw hurts a bit, a side effect of his nerves catching up to him, making him clench his teeth throughout the day like he’s chomping the bit. He’s eager, eager, hungry like a wolf for a championship win that feels like the coronation of a lifetime of pain and sacrifice. And there’s this little problem with Luca – with Marc’s unhinged longing, mostly, but Luca is at the centre of it, standing out like a pearly marble bastion towering over ruins and debris. And then Luca is back, and it’s so damn hard not to stare in mouth-gaping wonder at him as he swiftly places the biggest tray Marc has ever seen on their table, nibbling at a fish cracker covered in a menacing red dust.
“Is it hot?” Marc asks, not out of real curiosity but just because he can’t fathom how to bring himself out of his own head otherwise. Luca smiles - he still has a weirdly compelling, boyish charm when he does - and licks at the red dust sticking to his upper lip, the ghost of a blond mustache glittering under the neon lights.
“A bit too hot for you, yes. But the other things are safe. You should try the sweet potatoes with kelp mayo,” he says. Vietti steals one from the plate first, and dips it into the sauce like his life depends on it. Marc laughs it off. Once upon a time - a lifetime ago - he, too, was so eager to please another blue-eyed idol. Though Luca is less than an idol, he’s more like…the monks keeping its statue shiny at the temple, so to say. Maybe Marc should visit a temple while he’s here, praying for clarity and to win his fucking title.
Pecco devours tiny fried balls with a distinctive fishy smell and smiles, pleased.
“Cheat day,” he says, his hand wrapping around Marc’s bicep, squeezing slightly. Too bad that Marc is thinking about Luca’s hand - large, like Valentino’s, but somehow more elegant, his fingers straight and knobby and his nails well manicured - wrapped around a very different part of his body, for a very different purpose.
He wonders how Luca would react to his size. There are rumors about Luca’s own size too, mostly started by the Academy boys who regularly shower together after training at the Ranch, but Marc has never been one to believe unwarranted rumors, especially regarding dicks. Everyone lies about their dick size, exaggerating it. He would like to – well. Investigate the matter further. Perhaps by seeing if Luca’s dick fits comfortably in his mouth, for one. As people often say, there’s always a small bit of truth in any rumor, after all.
“Technically, I shouldn’t cheat,” Luca chimes in, his long legs knocking inadvertently into Marc’s. A shiver runs up Marc’s spine – it’s just like being zapped with an electric prod.
“Bah, stop. Look at you, one single cheat day could never ruin…this,” he tries to sound playful while giving him a once over, but his tongue darting over sake-dry lips betrays him.
Hungry.
He’s been hungry before, and horny and stupid, but this pull he’s feeling towards Luca, amplified both by the fact that he’s going to win his ninth title after having been told it would be improbable and the odd proximity with Valentino he can sense like a thrum in his bones, seems kind of irresistible. An undercurrent tugging at him while he’s already submerged, pushing him further and further away from the shore.
He desperately needs to redirect, or else someone will notice he’s just pretending to listen, when in reality he’s thinking about a whole porn movie starring him and Luca in various stages of dishevelment. He pops a small, sweet and savory cube between his teeth, and starts teasing Pecco about the song they’re going to sing, which is better than picturing Luca’s fingers in his mouth, heavy and calloused on the flat of his tongue.
The air is thick and it smells of candy vape. Marc can blame his sudden dizziness on that.
“What’s your favorite Queen song?” Pecco asks him, typing into his phone. Marc’s musical culture is a little bit limited, so he shrugs and says “The mama uh uh uh song”. Pecco’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
“Too hard to sing. Alright, you pick, then. Type the song you’re looking for here, if it’s in the system you tap on the submit button and we’re good to go.”
In the end, Marc chooses an italian evergreen – he doesn’t know why a karaoke bar in downtown Tokyo has Maledetta Primavera in their system and not La camisa negra which is more international, but Pecco seems happy with the arrangement even though they both can’t hold a tune to save their life.
When he’s done fiddling with Pecco’s phone, he finds Luca staring at him with a curious tilt of his head, picking at some weirdly sour snacks in the bowl closest to him.
“So, how does it feel to know that you’re going to win your ninth title?”
Marc’s stomach twists in a tight knot. He could give Luca the usual PR approved answer, but he somehow knows it wouldn’t come off as sincere. It’s not like he should concern himself with how Luca Marini, of all people, perceives him, by the way. It’s just – he would feel like a fraud sitting with them, the Academy boys welcoming an heretic to their own cohort, and lie about how it feels to be on top of the world again, to know for sure he will conquer it, in the face of all odds. At the same time, though, he’s tried to push the thought further away from his mind, so that he could focus on what mattered; winning and winning and winning.
He can’t put it into words yet, the disorganized, palpitating mass of emotions sitting low in his chest, heavy as a boulder.
“Eh! It’s bad luck if you say it out loud before I get to win it,” he decides to joke instead. Luca snorts out a laugh, raking a hand through his hair like he’s in a Hollywood movie – impossibly beautiful and definitely aware of it. Such confidence in their good looks could come off as comically presumptuous in anyone else, but Luca compensates it well with an almost total lack of charisma and the goofy, easy-going attitude that was a practiced mask on his brother and a genuine trait of his personality in him. Luca is an interesting mix of original and acquired quirks; maybe that’s exactly why Marc feels so unexpectedly, suddenly drawn to him.
“But you will. It is…how you say it. Written in stone?”
Marc huffs.
“Are you trying to sabotage me?”
Luca winks at him. Marc’s stomach does a fucking backflip, shifting his center once more. He savors the way the expensive sake burns down his throat, offering him an alibi for this lack of stability he’s been experiencing since sitting next to Luca – too bad that such close proximity also allows him to feel the soft, glowy warmth radiating from his bare, lean arms. He’s sporting a faint tan.
Golden. Like an idol.
(like Valentino)
“We should have done it sooner, so we could have had a chance!”
Pecco laughs. It must be something in the air of Japan. Marc hasn’t seen him this calm and confident in weeks. He’s tempted to tell Luca that, given the current state of the engineering department at Honda, he wouldn’t have stood a chance anyway, but this would ruin the mood. His own as well, since he still considers Honda his family, despite how shitty their bike is, an ungovernable death trap that would make any sane rider question their loyalty.
Even Marc left, after a while. Fixing whatever unfixable flaw that bike had was above his skills and patience.
Luca, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to think that his skills are wasted over an underperforming machine. Perhaps he knows he isn’t that skilled, after all. He knows he’s not his brother, though Marc is having a hard time differentiating the two of them in the inextricable mess that are his thoughts.
Valentino, before. Luca, now. For some reason, his mind has decided today was a good day to mash them up in a single entity, wrap it in a nice red bow, and hand it over to Marc with little to no regard for the consequences.
Happy mental breakdown, fucker.
“What about you? You should be out for blood this weekend,” he says, sprawling comfortably on the chair, rolling his stiff shoulders until the joints pop and the muscles stop feeling that ropey and sore. What he chooses not to say is “we both know how important it is for Honda”, which would probably sound patronising coming from him.
“Hope it’s not mine,” Luca chuckles, his fingers drumming along the bass of a song Marc doesn’t recognize. A japanese girl is pouring her heart and soul into it and, from a table closer to the stage, her friends are snapping a video of her performance.
The end of the song and the sudden appearance of his and Pecco’s name on the large TV screen mounted above the stage save Marc from making a fool of himself, saying something he’s not supposed to say out loud in public.
There’s a certain kind of longing in Luca’s stare as he watches him fumble with the mic and the cables – he misses the beginning of the song, regaining his footing only when Vietti demands Luca’s attention and Marc gets freed from the blue vice of his too intense gaze, another thing that he has in common with Valentino.
Too sharp. Too attentive. Too focused.
Fuck it, this night out is turning into a frustrating exercise in sheer, iron-willed self control. If he goes on like this, he’s going to get the most inconvenient boner of his life, and he can’t risk having Pecco interrogating him on that. Is there a banana in your pocket, or you’re really happy to be at a karaoke bar with Valentino’s little brother?
At least, trying not to sound like a cracked church bell while following along the lyrics of a song in his third spoken language helps taking off a bit of the edge. By the time they’re done with the little gig, applause booming all around them, Marc is flushed and disheveled, the sake in his system finally kicking in. Pecco looks elated and relaxed too. Maybe this was the answer all along: sake and karaoke.
Back at their table, Vietti teases them playfully - their performance has been abysmal, and this is the kindest word Marc can come up with to describe it - and there’s another tray of snacks waiting for them.
“I only ordered things that weren’t spicy, this time. So you can have a bit of everything,” Luca says, pushing a bowl towards him. Their hands touch briefly, but long enough for something akin to an electric shock to run through Marc, all of the few hairs he still hasn’t lasered away standing out in an almost unpleasant tingle. Under the changing lights of the karaoke bar, Marc can actually see how chiseled Luca’s face is, how deliberate his cutting beauty. He’s got cheekbones like the edges of a hatchet and a jawline that seems like it’s been designed on purpose – nothing he hasn’t noticed before, but tonight he’s just. Even more handsome. Marc couldn’t really know how to explain it, or how he could have missed this all the time they’ve shared the paddock, since Luca’s looks are definitely noticeable.
It’s hard to see something you’re not looking for, anyway, especially in his case.
Still, it’s good that he’s looking at Luca now, because he can at least pinpoint a thing or two that definitely aren’t Valentino-like, even though this is not a good enough reason for his brain to stop fantasizing about Luca in his bed – any bed, honestly, Marc’s not picky.
“Thanks,” he manages to say, almost choking on his own spit.
He’s still thinking about Luca’s hand around his dick.
Fuck.
“When you were here before…couldn’t look you in the eye. You’re just like an angel…your skin makes me cry…”
Marc takes a careful sip of his sake, unable to tear his gaze from the sweet ripple of Luca’s muscles as he tenses on a particularly low note, diaphragm and abs engaged like a professional even though, by his own admission, he can’t sing. Vietti is watching Luca as well, with a different kind of rapture in his eyes. Not just admiring – adoring.
He doesn’t really concern himself with other people’s heartaches, though, and when Luca’s gaze meets his, he feels the heat engulf his cheeks and hopes the faint blush of his face isn’t that noticeable.
“I wish I was special,” Luca sings, “you’re so fucking special…”
Marc sags quietly into the chair, the sneaking suspicion that Luca is actually flirting with him creeping up his spine like a shiver, the fluttery sensation of a turbulence in his already upset stomach. He sees Pecco singing along out of the corner of his eye and wonders if he’s picked up the clues long before him, if he could ever help him win a game he didn’t even know he was playing in the first place.
But it’s stupid, really, just a convoluted flight of fancy from a stressed out mind.
He’s going to win his ninth title. He’s going to win his ninth title. He’s going to –
“But I’m a creep…I’m a weirdo…what the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here…”
Luca’s voice - soothing, even if it’s ever so slightly out of tune - nudges him back from his thoughts and Marc is just taken aback by how strikingly handsome he is – seriously, how could a human being ever look this perfect? The way the light dances over his heated skin is mesmerizing. It’s stuffy on the small stage, with the lights and the equipment and an air vent placed directly above, but even like this Luca manages to look just like the most gorgeous man Marc has ever seen.
(because he probably is)
Marc is dramatically aware that he shouldn’t be picturing Luca with his head pushed back in ecstasy, with his mouth agape and legs parted as he pounds into him with ruthless abandonment, but damn. What Valentino lacked in looks he compensated with personality – Luca doesn’t even need a personality, because he’s a walking wet dream, the perfect cast for a male lead in a romcom.
It’s getting hotter in the karaoke bar, the air heavy, sizzling with electricity. Marc asks for a diet soda, just because he knows that drinking any more sake would be a hazard to his own sanity, but isn’t Luca’s all too blue stare a hazard enough already?
He’s looking directly at him, now Marc is sure of it. If he wasn’t paying attention, Vietti’s sulking would be loud enough, a telltale sign that Luca’s icy-blue gaze isn’t turned towards the person who wants it more. He bites his lower lip. Luca’s hand, massive around the microphone, is making him sweat. His voice – it sounds so different. Controlled, kept artificially low, husky. It makes Marc think about warm, sticky honey, about the sensation of languid, exploring hands running all over his body, lingering Luca-shaped imprints on his ribs, on his back.
It makes him think about the kind of bruising you get from a good fuck, and when the atmosphere is hot enough it deflagrates like a supernova in his face – a superheated blast, his cock straining in his jeans as he hastily pulls away, making his walk of shame to the restroom like he’s running for his life.
Dramatic much, but maybe it’s just how he is.
Water, cold, splashed on his face. He doesn’t care if the collar of his t-shirt has gone wet, it’ll dry off quickly and it’s not worse than the flush on his face, which makes him look sunburned. He hates himself a little, and Valentino, and even Luca. He hates that, contrary to what would be the right thing to do, he’s sold, he would give Luca everything he wanted so that he could take and take in return.
Five minutes pass, then ten. Luca should be done with his performance already. Marc buys himself some time, anyway, just to be sure. He still looks like someone who’s run a marathon while simultaneously suffering through the worst panic attack of his life, miserably wet, sweaty and haunted. The walk back to the table feels, if anything, even more like an ordeal than his little flight for the restroom.
“Sorry,” he says, conjuring up a laugh. “Too much sake.”
Vietti is still sulking, and his sulking becomes especially sour when Luca nudges Marc’s elbow, a smile dancing on the corners of his lips, and throws in a joke about him riding for Honda for over a decade and not being able to tolerate his sake.
Marc’s ears go bright red at his public display of camaraderie.
Luckily, though, they get to talk about bikes until it’s late enough to call it a night, and Marc cannot even express how grateful he is for that note of distraction.
“Why do I have to sit in the front? Come on! If you gossip, I will lose the thread!”
“Nobody’s going to gossip, Cele,” Pecco says, as tactful as ever, only slightly rolling his eyes. “Besides, you’re being dropped off before us, so it’s the most logical arrangement.”
In the cramped backseats, where he’s been shoved in the middle, Marc chuckles under his breath. They’re still talking about bikes, on and off. Like this, the strong scent of Luca’s cologne feels marginally more bearable – he hasn’t gotten hard yet, which he considers a personal victory. Luca smells good, though, but Marc didn’t expect any less; he looks like someone who would wear expensive perfume and change his socks daily.
The conversation shifts, ebbs and flows, and Marc relaxes on his seat, his knee bumping into Luca’s. Vietti’s hotel isn’t far from where he and Pecco are staying, and after a long series of ciao, ciao, buonanotte, ci vediamo domani, ciao he disappears in the lobby, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
The rest of the drive is silent, though Luca keeps glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, as if he’s waiting for something. Marc’s knee keeps bumping into his.
Honda always lodges his riders in the same place. Marc already knew that - he talks to Santi aplenty even now that he’s not a Honda rider anymore - but he can’t help the slight pinch of nostalgia when the taxi slows down in front of the familiar building, coming to a halt where Marc is sure he’s vomited once, after celebrating a win.
Too much sake, in that case, for real.
“Goodnight, Luca,” he hears Pecco say. He waves at Luca too, pretending to be more tired than he actually is. Luca tilts his head – for a long beat, everything goes very quiet, very still, Luca’s eyes looking dark and bottomless under the yellow dome light.
“Marc. Are you going, then?”
Luca hauls himself off the small taxi, his long legs stretching out in all their towering glory – lithe and muscular and endless. Marc swallows, finding his mouth miserably dry.
Oh, this is such a terrible idea.
By his side, Pecco frowns. Marc licks his lips, then he says “I’m –”, unable to find a plausible excuse, something that doesn’t sound too much like yeah, I’m getting laid by Valentino’s brother, Pecco, have a good night.
They’re all adults. They all know what this means.
Pecco draws in a slow, heavy breath and nods.
“Alright. I’ll see you at the track, then. Goodnight.”
Marc nods back. Most of the guys he knows would have teased him to no ends, yelled lewd jokes out loud, but he’s glad he’s been sorted with a teammate whose mentality would never allow him to be so crass and tasteless, even when he’s in a fairly good mood.
“Yeah. Of course. Goodnight, Pecco.”
Luca watches him. Together, they watch the taxi rush back into the night traffic – Japan never sleeps.
“I haven’t thought about this,” Luca starts, not looking as concerned as he should, given the nature of his words. “But they’re going to recognize you.”
Ah, yes, of course. The whole Honda team and staff. Marc shrugs, breathing in the stale, humid air. The only thing he doesn’t miss about Japan is its climate.
“Does it bother you?”
“No.”
“Alright. Then it doesn’t bother me either.”
Luca chuckles in response.
Marc’s about to win his ninth title: he’s sure he’ll walk out of this place tomorrow with his reputation intact, even if the whole Honda team should hear him getting fucked by Luca until dawn breaks. He will be champion, after all. Why should he care?