#marcmarc come home please

[isacksteban]

this is the marco that was liking all of marc's posts

[ray935sworld]

New doesnt mean bad

The marcmarc hair cut reaction story

It had been a warm day in Italy.

They were in Italy, at Marco's place, like they did so often nowadays. Bez had spend the day at the ranch, training and laughing with his friends. Marc had fulfilled his duties at the factory in Bologna and was patiently waiting for the younger to return as well.

He knew the ranch days were long, way past darkness but they were important to the younger one. So Marc didn't mind. He enjoyed hearing the stories Marco bought home with him.

So he grinned widely as he heard the familiar engine sound die down in the drive way, announcing that his boyfriend had come home.

He had been laying on Marco's couch, texting with Alex. Excited, he stood up and made his way to the door, wanting to greet his boyfriend as soon as possible.

He saw Bezs silhouette against the darkness. His leathers draped over his shoulder, his bag with helmet, gloves, shoes and everything else in his hand. Rubik was slowly trotting next to him, a day at the ranch clearly exhausting for both of them.

But it was Marcos hair that caught the older off guard.

Normally he'd see the curls sprinkle against the darkness. The damp streetlight with illuminate them slightly, showing off how wildly they danced against his shoulders.

But now? Nothing.

It was gone. Almost.

Not completely. But enough to say it was.

Marc stood in the open door, staring at the younger. He was clearly bad at hiding his surprise by the way the other chuckled softly.

"Surprise" he said.

"That - That sure is a surprise" he responsed while Bez got in, put his bags and suit down and kicked his shoes off. Rubik was already on his way towards the kitchen.

Marc was still staring at him. His eyes clearly wandering between the unusual short hair on top, the even shorter sides and the sides of his head that for the first time in years - and for the first time since Marc and he really knew each other - his ears weren't covered with curls, making his earring shine more dominantly.

"Do you like it?" he asked, turning around a little to show off the back. They were still slightly longer, more in the style of a mullet.

Marc wasn't sure how to respond. He wanted to say it looked good because he wanted to be a good boyfriend and clearly Bez liked the look. But he still needed a moment to comprehend and understand what was going on. And where his hair went.

"Don't - Don't get me wrong. It looks great. But. In whose scissors did you run?" He leaned a little more in, standing on his tip toes to put his hand in the short curls. They still felt the same. Soft and curly, a little bit crusty from the curl gel Bez always used. But they were so incredible short. It felt unfamiliar how quick Marc's fingers already left Bez hair again when brushing through it.

"Is that - please tell me that isn't some weird lost bet? It has Migno - or Vietti written all over it-" he said before thinking. Even thought, it was well cut. So if this was the result of the academy, his bet was on Franky cutting the hair. "No" The Italian laughed. "No, this was my idea"

Marc nodded understanding. But still, there was this nagging feeling of unfamility.

"It looks great. You look great." Marc whispered as he leaned in for a quick kiss. Still, as they went to get a snack from the kitchen and sit down on the couch, Marc couldn't help but continue to stare at his boyfriend new haircut.

He stared at the beard, now more visible than before. He noticed how much sharper and broader his jawline suddenly looked. And how his ears had a little damp on them. He hand noticed that before, the features always being hidden or pushed back by the curls.

He looked older. Somehow. Still like his 26 years of age, but more mature. More serious.

Even if he didn't act more serious, a relief to Marc, as the younger suddenly pooked him on the nose and laughed loudly as he blinked in confusion.

"You're staring" he said with a smile. Before Marc could respond, Bez moved around to put his head on the Spaniards thigh. He looked up at him, his big brown eyes fully focusing on him, a smile dancing on his face.

He grinned and nodded. His hand reached again for Bez hair, slowly caressing it like he'd always done.

He was used to slowly trying to detangle the curls without detangling the curls themself. He'd crush them a little bit, curl them around his finger to give them more form.

But now.

Unsure how to do proceed with their normal routine, he slowly picked at a hair strain. He moved it around, trying to wrap it around his fingers. Unsuccessfully. It just bounced off again.

"Of course I'm staring" Marc said, suddenly remembering how they got there. "My boyfriend chopped off almost all his gorgeous curls and got a new haircut. I am entitled to staring a little."

As he spoke, Bez eyes went from a relaxed, almost closed posture to shock and big. He stared up at Marc, his eyes questioning, unsure. An unspoken question lingering between them, that clearly filled the younger one with anxiety.

Marc froze, knowing he'd caused that, unsure how.

"You don't like it, do you? You don't like my new haircut?" Bez asked, his voice on edge, shifting in the position, slowly lifting his head up, but not yet backing away.

Perplex Marc blinked. He was confused at the question. "It's... New" he replied, wanting to explain that he had to get used to it. But Bez was quicker. "Oh my god, you really don't like it!" Bez let out and sat half up, staring at the older.

"I didn't say that!" "It's new?! I - It's okay if you don't like it, I was-" Marc wanted to hit his own head against the wall. He had often mentioned how beautiful he thought Bez long hair was. And now he had just highlighted that he had chopped it off.

It must have sounded to Bez as if he wouldn't find him attractive without his longer hair. As if his long curls were the thing most attractive to Marc.

He cursed himself for that. He knew how Bez saw him self. How he struggled with seeing himself as the gorgeous man Marc saw in him. And now...

Quickly, Marc scooped closer, knowing physical contact helped the Italian. He put his hand on Bez cheeks and slowly caressed his cheek.

"Marco, Marco, my love" he said softly. "New doesn't mean bad. And I'm sorry if it sounded like that. It wasn't meant that way. I was just surprised. To see you with short hair... I'm not used to it"

He watched the younger one nod, a fling of anxiety lingering and he smiled softly at him. He let his other hand feel his hair ones more. Soft. Curly. Much shorter than before. Even the slightly longer ones on the back of his head.

"It's just-" Marc tried to explain. "When we met you had your hair to your shoulders, longer even..." For a short moment, he remembers that 24 year old that stood up, his long hair half covering his face. The tape over his nose, making him look even more rebellious and wild.

"I've never seen you like this before. That doesn't mean, I don't think it's sexy. You're always hot. And this..." He looked him up and down, focused on his hair, as the hand that had previously caressed his curls, suddenly grabbed his hair a little tighter, causing his head to slightly move backwards.

"This is very sexy." Marc said with a smirk, making clear, what he had been thinking about while making the gesture.

His eyes lingered on Bez throat, beautiful displayed for him in that moment.

"Yeah?" Bez asked, giving into the gesture. He leaned his head back a more than Marc's grip demanded. "You like me like this?" "I love you like this." Marc whispered, moving closer until he was slipping on the others lap. Bez hands on his hips. "I love you looking like whatever you want. I'd love you if you were bald" he promised as he kissed him.

He kissed him, locking his words in like a sacred promise. Because to them it was

He kissed him, slowly, patiently, before his lips slips. He moved from his lips more towards his chin. Then up his jawline, feeling the hairs of his beard tingle against his lips and skin. He loved that feeling.

His kisses moved up some more, to the side of his head. Marc had to sit up a little to be able to reach it, but he kissed the almost shaved down side of Bez head, kissing his short hair.

"So hot" he whispered.

[isacksteban]

Please. — Marcmarc

It was the week before Christmas, and the season had just ended. Tavullia was quiet, it's cobbled streets dusted with a thin layer of snow, and Marco's small apartment felt even quieter. The radiator clicked as it tried to fight off the chill, but Marco barely noticed. He stood by the window, staring out at the frost creeping along the glass. Outside, the fairy lights strung across the neighboring buildings blinked softly, their gentle glow reflecting like tiny stars.

His thoughts were heavy, tangled with memories he couldn’t escape. The pit in his stomach twisted tighter, the kind of unease that only one person could bring. He knew Marc was on his way. He always did. It was something in the air, a weight that settled on him whenever Marc was near. It was equal parts anticipation and dread, the two emotions locked in a tug-of-war that left him feeling raw.

When the knock came, Marco’s breath hitched, his heart leaping in a way that made him hate himself just a little more. For a fleeting moment, he thought about ignoring it. Pretending he wasn’t home. But he knew better. He always let Marc in. Always had, always would.

He opened the door, and there he was — Marc Marquez, leaning casually against the doorframe, his crooked, feline grin already in place. His dark hair was tousled from the cold, his cheeks pink from the wind. In his hands was a small, neatly wrapped box, the paper shimmering faintly in the dim light of the hallway.

“Merry Christmas, Bez,” Marc said, his voice low and warm as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

Marco stepped back automatically, his chest tightening as Marc brushed past him, the familiar scent of his cologne filling the small space. It was always like this. Marc’s presence filled the room, filled him, and left no room for anything else.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” Marco said, his voice steady, though it cost him more effort than he’d ever admit. He closed the door and turned to face Marc, who had already set the gift on Marco’s cluttered table.

“I wanted to.” Marc shrugged, his tone too casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But Marco knew better. The tension in Marc’s shoulders, the way his eyes darted around the room, betrayed him.

“We need to talk,” Marc said finally, his voice softer now.

Marco’s stomach dropped. Of course, they needed to talk. That’s all they ever seemed to do these days — they’d talk. Or fight. Or fuck. Pretend everything wasn't ruined.

“What’s the point, Marc?” Marco asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, leaning against the counter as if it were the only thing holding him up. His voice wavered, despite his best efforts to sound resolute. “You’ll just say the same things you always do. That it’s complicated. That you care about me, but—”

“But I do care about you!” Marc interrupted, his voice sharp, almost desperate. The words sliced through the tension in the room like a blade, their force making Marco flinch.

“You care,” Marco said, his voice soft but raw with pain. “But not enough.” His arms tightened around himself as if trying to keep his breaking heart from spilling out. He turned his gaze away, staring down at the chipped linoleum floor as tears threatened to escape. “Not enough to stop lying to her.”

It was always about her. Marco tried to convince himself it wasn’t — tried to blame Marc, blame himself, blame the world — but deep down, he couldn’t help but think of her. Gemma. The name tasted bitter on his tongue, though he never said it aloud. He blamed her, hated her, envied her. And yet, he knew none of it was her fault. She was just as trapped in Marc’s web of indecision as he was.

“Not enough to stop hurting me,” Marco added, his voice breaking.

Marc exhaled a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his messy hair, the gesture as familiar as it was infuriating. “It’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple!” Marco snapped, his voice rising, trembling with the force of his frustration and grief. He finally looked up, his tear-filled eyes locking onto Marc’s. His anger flared, hot and consuming, burning away the vulnerability he’d tried so hard to hide. “You don’t get to show up here every time you feel guilty. Every time you want to tell me how much I mean to you but never enough to actually choose me!”

Marc flinched at the words, his face twisting with pain. He stepped forward instinctively, his hand half-reaching toward Marco as if he could somehow soothe the storm he’d caused.

But Marco held up a hand, palm out, his body stiff and trembling. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Just... don’t.”

The space between them felt impossibly wide, a chasm filled with unspoken words and broken promises. Marc froze, his outstretched hand falling limply to his side, his expression crumbling into something unreadable. Marco could see it — the guilt, the regret — but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. And it never would be.

“Ti voglio tanto bene, Marco,” Marc said, his voice barely more than a whisper, the words trembling as they left his lips.

Marco closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words wash over him, but they didn’t comfort him. Instead, they twisted the knife already buried in his chest. “Then why does it hurt more?” he whispered back, his voice fragile, as though speaking too loudly would shatter him completely. His eyes flicked up to meet Marc’s, brimming with unshed tears. “Why do I feel my pain more than I feel your love?”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of it pressing down on both of them. Marc looked down at the floor, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. Marco could see the storm raging in his dark eyes, the conflict, the guilt, the love he claimed to feel but never acted on. He always looked like this when they reached the inevitable breaking point—torn, but never enough to make a choice.

“You should go,” Marco said at last, his voice hollow, barely audible. He turned away from Marc, staring at the window and the blinking fairy lights outside, the soft glow mocking the darkness inside him. “It’s Christmas, Marc. Go be with her. She’s waiting, I’m sure.”

Marc’s breath hitched at Marco’s words, and for a moment, he stood frozen, as though waiting for Marco to take them back, to beg him to stay. But Marco didn’t. He stayed rooted where he was, his arms wrapped around himself, his back to Marc, a silent but final wall between them.

Marc hesitated, the weight of his indecision visible in the way his body tensed. But then he nodded, the movement slow and reluctant. He walked to the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. When he opened it, the icy December air rushed in, swirling around them both, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of their unresolved emotions.

At the threshold, Marc paused, his hand on the doorframe. He turned back one last time, his dark eyes pleading, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “Marco, mi amor…”

Marco finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable. He forced a smile onto his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes — it was brittle, fragile, as if it might crumble under the weight of the moment. “Merry Christmas, Marc,” he said, his tone steady despite the ache in his chest. “Please don’t call.”

The words hung in the air between them, final and unyielding. Marc’s shoulders sagged, his hand falling limply to his side. Marco stepped forward and gently closed the door, the soft click of the latch echoing like a gunshot in the silence of the apartment.

On the other side of the door, Marc stood frozen, his hand hovering over the wood as if he could push it open again, as if he could undo everything — as if he could stop himself from turning into the villain in his story, into Rossi. He rested his forehead against the door, his breath clouding in the frigid air. For a moment, he considered knocking, begging Marco for one more chance. But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned and walked away, his boots crunching against the snow, his shadow growing fainter as he disappeared into the cold, empty night.

Inside, Marco leaned back against the door, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees. The tears he had fought so hard to hold back finally spilled over, silent and unstoppable. The fairy lights outside kept blinking, their cheerful glow a cruel reminder of everything he had just let go.

And somewhere, Marc walked through the streets of Tavullia, carrying the weight of his choices, knowing he’d never hear Marco’s voice again. He'd never speak to his Bez, his amor, all that was left was Marco Bezzecchi. The most talented rider Aprilia had ever seen — in Marc's eyes at least.

[isacksteban]

marcmarc please come home