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carmyprosecco · 11 hours

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carmyprosecco · 2 days

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the fear of losing this : rosquez, amnesia fic pt.7 / 1.6k words (pt.6 here)

Valentino is a nervous flyer. He sinks into his seat, rigid like a corpse, hands curling around the armrests with a white-knuckled grip. Once they take off, his face settles into something tight and uncomfortable.

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” Marc says. Valentino looks at him blankly, like the words haven’t processed. After a beat he makes a noise low in his throat. Guilt churns in Marc’s stomach. If he’d known, he — he wouldn’t have pressed for them to come. Wouldn’t have demanded his way like a child. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, eyeing the indents Valentino’s nails are biting into the leather.

Valentino had, a couple times, reacted weird to being touched. At the table, and when they were looking at the helmets. But last night he had petted Marc’s hair for as long as he can remember. Drifted his thumb across Marc’s ear, sweet and kind. There’s something tumultuous between them, and Marc wants to call it concern — wants to push down the bubbling potion of unreasonable dread in his stomach, and fall into Valentino’s excuses.

I don’t want to move too fast.

But this is safe. This is small. He lifts his hand to Valentino’s, gently prying his fingers away from the armrest. When Valentino realises what he’s doing, he goes easy, allowing Marc to fold the armrest away and pull Valentino’s hand into his lap. He threads their fingers together, thumb drawing small circles over the soft skin of Valentino’s palm.

Valentino doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to move away. Warmth kindles to life in Marc’s chest.

When they land in Rimini, Valentino leads them to a waiting car. Marc watches the scenery out the window the whole drive, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together in his memory. There’s nothing familiar.

The ranch is — he doesn’t recognise it, either. But it’s fucking cool. Big and warm and welcoming, all bright and homely, and Marc feels better the second they step through the gate. Valentino keeps pace with him as they travel towards the main building, eyes squinted out at the track like it’s the first time he’s seeing it.

“It’s so cool, Vale,” Marc breathes. Irritation pricks in his gut at the realisation he probably won’t be able to get out on a bike while they’re here, but it fades fast. He’s got the rest of his life to do that.

“Yeah?”

Marc meets his eyes. Valentino doesn’t look sure. There’s a crease in his brow, this little pinched thing that Marc is desperate to iron out with the pads of his fingers. It’s there more often, Marc’s noticed, whenever Valentino turns his way.

But it could just be age. Marc isn’t used to the years on Valentino’s face yet, and that’s all it is. Not — frustration, or something else, something harder. It’s age. Marc pastes on a blistering smile. His head is starting to hurt.

Valentino ushers him through an awkward tour. It’s — Marc almost makes a joke about the place being an advertisement, all yellow and turtles, suns and moons and little cartoon doctors. He thinks better of it watching Vale’s stilted gestures. There’s the barest note of self-consciousness in his voice, and it catches in Marc’s head whenever he hears it.

“Eh, and this is my — our room up here, but — all the other rooms are for the boys, they’re here a lot, too. Not right now, though.”

Marc hums. Valentino’s room is. It looks like he left in a hurry. There’s a pair of pyjama pants on the floor, the wardrobe is open, shoes spilling out. The curtains are closed.

“I was asleep when I got Álex’s call and I just left straight away, so. Sorry — I’ll clean, ha.”

Marc’s heart starts to spin gold through his ribs. Valentino had dropped everything, had woken up and moved so fast to get to Marc, enough that it shows in his room. A smile creeps onto his face.

“It’s nice,” he says, turning to look at Valentino. Valentino blinks down at him, unconvinced.

“Ah, well, allora, you should — come through this way.”

Marc follows Valentino back through to the living room. He draws his eyes along the walls as they go. They’re littered with racing memories — photos of podiums, championship finishes, all of Vale and the academy boys. Marc tries not to look too hard at the little shard of questioning glass that embeds itself in his greymatter.

“If you just — maybe stay on the couch, put on a podcast or something. I have to go buy some food and. Things.”

Marc folds himself up into a sunken corner of the big leather couch. There’s a bright yellow blanket folded over the edge of it, with a big blue moon stitched into one side. Valentino reaches out to tug the blanket so that it pools over Marc’s lap. A pleased little smile pulls at the edge of Marc’s mouth. How domestic of them.

“I’ll wait here for you, then.”

Valentino tips his head.

“Maybe you should get concussed more often. Far more obedient.”

Marc’s eyebrows leap to his hairline, and — Valentino grins, just a bit, but it’s enough for a laugh to squawk out of Marc’s throat.

“I can make a concerted effort to be less obedient, from now,” he rebuts, cocky. Valentino rolls his eyes, turning to head back the way they came, keys in hand.

“Just don’t get on a bike or anything, okay?” he calls over his shoulder. Marc smiles to himself.

“No promises!”

Fifteen minutes later, he rolls onto his back, eyes unfocused on the ceiling. Valentino had said he should listen to a podcast, but. He doesn’t have his phone — and he doesn’t even know where it is, actually. A motorbike soars past, somewhere in the distance. He raises his hand to his mouth, teeth closing down around a jagged nail edge as he listens to the gears change.

Not even thirty seconds later, he hears the front door open and close, and two pairs of footsteps make their way down the hall. He sits up, eyes wide. Valentino had said none of the academy boys would be here, but they’d be the only others with keys, probably. He cringes, running a hand through his hair and trying to settle it into something manageable, until he remembers this isn’t actually a first impression. They know him, and well, probably — he just doesn’t remember. Which is — he’s not sure who Valentino’s told about this.

Someone laughs just beyond the door, and then — that’s Pecco Bagnaia, for sure, and he doesn’t recognise the other man — Bez, maybe. Vale had mentioned them in conjunction with each other, so it’s a safe enough assumption.

Pecco stops short in the doorway, eyes on Marc. Bez bumps into Pecco’s back, eyes on his phone before he too looks up and finds Marc sitting there. He looks — there’s something of Vale in him, in the wild curls, the earrings and the set of his jaw. Marc stands up, tongue fighting for some sort of pleasant introduction.

Bez beats him to it.

“What the fuck.”

Marc blinks, mouth falling ajar. So — Vale hadn’t said he got on with them, but.

“Marc,” Pecco says, hand reaching sideways to knock against Bez’s chest. Bez’s eyes flit to Pecco, wide and confused.

“Sorry, sorry, I thought Vale would have — maybe said something to you guys, but I guess not.”

“What are you —” Bez starts. Pecco’s hand thumps hard against his collarbone, and Bez snaps his mouth shut. Unease prickles at the back of Marc’s neck.

“Hi. No. Sorry. He didn’t — say anything. Just that he needed the place from Wednesday, but today’s. It’s Tuesday, so.”

Marc nods, tongue pressing hard against the back of his front teeth.

“Oh. I mean — if you guys are doing stuff, don’t let me get in your way. I just — I have to sit on this couch till he gets back. I can't be on my phone or anything, so.”

The two of them share a bewildered look, and Bez mutters something that sounds like, “What the fuck,” under his breath.

Marc jolts.

“Sorry — I, Pecco, I know you, like, vaguely. But I don’t remember — are you Bez?”

He gets two horrified looks for his effort at politeness. Pecco’s hand slides down to curl around Bez’s wrist. Marc blinks.

“Are you — what?”

“I’m — oh. Vale didn’t — I have a concussion. And amnesia. So, I don’t — I’ve got nothing. From the past ten years.”

“Holy shit,” Pecco mutters. Bez just stares, mouth open.

“Sorry, I thought he would say. Something. Ha.”

“Yeah — no, it’s fine. Uh, yeah, this is Bez. We — yeah.”

“Nice to, well. Nice to meet you again, I guess.”

Marc turns his eyes to Bez. There’s a significant amount of horror pooled in the dark of his irises. Stress starts to arch along Marc’s spine. He has to ask Vale if — if they get along. Nausea rolls in his gut at the thought of some of Valentino’s closest friends, pupils, whatever, disliking him. Bez clears his throat.

“Sure. Yeah. Same.”

“Okay, well. We’re just — getting some gear, so we’ll leave you be. Hope you — feel better.”

“Thanks.” Marc manages a smile, forcing himself not to watch as Pecco and Bez skirt around him and out the back door. He falls onto the couch once they’re outside the house again, crushed by a sudden weight. Valentino hadn’t told them about Marc’s condition, and that. There has to be a reason for it. He tries not to catastrophize. Tries to draw himself back from the cliff’s edge that is ‘No one in Valentino’s life wants anything to do with me.’

#the last line…#hits like a punch to the gut #always in awe of your writing!!

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carmyprosecco · 2 days

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