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Chapter Text

His phone rings. He is a deep sleeper, doesn't hear it until Gemma is patting his face, swiping the nail of her thumb over his cheekbone before he finally wakes, groaning, What even -?

It's Franci, says Gemma, worry making her voice husky, and Marc blinks himself back to awareness, alert. She hands him the phone, it's already connected. I don’t understand her Italian and she’s too – just listen!

Marc takes the phone, switches it on speaker. The glare of the phone screen makes his eyes water, and he’s squinting, grimacing, as he says, Franci?

The answering sniffle rakes the sleep from his eyes immediately. He lurches upwards, scrabbling with the phone, Franci, what’s wrong? Talk to me – please, please?

Franci’s words – her voice, as familiar to him as his won – slide into his head with the force of bullets, as she speaks in snatches and fits of tears, “Valentino – Uccio,” and, “the kids –” and that’s really all Marc needs to hear.

What is she saying? Gemma asks, leaning so close her face is pressed up against the screen.

Uccio cloned her phone and read through our text messages and, of course, he told Valentino, Marc tells her, already throwing off the blankets, sliding out of bed, something like rage coursing through his veins. Apparently Valentino thinks I’m going to run away with Franci and the kids into the sunset and burn the ranch to the ground while I am at it. You know, the Marquez homewrecking special.

He wants to kill Valentino, for fuck’s sake.

Give me that, says Gemma, outraged, and Marc hands her the phone, into which she starts cursing in fluent, impressive Italian. Meanwhile he runs to his dresser and pulls on the first pair of jeans he can find over his boxers and shrugs on a t-shirt. As he tries to avoid tripping into the dresser, he can hear Franci calming down.

Tell her –

We’re on our way, Gemma promises.

No, Franci’s voice steadies, I can’t see how he’ll take it well if Marc shows up.

We’re not leaving you alone to face him, alright? Marc says, firmly. He knows, how alone it was to be up against Valentino Rossi who can turn the whole world against you in the blink of an eye, with an unbothered smile, relaxed shoulders. Heat flashes in his stomach, the nausea of the Sepang press conference is a rush of stomach acid.

And the kids? Marc asks, heart panging at the thought of the two girls waking to find their parents fracturing. He hopes Valentino had the good sense to pick a fight only after –

They’re fine. They – Vale took them to his mother’s house. They’re sleeping there now.

Wait, says Gemma, rolling out of bed, phone held in hand. It’s now her turn to get dressed. Marc shrugs on a sweater and takes the phone, while she hollers over her shoulder, where are you right now?

She’s too far away for the speaker to catch so Marc repeats the question down the line.

In my – well, his car, Franci says, and there’s a drop, a shrinking in her voice that makes Marc’s nerves coil even tighter. Of course, even if Valentino had gifted Franci the car, given her the keys and never once touched the car, had it written in her name, it was his the way MotoGP was his. A hot sense of urgency floods Marc’s veins, and he realizes it’s physically impossible to keep standing here waiting for Gemma to finish dressing. He starts for the door, wrenching it open.

Gem, hurry up, he calls over his shoulder before stepping out into the hallway, Valentino threw her out of the house.

He – WHAT? That fucking –

I’m going down to get the car started.

He didn’t kick me out, Franci sighs as Marc takes two down the stairs, practically clearing the last half with a leap, He ran off – to Uccio’s probably. But it didn’t feel right. Being in that house. Alone.

Is there anyone you can stay with? It’s going to be a six hour drive. Five if I speed.

He’s in the garage, and his Audi beeps as he unlocks it. He remembers belatedly go back inside for his wallet, finding it next to the bowl where he keeps his keys. Gemma comes running down the stairs, a bag over her shoulder, an army jacket thrown over her camisole, and a pair of jeans; her hair is unartfully tangled, but she barely notices. I’m here, I’m here.

She dashes ahead of him to get to the garage.

Please don’t, says Franci in his ear.

Franci, I’m not leaving you to face him alone, okay? Besides. This is kind of my fault.

They get into the car, Gemma strapping herself in hastily. The door slams shut. Marc starts the engine, palms the phone to Gemma, here, talk to her, as he reverses out of the garage. He will ask Gemma to text Alex to check if they’ve locked the house later. Tell her we’re on our way and – and for her to stay safe. Somewhere.

Gemma takes the phone, babbling into it with her elementary Italian, cara, can you go back to the house? Is he there? No? Okay, good, good –

The sound of Gemma’s voice inexplicably seems to trigger another waterfall of tears. Marc’s brows furrow as he listens, jaw tight. He’s very temped to take his phone back, call Valentino and yell at him, but Valentino has him blocked. Maybe he will still do that with Gemma’s phone.

Midnight, streets in Madrid are emptier than the day, but he still has to dodge a passing car when he merges lanes, impatiently waits out red lights at the traffic stops, too agitated to put on music when he’s trying to hear one-sided Gemma’s side of the conversation as she soothes Franci.

His nerves fizzle even as Franci seems to calm, as they hit the highway, Marc’s foot flat out on the gas pedal.

His heart, he realizes, is racing faster than the car is going, almost like he is hurtling at 300 km/h, trying to overtake the rider in front of him –

Neon-yellow, Yamaha-blue, Argentina. A flash of the field of so many years ago in his eyes, intercepting across the dark. His skin tightens.

Ugly premonition surges in him, realizing, oh, and there’s just enough left of him in him for him to yank the car off to the side of the road – Gemma yells in alarm, clutching onto the seatbelt, the edge of her seat, Marc, what the fuck – and slam his foot down on the brakes.

Then his entire being lurches, up and upwards, and the seatbelt seizes, but it’s only his body it manages to keep ahold off.

Marc is flung out.

—

Marc blinks back into awareness, his forehead slumped against the steering wheel, pressed hard and long enough against it for it to have started to hurt.

Franci’s heart thumps in him, and it is beating fast. An anxiety attack? Marc takes a deep breath, keenly aware of it, and tries to regulate his breathing.

Only when he feels like the black spots have faded from his eyes do he straightens. The seatbelt is tight against his chest. He could never get used to it when he’s driving. Now, then.

Valentino was at Uccio’s, was it? He turns the key, about to start the engine. He’s angry enough to drive the car through the wall of Uccio’s house, but then – his gaze catches on the picture clasped to the dashboard. Their family. His heart twists at the familiarity of it, Valentino is sticking his tongue at the camera and Giuletta is mimicking him, and Franci is laughing with Gabriella in her arms. He stops himself, swallowing round the hardened lump in his throat, remembering driving the girls to the store, and he had been to Uccio’s place for the girls to play with Uccio’s kid. He’d made nice with Uccio’s wife, for fuck’s sake.

Even if he wants to bulldoze Uccio and Vale into the ground, he can’t scare the wife and kids like that.

Marc sniffles. He is an ugly crier, but Franci is probably not – he has never seen her cry – and he is only relieved that she is not alone now, that Gemma is with her. He twists around in his seat and reaches for the tissue box – always the car must be equipped with a tissue when there are toddlers around – to dab at his eyes, his face. Then he looks around, trying to recognize the roads.

Franci must’ve been trying to get to an hotel, or an Airbnb in town, but surely everyone there recognizes her as Valentino’s partner. Gossip will have spread like wildfire if she checks in alone, in that state, with no Valentino at her side. And then before the sun has even risen, it will be all over the Internet. And it would be carte blanche for them to tear into her the way they’d done to him.

No.

Marc has to go back and sit in that empty house where Vale had made home for Franci and the kids.

He checks the seatbelt, sees his – Franci’s - phone screen flashing. It is his number, though Franci has saved him – hilariously – as Marcia. An amalgamation of their names.

gem is driving us
don’t do anything stupid

No, he texts back, I’m just going home.

He waits but there’s no reply, and he imagines her falling asleep, as Gemma drives on into the night. He quashes the irrational snap of anxiety at the thought of Gemma driving; it annoys him, as it worries him in equal measure, that she will text or fiddle with an app on her phone when she was behind the wheel. Once, her phone holder fell off, and she propped her phone on her lap, glancing down every few seconds to check Waze. Marc ended up holding it up for her with the arm that wasn’t in a sling – because she said he was too slow at giving her directions and made her miss every turn even though he told her, like, five hundred meters ago – and complained the whole time it took to get there.

He puts the phone down back into the coffee holder and starts the car’s engine.

Franci might not be able to stomach the emptiness of the house without Valentino or the kids there, but Marc can, it’s a reprieve even, waiting it out for tomorrow.

The ranch is quiet when he gets there, the route he knows by heart; the only sound cleaving through the night is the purr of the engine. He rolls it into the garage – a separate one from where the bikes are kept. Those are located closer to the track.

The lights are on in the main building. He swallows, wondering if Valentino has somehow come back, unprompted. Wanting to make amends.

Not with you, he reminds himself, a beat after the thought had crossed his mind, Never you.

Vale? He calls, voice drifting over the empty hallway. Light fills it, refracting over the framed photos hanging on the walls. The first time he’d swapped with Franci, he’d been too distracted to pay them much mind. The second time, then the third, he had lingered to observe. Nothing of Marc Marquez, of course, but plenty of the VR46 Academy riders, and riders before Marc’s time, before Dani’s even – riders from when Marc was a small child, looking up into the screen and seeing the colorful prints of ROSSIFUMI on neon yellow and feeling the swooping sensation of having jumped off a very, very tall tree, freefalling.

Vale’s house is a museum of his most precious memories; his racing heroes, departed friends, every rivalry that had irritated him in his youth, felt world-ending, yet had meant something, immortalized here, along with the pictures of Vale’s family, his parents, his brother, his Academy riders, and now Franci and the girls.

It had stung the first time to see Marc scrubbed from Valentino’s life like he meant nothing. Even Jorge Lorenzo and Casey Stoner and fucking Max Biaggi had made it out of the doghouse, but not him?

Pettily, he’d taken the picture of Max Biaggi down and let Leta loose with her crayons on it before putting it back up on the wall. Franci told him later that Vale had laughed and laughed when he saw it.

I miss his laugh, he’d texted back.

I miss when he used to laugh with me.

Isn’t that stupid?

Marc, Franci had said, even after everything?

If Uccio had cloned Franci’s phone, the one which is now in his back pocket, he wonders if Valentino had read as far back up as that. If he had pored over every word.

He didn’t have an answer for her then. He wonders if love is embedded in one’s cells, intwining with your DNA the longer it is there, taking up a permanent residence.

Vale? He tries again, Franci’s voice ringing out high and clear. Probably there is too much longing in his voice, and too much of it, entirely his and not hers at all.

He ventures into the living room, half-expecting to see Valentino there, the bowed curve of his back as he leaned over his laced fingers, deep in thought. He isn’t. His heart pangs. Of course, Franci loves him, too. She misses him, too, and the parts of her that stay in this body, encoded, ache in his absence like Marc aches all the time.

He takes his phone out and leaves it on the coffee table.

He is, abruptly, keenly aware of his own exhaustion, and Franci’s. Anger is tiring. He wants to collapse into his bed. Vale’s arms. Curl up there, the safest place. Home. Tears prickle at Franci’s eyes. Or perhaps they are Marc’s tears.

When it comes to Vale, it is difficult to differentiate the remnants of Franci or it’s just him.

Come back. He’d left Franci’s phone downstairs so that the urge to call Valentino does not overpower him. He thinks Valentino might have come back, if Franci asked. For her, if not for Marc.

Marc goes to his – Franci’s bedroom, the one she shares with Valentino, and crawls gratefully into the bed. His mind buzzes with restless thoughts.

He hates himself more than a little for rolling over onto Vale’s side of the bed and taking Vale’s pillow, holding it close to his chest, hates even more the way inhaling the traces of him calms, eventually, his thrashing heart.

Closes his eyes and let sleep cart him through memories of kinder times.

—

Anger rouses Marc at dawn.

He’d fallen off in Sepang in his dream. Kicked, he amends the thought as he opens his eyes, I was kicked off my bike. And the Yamaha blue of the offender is gleaming at him just a handful of steps away. Marc has moved in his sleep, rolling until he’s somehow parallel to the headboard, and the first sight that greets him is Valentino’s precious M1.

Marc sits up, and glares through sleep-crusted eyelashes at the bike.

Don’t do anything stupid, Franci said. Well. He isn’t Marc Marquez if he does not does stupid things. He is very tempted to wreck Valentino’s stupid Yamaha. He and Franci joke often that this lady of blue is Valentino’s one true love, never mind either of them. There are also cruder jokes made in wake of that which Valentino has probably seen.

Marc can’t find it in himself to feel bad for any of those jokes he’d made at Valentino’s expense. It was good to vent. To have someone understand what being with Valentino is like. Even though his experience was in the past, and aggravated very much by competition.

Trust me, he takes it off-track, too. Franci had said. And Marc had been, so far, luckless enough to bear witness to it in person. Just once. But it was never as bad as it when it was just with Marc.

Marc takes a deep breath, decides that today is not the day he’s going to burn Valentino’s stupid Yamaha, and sweeps his hair out of his eyes, getting out of bed.

Riding has always cleared his mind, and there are plenty of bikes waiting in the garage.

He washes his face and brushes his teeth before he goes, because he knows Franci is particular about morning routines.

Marc knows his way around very well by now, but a place Franci has very little reason to venture to is the garage out close by the dirt track, where routinely events and races are held for external guests. There is also a lodge here. Marc stayed here in 2014. That’s why he still remembers the way there by heart. Remembers, too, the excited tick of his heart every mile closer to the ranch, as he sat in the van, thrilled that finally Vale had invited him here, to his home, and he was so-o-o going to blow everyone out of the water.  

Vindication displaces nostalgia when he affirms, within his own memory, how he wouldn’t have raced differently. He’d had fun, the way he and Valentino left everyone else in the dust, racing one another like it was the last race of their lives, the one that decides championships.

His only mistake that day was thinking Valentino had fun, too.

Marc ventures into the garage. He has ridden before, with Franci’s body, but only when he is absolutely sure Valentino is not going to be on-site. He hadn’t had a suit custom-made for her size, but there equivalent-sized leathers. He suits up, picks the bike he used the last time, and wheels it out.

The world narrows to the width of his visor, all sound contained, as he puts the helmet on.

Then he kicks off, guns the throttle and goes racing against the old ghosts.

—

Here, he remembers, is where he’d overtaken Valentino, shunted the gap shut, but Valentino knew this track like the back of his hand and there was another racing line he took because Marc didn’t predict that, and Vale had won – here, this sweeping turn as he leans into it, careful, careful, slowly, because it’s not his body and he knows the limits of this one, going less than half the speed he is used to going, and –

The sun has ascended, its rays piercing through the clouds that hovered thick and suffocating at dawn, a clearing blue sky. A generous spill of light over the dirt.

Marc is not alone.

He becomes aware of it in the distant, muffled way he would be aware of the crowd of fans in the grandstands, cheering, hooting, or booing as he zipped past.

The piercing totality of attention.

Marc turns to look, slowing.

There is a person standing off to the side of the track, slender, a misty figure in the dappled, watery light. The roar of the bike under him had masked the sound of Valentino driving back up, of him getting out, astounded to see an uninvited rider on his track.

It can be no other than Valentino.

Marc completes the turn, the full circle of the track, then wheels to a stop before him. Valentino hasn’t climbed over the fence, not until Marc has stopped entirely, and then he does clamber over, long limbs folding twitchily like a grasshopper’s as he comes over this side of the track.

There’s – Marc tenses, because he can see, even in the half-light of the dawn – disbelief in Valentino’s eyes, and recognition.

Marc? says Valentino, his voice a croak.

Marc reaches up and unclasps his helmet.

Chapter Text

Gemma nearly clips a passing goose.

Is that a goose? She yanks the steering wheel aside and almost takes them off the road, which doesn’t happen but Franci – Marc’s – head cracks against the window. 

They’re surprisingly common in Tavullia, Franci says. Her voice is rough, groggy from sleep. She blinks, you should let me take over now. You’ve been driving for hours, Gem.

Gemma is not really listening, too distracted by the endless ring of the phone in her lap, the fact that is not bridging her to the other side.

Marc is not answering his phone, why isn’t he answering? Do you think Valentino –

No, says Franci at once, Vale would never hurt – me. Amends at the last second, recalling that it is her body, and if it’d been Marc’s physical body left marooned in Tavullia with Valentino Rossi on the warpath, he might not be physically unharmed.

Valentino. The mention of the name makes Gemma’s blood boil, her heart shudder.

She doesn’t know the man, not really, has only ever known him tangentially through secondhand accounts of the other two, has only ever known him as the man they both love, and who hates Marc.

He’s probably just asleep, says Franci, softly. Reaches over, rests the palm of her hand on Gemma’s knee, soothing.

She knows Marc can handle himself just fine, but she wants to hurry and be by his side anyway.

Fear, irrational as it is, nibbles at the edge of her heart. Insistent, insidious.

Gemma presses it down the way she presses her foot down on the gas pedal, speeding away into the undulating night.

Still, at the next rest stop, three hours before an inkling of light would spill over the skies, they cross the Italian border, and Franci insists that they switch.

The guy at the gas station asks if he can get Marc’s autograph.

Franci fakes one and he won’t know any better.

Gemma buys an energy drink. Walks up to the fridge at the back of the little rest stop as the cashier tries to solicit a conversation from Franci. The energy drinks display is dominated by Monster Energy, Valentino Rossi’s special edition. She picks up two, one for her, then Franci, and goes up to the cashier to check them out.

She folds herself into the shotgun seat when they resume their journey.

Let me know when your arm hurts, she tells Franci, then I will take over again.

I can drive for a few hours, Gem, Franci assures her, quietly.

She can, but she’s not as good as Marc in hiding her pain when the arm is really being annoying.

Without the road demanding her concentration, Gemma feels her energy flicker, waning drastically abruptly; tired from a sleepless night, adrenaline long worn-off, she feels her eyes getting heavier.

In her lap, the half-finished can of Monster Energy numbs her fingers, cold. If there’s one topic Marc is always evasive about, or which he will never share unprompted, it’s Valentino Rossi. Gemma knows better than to push, but sometimes, she wonders – and it’s probably the darkness in the gap of knowing that makes her feel that irrational tinge of fear.

She hears herself say, Franci, if Valentino apologizes, will you go back to him?

She thought she knew what Marc’s answer would be and she’s made peace with it.

Franci, though –

He’s not the type to apologize, says Franci.

– is a mistress of deflection.

Even when he’s so obviously done wrong?

Franci shoots her an incredulous look through the rearview mirror. You’re looking at Exhibit A, and we’re driving to Exhibit B.

So he always acts like this when you fight? He storms away and wanders back once he’s calmed down and you do not speak about it?

Essentially.

It’s how you know he cares, Marc had said, once, wistfully, otherwise he’ll just never come back.

Thoughts slide like marbles rolling down a glass pane, ringing hollow as sleepiness encroaches, Gemma murmurs, I wouldn’t have walked away from you in the first place.

Valentino Rossi is such an ungrateful bastard.

—

In spite of her exhortation, Franci – stubborn as Marc is – drives all the way to Tavullia without waking her to take over.

We’re not running a WEC race, Franci says when Gemma huffed about it. Also, your driving was making me sick.

Gemma says, you need to stop buying into Marc’s propaganda. I’m a perfectly fine and steady driver!

Baby, says Franci, pulling into park, and reaching over to rest her hand over Gemma’s knee, you have many other good qualities.

Gemma pouts anyway because that makes Franci lean over the gearbox to kiss her, and she would’ve deepened the kiss, keep going, frantic suddenly, by the proximity to Rossi somewhere on this ranch, his territory, but Franci parts from her.

Marc’s eyes are opaque, unreadable, a foreboding in them that Marc does not easily exude because he is almost always strong enough to overcome his fear.

Hey, says Gemma, you’re not alone. I’m here. Marc is here, somewhere.

I’m not afraid of a confrontation, Franci furrows her brows, it’s what – what’s been on my mind, what I would do, after.

Gemma worries her lower lip, dry without her usual application of gloss. She’d forgotten to bring it in her handbag. Franci assured her that she’d have an oversupply in her dresser in Tavullia, and she had planned to grab a few things when she gets there.

And then what? Gemma hadn’t asked, because she suspects Franci doesn’t have the answer to it either, but with the stories of Valentino she’s heard, she’s prepared for the worst.

She and Marc have a pretty open relationship. When Marc had called her right after winning Misano – when were you going to tell me you were sleeping with my archnemesis’ WIFE? – she’d come clean pretty fast and also, when were YOU going to tell me you were sleeping with your archnemesis?

If Valentino does to her what he did to you, Gemma had said once, worried, what’re we going to do?

We have plenty of room here, Marc had assured her, for Franci and the girls. And the blankness, the echo of possibility that comes after. But he wouldn’t. He loves her.

He loved you, too. I’m sure of it, and it hadn’t stopped him. Gemma didn’t say it, but she thought it, and it wrenches her heart then, looking at the wistfulness of his expression. She’d yanked him down for a kiss, bruising over the scar Valentino had left. 

Now they are pulling up the front of Valentino’s house and Gemma can’t feel anything past the tightness in her chest. It is almost too quiet, when Gemma kills the engine and retrieves the keys. Franci takes a breath, then opens the door, and Gemma follows suit.

Come, says Franci, and walks up, back straight.

Inside, it is somehow even quieter: somewhere, Gemma can hear the tick-tock of a clock. The floorboards sigh under the weight of visitors. Gemma toes the edge of her sandal on the cartoon rug. Bugs Bunny?

The girls must still be at Stefania’s, Franci surmises. I’ll go see if anyone’s upstairs. Maybe Marc is still sleeping.

Marc does so love to sleep in. Gemma nods in acknowledgement of the plan.

Franci hurries off down the hallway and takes the stairs there two at a time. Gemma strikes off to scour the kitchen. It is disturbingly still and bare. No coffee mugs, no scent of anything that could’ve indicated someone had breakfasted here. Marc never starts his day without eating something first. She goes back out into the hall just as Franci comes thumping down, Marc’s footsteps ungainly on her.

He's not upstairs, but the bike’s still in one piece, announces Franci apropos of nothing.

What?

Oh, nothing. I bet Marc fifty euros to vandalize the bike the next time Vale pisses us off, but I suppose he didn’t go through with it.

Gemma would’ve valiantly offered to do it for her for the price of zero euros and a kiss, but that can be parked for later. 

But when I looked out the window upstairs, I see Vale’s car just, Franci stops.

Gemma turns to her, eyes widening in realization just as Franci blinks. The track, they both say at the same time.

Here, out back, it’s faster, Franci says, taking her hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and guides her along the unfamiliar halls. She curls her fingers into the other’s, and then they are through the backdoor, and Gemma blinks in the vista – she will admit it is beautiful, a tranquil haven sequestered from all the media attention, a little kingdom of Rossi’s own – the sprawl of the dirt track, closeted by nature, the trees in the distance.

Closer, there are two pinprick figures. Gemma raises a hand over her eyes, blocking out the sun, squinting.

Is that them?

Should be. Franci tugs her onward.

Their pace is quick, and soon, the pinpricks solidify into colors. Gemma can tell which is Valentino by the taller figure, and he is wearing an oversized t-shirt Marc will not be caught dead in.

They’re talking, Franci says furtively over her shoulder, her pace slowing. Should we let them talk it through first?

Gemma has met Italians, many of them, and she knows they gesture a lot, but Valentino is very tall, and his gestures are very big, and Franci – Marc – looks small next to him. She only dimly registers the bike, and the ill-fitted suit Marc is wearing. Of course, the silly man, he can’t keep away from riding even when it's not his body.

Then they get even closer, and the fact they can hear them at this distance means –

They’re arguing, Franci sighs, well, maybe –

Then Valentino’s hands shoot out, grabbing Marc by the shoulders and shaking him so hard he damn near lifts Marc’s body off his feet, and then Gemma is letting Franci’s hand go and she’s running, tearing across the distance, all-red in her eyes.

HEY!

Valentino and Marc freeze, looking around, and though she is already seeing the look of delighted surprise splitting Marc’s face open with a very un-Franci goofy grin, she is only honed in on the baffled lack of recognition on Valentino’s face.

Who –

That is as much as he gets out of his talk-too-much mouth before her fist clips it shut.

Valentino staggers back with a muffled yelp of pain, overbalances and falls, and Marc stumbles back too, from being released so quickly, but he recovers fast: Gem! Marc exclaims, thrilled. He seems unruffled by the fight, and he is beaming as he surged towards Gemma, tackling her into a hug.

Her knuckles ache, but the adrenaline swallows the pain. Marc is here, safe, in her arms. And he is laughing in her ear. Her restless heart, at last, calms.

Well, says Franci, having caught up with a short jog, that’s one way of interrupting them. She looks down at her husband with a wolf-whistle. Damn, Gem.

Oww, groans Valentino, cracking an eye open to look skyward, Marc?

Not quite, says Franci, wryly, crouching by his side.

Gemma clutches him Marc the waist, overwhelmed, momentarily, by the joy of reunion, relief that he is fine, and also the physical sensations of knowing that it is Marc but also Franci. She’s always only had Franci in Marc.

She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to let go of Franci’s body – well, Marc – but Marc wiggles free to go loom over Valentino. Her fingers spasm, about to reach out, haul him back to her.

Valentino sits up in the dirt, and he shoots Gemma a look. Who even is she?

I’m Gemma, she says, because by the end of the day, he’ll never forget her for as long as he lives, and I kiss your wife.

Valentino gawks at her.

Oh, yeah, says Marc with a wicked smile, he knows.

—

Here, says Franci, offering the pack of ice she’d retrieved from the kitchen.

Valentino stares at Franci like she’s an alien who’d dropped from the sky.

Franci chucks the pack at Marc, who catches it and slaps it over Valentino’s eye. The wordless coordination is impressive, especially since they have probably never spent time together like this. 

Gemma sits down next to Franci, and Marc and Valentino perch on opposite ends of a very long couch. She supposes from the stories she’d heard it is the one where Marc and Valentino had sex. Sitting down, something squeaks under her. She reaches under to pull the squeaky mouse toy out.

That’s Gabi’s, says Valentino. It is the first thing he’d said since they’d relocated the – discussion, for the lack of a better word – into the house.

Oh. Gemma puts it aside. She wonders if she’ll be allowed to see the kids; she has only seen them through video calls and she wants, desperately, to meet them, pick them up, hold them fast in her arms the way Franci and Marc have always described holding them, wants a piece of that marvelous feeling too. Beside her, Franci takes her hand, the right one with the throbbing knuckles, and puts another ice pack on it.

Marc has caught them up to what he’s been doing since the swap happened again. He’d slept. Taken the bike out for a ride – Franci shakes her head fondly, but Valentino’s expression, Gemma notices, darkens very, very noticeably – in the dirt track. And was in the process of enlightening Valentino on the mechanics of the swap when Gemma and Franci had arrived.

Marc finishes his recount with a very casual, you didn’t miss much.

You believe us? Franci asks of her lover, her eyes dark with doubt.

When they are sitting together like this, even not being side by side, Gemma can’t help but notice how similar Franci and Marc look, physically. Valentino’s type is apparently cast-iron set. She’s wondered, in the privacy of her own mind, but had yet to ask, how did it feel, to be the replacement?

She and Valentino are nothing alike (she hopes). But Franci… and then, Marc, too, feeling replaced. Sometimes, it amazes her that not only are Marc and Franci civil, but they actually like one another.

Valentino’s eyes flicker to Franci, lingering. It is not hatred in his gaze, but rage, a deep, deep well of it. He is a frightening man. Yet Gemma has never heard Valentino described as such by Franci and Marc.

I can’t believe you’d be so reckless as to let him do that, says Valentino, voice gravelly.

Do what? Marc asks, frowning.

I’m not talking to you, Valentino snaps, irritated, I’m talking to my actual wife. Though his eyebrow twitches at the sight of Marc when he looks at Franci. You let him use your body to ride out at the track? When the girls are just – in here?

Franci is quiet, brows knitting.

I don’t go that fast, says Marc like he’s being addressed, I know my – I mean, Franci’s limits. And it’s only one round or two, just to clear my head.

Sun rises over Tavullia, spilling in through the parted curtains, and Valentino’s last nerves burn in the light.

SHUT THE HELL UP, MARC! He roars, surging to his feet, and the ice pack is flung onto the floor. His eye is bloodshot, burst blood vessels, and he looks manic.

Gemma clutches Franci’s hand, muscles tensing, defensive, because it’s in their direction – Marc’s body – Valentino is letting loose on, even though it’s Franci sitting next to her.

You never THINK, Marc, that’s your fucking problem! You always think it’s going to be fine.

Know your limits? Don’t make me laugh! You find the limit and you cross it if it’s the last thing you do. And it was damn near the last thing you did in Argentia, in Sepang, in Jerez, in every fucking track, you idiot! You could’ve lost your life! I could’ve watched you die so many times!

You want to wreck your own life? Then stay out of mine!

Gemma stares, agog, because for the first time she realizes, Oh.

Marc, mulish and defensive, because he is never one to take an argument sitting down, says, I didn’t ask for the swap –

And even Gemma winces, thinking, not the right time, Marc.

It’s not about the fucking swap, Valentino screams, rounding, at last, to Marc in Franci’s body. Marc glares back up, defiant, anger rising in him like a sleeping dragon poked in the eye, roused.

What if you’d fallen out there, in Franci’s body, hm? And the girls were in here, alone? And no one was around to help? Her body isn’t built to ride. You could’ve broken her neck, and at the words, his voice breaks, tears surging past the clasp of his eyelashes, you could’ve gotten my daughters’ mother killed and I wasn’t here.

I wasn’t here.

Marc’s expression falters.

Vale, Franci’s voice, spoken through Marc’s, quakes. Vale, I was –

And you – Valentino’s voice has lowered, at Franci, but the bitterness doesn’t wane, You, too. I thought you’d know better, at least, because Marc is an idiot but you’re not. But you two think it’s some – some funny game. A stupid prank. On me.

No one says anything. Even the house appears to hold its breath, all sounds, creaking floorboards and ticking grandfather clocks, cease.

I can’t look at either of you two right now, Valentino spits, and then he’s storming out of the living room. Footsteps thunder up the stairs, then, nothing.

Gemma watches him go. Her knuckles ache. Guilt throbs in tune to the pain. She removes the ice pack from Franci’s slack hands, and when she rises, the other two stir to awareness.

Gem, leave him, says Franci wearily.

Yeah, Marc’s voice crackles, then strengthens with each new word, let him sulk. Once he’s calmed down enough, he’ll find a way to blame everything on me, as usual. But as long as he doesn’t think Franci is cheating on him with me and take the kids back to Spain or something stupid, it’s fine, and we can just go back to –

Fine? Gemma echoes, incredulous. Marc, didn’t you hear what he just said?

That I was an idiot, says Marc.

In this moment, yes, you are, says Gemma, a little exasperated. But Franci, you understand, don’t you?

Franci purses her lips. I do get where he’s coming from, but I also trust Marc, and, her expression softens. I don’t think I’ve ever been afraid the way he is, not even when he used to ride because, well, he knows his limits.

I do know my limits, Marc grumbles, put-out.

I’m going to talk to him, Gemma decides.

Marc looks half ready to protest, then his gaze dips to her knuckles, and shrugs, If you want to, but I’m not sure what good it will do.

Franci runs a hand over her knee, the jeans crackling under her touch. Personally I’ve never had much luck talking to him when he’s in that mood, so, good luck. And at this moment, I very much want to see the girls.

Marc perks, me, too!

And maybe tell Stefania what’s going on, too, Franci adds, I bet she’s worried.

Oh, I haven’t seen her in a while, Marc remarks cheerily, already springing to his feet, I miss her vincigrassi. He slants Gemma a near-challenging look. You sure you want to miss it?

Pack some back, she says. For him, too.

Marc’s expression goes dangerously blasé, eh, I’ll see how I feel about him by the time we come back. I might just eat it all by myself in the car.

Franci stands, pulls Marc’s car keys out of her pocket and presses it into her hand, I trust you, too, Gem. Then she kisses her.

Hey, says Marc, puckering his lips ridiculously, I want one, too.

—

Valentino has not locked the door to his and Franci’s bedroom, which is ajar.

Gemma lets herself in.

He turns his cheek, blinks when he sees it’s her, then looks away again, wordless. She strides up to him, depositing the ice pack in his lap, and watches the way he jumps a little – she’d deliberately dropped it on his crotch – and snatches it up immediately. But he holds it in his hands, like he’s not sure if he wants to use it, to concede he can feel pain, and needs the soothing kiss of ice on wound.

Gemma says, I’m sorry about the punch.

No response. Valentino puts the ice pack aside on the bedsheets.

She’s no stranger to the silent treatment, but Marc always goes for a short ride then comes back, ready to talk and move on. Valentino seems more the type to brood for days on end and come out of it no better.

I guess I overreacted.

Valentino snorts, softly. Props his chin on the palm of his hand, elbow balancing on his thigh. She is still standing, so his blue, blue eyes – she has never, in her life, seen a shade so alike the Aegean sea – slant upwards.

He is, objectively, beautiful, this much she can recognize, clinically: not the Grecian cut of Marc’s brand of beauty, but there is an impish charm to him that she associates with the English folklores of fae kings, the ones that whisk mortal girls off their feet and trap them in a realm where everything is gold and unblemished. She thinks of the Franci she has come to know, in the days before she admitted it was her in Marc’s body, the way it struck her that Marc had seemed curious and bright, eager to explore things that were mundane.

When the luster of magic fades, it must get wearing, the otherworldly world in which Valentino Rossi has built.

Gee, you think?

I do not know you very well, Gemma says honestly, you looked hostile. To Marc.

It was Franci’s body, I would not have hurt her, says Valentino, stony.

No, but it’s Marc, you’ve hurt him many times. I can’t trust that.

Valentino’s expression twists. That’s what he goes around saying, is it?

Somewhere, downstairs and out, there is the sound of a car engine’s starting. Franci’s car.

Valentino’s attention wavers, going over to the window.

They are leaving, he remarks, sounding mildly taken back, something in his eyes flaring wide, bristling.

Oh, yeah, we passed a church on the way here, they’re probably going there to elope now.

Valentino’s eyelashes twitch. Does Marc think you’re funny?

Gemma hums. The question can be taken seriously, if she wants to. We do laugh a lot; and we try to have fun together. Usually. She wanders away from Valentino, spying the blue Yamaha Marc and Franci have, at separate times, ragged about to her because they think it’s tacky to have it in the bedroom; she’d always found it funny because she thought it sounded like they were jealous of the bike. She goes over to it, feeling Valentino’s attention sharpen upon her at her proximity to his bike, and spins around, perching on the seat.

It sways under her, but the handstand holds it steady.

Valentino stares at her, astounded. This is my house, and that is my bike.

I know, says Gemma, but I had to see what’s so special about it. Marc and Franci tell me this bike is the love of your life.

Valentino huffs. At this particular moment in time, she is, because she, at least, will not stab me in the back.

Hey, she says, you’re not the only one who loves him, you know.

Who? God? Valentino says, acerbic. Trust me, you aren’t.

She crosses her arms. Perhaps she is spoiled by Marc, but she has never not been taken seriously, and her brows knit when she frowns at him for his attempt at jocularity. I watch him when he races, when he crashes, I pray he gets up right away, that he hasn’t hurt his arm worse.

He blinks, but does not betray any recognition or familiarity with her words more than that minute twitch in his expression.

I get what it’s like to be afraid –

You don’t understand anything, interrupts Valentino flatly, and his guard closes rank, you come here, you punch me, sit on my bike and you presume –

But I’ve never acted so cruelly on it, Gemma goes on, I would never cut Marc out of my own life, just because I was afraid of losing him, that I would rather take control of how I lost him. Then go and find the next closest replica to plug the place he used occupy.

You think Marc and Franci messing around hurt you?

How do you think you’ve hurt them?

I’m not part of all – this, it’s the leather seat of the bike she thumps, the one thing that brought the three of them together, riders, grid girls, she is the outsider here, but even I can see all the ways they are the same. I don’t believe they’ve never noticed.

Marc plays happy family with you when he’s in Franci’s body because he thinks you want him only when there’s no threat of a competition on the track, and off-track he has nothing of value to give you.

Franci asks how I could tell it was her so quickly when you couldn’t tell the difference all those times it wasn’t her. 

Valentino stares at her, stricken, the expression on his face flayed-open.

The sun streams over his back, spilling onto the bed. The shine of it burnishes his curls gold. Fae-king, was her first impression of him, and suddenly all she can think of is that, the magic of his existence, the crushing gravity of his want. Cursing a competitor such that he’d never win again for the rest of his life for the crime of getting in his way. Turning a crowd round and round on their heads, horseshit lies spun into gold and fed down their throats so easily. Striking Marc down when he got too cocky, pushed his limits too far, a futile attempt at pumping the brakes. Stop, don’t go where I can’t follow you. Jerez.

And now, this.

Gemma’s nails curl into the edge of the leather seat. Wonders if the thought had ever occurred to him. Thinks how close she came to having never met Marc at all. If Marc had really been forced to stop after Jerez. It is perhaps irrational, to think Valentino would’ve taken Marc back into his arms if Marc had simply been forced to stop racing, and the risk of losing him on track is rendered null. If Marc had stopped racing then, forced to stop like that, he would not be the Marc they, she and Valentino, love at all, then. This, she is sure.

Okay, says Valentino, okay. Shakily. And just when she thinks he’s going to say something profound, all that comes from him is, Get off my bike. Seriously.

Yep, says Gemma, hopping off. Valentino is staring unblinking at the floor. Oh, and also.

This time he doesn’t need any tricks or prodding to be made to look at her.

I’m not that sorry I slept with your wife, you slept with my boyfriend.

She had taken him by surprise with that, she can see the way the words shake his expression.

Then for the first time, Valentino smiles, his teeth peeking out of his lips, and his eyes glow like a gemstone held up to the sun, crinkling with a tiny slice of humor, and she can almost see the man Marc and Franci love.

No, that you do not have to apologize. A grin befitting of the original king of mischief. That was the hottest part, actually. Back when I was younger –

Hm, nope, Gemma skips out of there. Let’s go, we’re going to join the others at your mother’s house. I want to meet your daughters.

Chapter Text

What dark magic do you think she’s using?

I don’t know… I thought she just threatened to rip his nuts off, Marc mutters back.

I can hear you two, Valentino says, irritated. The irritation grows when he sees the wordless look Marc and Franci exchange, like they have known one another their whole lives, longer than either of them have known him for.

It needles at a wound still healing from an infection; that he is meant to be the one that links them, but yet he is on the outside of their psychic connection, looking in.

Gabi gurgles, kicking in his arms, and he’s distracted from the thought, looking down at his daughter, his emotions collapsing inward, bending to the adoration of her existence. The bottle is empty, the formula finished, and she needs to be burped now. Valentino pries the bottle from her hands, sets it aside and puts her to his shoulder.

There is a playmat for her to spend tummy time on spread on his mother’s living room floor. Leta is sitting in Franci’s lap, looking up at Marc’s physical body with wide-eyed fascination. Franci had admitted that she had let the girls video call Marc, when they are not swapping, because he misses them. Miraculously Leta has never once mentioned there’s a new man their mama has been introducing to them; Gabi, Vale will forgive for being unable to talk yet.

When you are older, he whispers to Gabi’s little ear, you will tell me all their secrets. You are on papa’s side, no?

She hiccups, and her tiny hand shifts on his shoulder, her little fist glancing over his cheek. That’s as good as any agreement, like a fist-bump. Valentino presses a lingering kiss to the side of her temple and feels a little of the restlessness since last night settle, a calm. If his life is a boat tossed like a pebble into the stormiest tempests, he knows where the north star lies, this, in his arms, and the little girl kicking her legs in delight at a story Marc is telling her.

Valentino’s mother returns from the washroom, perching on her armchair, and regards them all with a rather placid sort of bemusement.

Stefania seems to have taken the tall tale with stride. He is perhaps fortunate his mother is so easygoing, and superstitious to begin with.

Her only remark, when he’d finally shown up, Gemma on his tail, at her doorstep, was, well, took you long enough. The girls are awake, and they are, just so you know, very enamored with Marc.

That’s actually –

Franci in there, I know. They’ve told me. Come inside. Oh, and this must be the lovely Gemma.

His mother didn’t seem to have noticed the bruise he was sporting on his jaw courtesy of the lovely Gemma, who she busses cheeks with, and Gemma’s beatific smile – Marc has always had impeccable tastes, himself included – shines upon Stefania with the warmth of the summer sun.

He can tell his mother is a little dazzled.

When Stefania thinks he isn’t looking, she shoots curious looks at Marc. At one point, Stefania summons Marc – in Franci’s body still – out of sight, but Gabi is sitting on his lap, so he can’t go and snoop.

When they return from the kitchen, nothing seems amiss. Gabi whines for her mother, and it’s confusing at first who to pass her to, but Marc plops down next to him, Give her to me, and he does, nonplussed, and Gabi settles, cooing.

Leta, he was told, seemed capable of telling when Franci is not Franci, but at the moment she is preoccupied with Gemma, who is trying to speak (very bad) Italian with her; Leta is delighted to be the teacher, and Franci is laughing Marc’s ugly, honking laugh as she braids Leta’s hair.

It is a very strange scene to be apart of, and yet – so far away from.

Vale, I need your help with something, Stefania says abruptly.

What?

The stove, she says, vaguely, even though she ought to have known Valentino is worse than useless as a handyman. Uccio is the guy his mother calls back then when she actually needed a simple house-fix. And then, later, Franky, or even Luca. Vale, maybe she will call if the house has burnt down and she needs a new one.

Ah, fuck, Uccio, Franky and Luca, the trio of very concerned individuals who’ve been messaging him nonstop wanting to know what’s going on, if they can do anything, tell him not to do anything too stupid. Pecco and Bez and even Cele have reached out, too, but they are more reserved in their prodding, patient.

He scrubs a hand over his face, parking them as another thing to deal with, fine, I’m coming.

In the kitchen, the stove is fine. Stefania makes it clear that the situation he’s found himself in is not fine.

Have you and Franci at least sorted things out between yourselves? She means if they are heading for a permanent split.

Something in him quakes at the thought. He banishes the thought.

No, we have not. He pauses. It’s difficult to speak to her when she’s wearing Marc’s face.

Stefania arches a brow. I can imagine. And until then, the girls?

Valentino pauses to conceptualize the image. His girls, plus the two uninvited guests, and the swap. He can only imagine how confusing it would be. He runs his tongue over his upper teeth.

I think they should stay with you until they swap back, he says.

Stefania purses her lips. I love the girls, but … Vale, you know this situation can’t go on forever, right?

It’s just until the swap is sorted out! Maybe he ought to ask his mother if she knows any witches.

It might never, says his mother with her timely bits of wisdom, you’ll need to learn to live with it. I’ve always liked Marc. Franci reminds me of him somewhat, the first time you brought her home, that’s what I thought.

Gemma’s blazing eyes flash in his mind, what she’d said.

I’ll sort it out, says Valentino, and wishes he felt as confident as he sounded.

And he will sort it out. He can’t let Marc endanger what he has so painstakingly built. He should, he knows, talk to Franci about this – Gemma’s observation rakes like claws over his eyes, realization bleeding – assure her that Marc is not – not, whatever she might think he is to him. Franci is not a replacement. Never, even if he is not blind to the physical similarities, but they cannot be more different in the way it matters: loving Franci does not hurt in the way it hurts with Marc.

With her, he is safe. With her, he doesn’t have to hurt. With her, he’s built a home out of the ranch in Tavullia, where no uninvited Honda gremlin will come here, bring his own bike and ride all over Valentino’s heart, legacy and feelings until they are charred, broken pieces ground into the dirt.

Marc is a threat that precious world apart. As always, he is the danger. Ergo, Marc needs to go. Marc is –

He rounds the corner back into his mother’s living room.

Marc is with the girls, and Leta is laughing as Marc – Franci – swings her up in the air, and Gemma is sitting just below, ready to catch her in case Franci misses. Gabi naps in the safe nest of Franci – Marc’s arms. Marc looks up when Valentino returns, and –

Valentino falters, something in his heart, a piece coming loose. Like a knife, driven to the hilt, being tugged free at last.

It’s true, he thinks, almost clinical in the observation, he can’t tell at all that it’s Marc in there, if he had not been told the truth beforehand.

He looks at Valentino the same way Franci looks at him – the one thing he was always sure of with Franci that he was never sure of with Marc – with love.

Valentino’s legs carry him to Marc, to the couch they were sharing, and he lets himself fold down next to him, into him.

Fuck, fuck. His mother has seen the complication from a long mile off before he has. This is not going to be easy.

Marc blinks, surprised, but Valentino keeps his face tucked in the crook of his neck, letting the surprised looks from Gemma and Franci glance off him. Gabi is a warm, hot shape between, like a loaf of bread fresh from the oven, and Valentino snuggles closer to them.

Hey, whispers Marc, gentle when he is using Franci’s voice, it’s going to be okay.

Valentino swallows down the lump in his throat, inexplicable tears prickling at the back of his eyes.

Those words are familiar, even if this is the first time Marc has ever said them.

That’s what he’d always loved of Franci, the perky optimism, Vale, it will be okay. Steadying him. I have built a house, and you have made a haven out of it, he thinks, of Franci, and of Marc, And you, I have built walls to keep you out.

Except he’s now inside and Valentino is frightened by how right it had felt, all those times, he never realized it was Marc inside his house at all. 

—

When the sun sets again on Tavullia, Marc and Franci swap back. It is a startling moment because they both collapse at the same time. Luckily, Gabi is strapped to Valentino’s front in the carrier, and Leta is holding Gemma’s hand; the four of them, with the kids, are taking a walk around the winding, broad path of the dirt track. Leta was in the middle of telling everyone how slow Valentino was, the last time he took her out on a ride, and Marc wouldn’t stop cackling.

Are you faster than Papa?

Of course, I – then Marc goes down, like a Greek hero stricken down by mighty Zeus for blaspheming.

Valentino whirls around when they collapse, his heart slamming through his ribcage.

Uh? Leta goes, surprised to see her mother and her new best friend pass out on the ground, Mama? Marc?

Gemma holds her back by the hand from going over to them, just give them a second, love.

You’ve seen this happen? Valentino asks.

Once or twice. The last time, Marc was driving us here, just last night. Valentino’s jaw drops at how blasé she is about that fact. It’s fast – see, they’re already getting up.

Marc springs back to his feet first, grimacing as he rotates the bad arm, then he reaches down to help Franci up, carefully patting the dirt from her shirt; he is gentle with her in a way Valentino has never seen him do with anyone or anything, and he can only gawp.

Marc is saying, It doesn’t usually last long. The week before Mugello – that was the longest. It went on for so long I thought I’d have to miss the race.

You were asking every day if I was sure I wouldn’t try, Franci rolls her eyes, batting playfully at Marc’s hand.

Jajaja, Marc laughs, but his eyes cut, briefly, to Valentino, who grits his teeth, swallowing down the words.

I’m alright, darling, Franci says to Leta who is watching her with a concerned frown. Leta holds out both arms up to her mother and Franci sweeps her up. Leta pats her mother’s cheek, a spot of dirt coming off her hand.

They finish the walk, because Leta insists so.

Will you stay for dinner? Franci asks, when they round the dirt track back to the house. It is twilight, the vanishing trail of the sun a spray of pink, orange over the darkening sky. Leta’s eyes are drooping slightly, her head rested on Gemma’s shoulder because she has insisted on being passed over to the pretty lady.

Marc and Gemma exchange a look, then they glance furtively at Valentino.

I don’t think so, says Marc at last, ruefully, before Valentino can unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth to say something, anything at all, Alex has been texting. He is getting worried.

At that, Valentino’s tongue comes loose, ah yes, the other half of the conjoined twins calls. It’s a wonder he can function with half his organs, though I’m sure he had three-quarters of the brain.

Marc sneers at him, but doesn’t call him a bastard because there are children present. Leta goes, aww, with visible disappointment, a pout on her little face. Her blue eyes make it difficult to say no, and Valentino can see the effect they evince from Marc as he kneels to console her.

He refuses to acknowledge the twist in his chest at seeing Marc with his daughter.

As a compromise, Marc picks her up – not seating her on his right arm, the arm Valentino has been ignoring even when Franci grimaces every time she unwittingly uses it more than Marc would have – and walks with her back to the house.

Gabi sleeps through the goodbye. Valentino carries her inside and pretends there isn’t a protracted goodbye taking place outside in his foyer. He is thinking already about what he will be saying to Uccio.

However, Leta is uncharacteristically subdued at dinner, and Valentino grimaces when she asks, Mama, when Marc and Gemma come back?

Valentino looks at the clock and thinks the other two would’ve already made it a quarter of the way back to Spain now.

They are all home, but house feels startlingly emptier than it was before.

We’ll see, Franci says, vaguely.

She does not look at Valentino.

They don’t talk about it and they go to bed keenly aware of the Marc-shaped elephant lying in the space between them.

Looking forlornly over at his Yamaha, he wonders if maybe Gemma Pinto is the most sensible one when she’d said his blue lady was his true love.

Life probably would be easier if he could just marry his bike.

—

Gemma starts a group chat with the four of them the next day. Valentino seizes upon the distraction, because things with Franci are still frigid, to ignore Luca’s latest message – Vale, is everything okay? Is there anything I can do? – and his fingers are typing, firing off a text, what’s this for?

Gemma: For easy coordination

Gemma: Marc and Franci can tell us when they swap. This is fairer for you, no?

Franci: And also so that you don’t need Uccio to spy on my phone for you.

Valentino winces at that.

I’ve already told him to delete the app.

And I did not tell him to do that

He should probably apologize but a part of him resists, defensive: it’s not like he’d asked Uccio to do it.

Gemma is typing…

Marc: Wow Uccio showing independent thought!!

Valentino reacts with a middle finger just as Franci responds with a cry-laughing emoji to Marc’s message. His teeth grinds.

Gemma: what I don’t get is how @Vale you can look at those texts and think franci is eloping with marc

Gemma: I thought you guys were messaging about scheduling. And gossip. And food allergies

Franci: the girls don’t have any. Marc just panicked because he didn’t burp Gabi properly and thought she had a bad reaction to formula

Gemma: hahahahah

Marc: and dick size. I am bigger than vale

Gemma: put away the ruler

Valentino’s blood pressure inches skyward.

You were sending my partner pictures of your dick

And she was sending back pictures of her tits

What was I supposed to think?

Marc: in my defense, franci started it. That was her dick. At that time.

Franci: Marc, you called me to let you know how your broken dick was healing after Assen. I suffered for three days for you. While you had your fun with Vale

What is Valentino even reading? He’d been so outraged – terrified – at the thought of Marc breaking Franci’s neck because he was an idiot that he, mostly, let it slip then when Marc and Gemma had been at the ranch, but now it’s starting to sink into his head the sheer clusterfuck of the swap.

They have been fucking Valentino and fucking with him without him knowing the wiser. He is the punchline of the joke, the theme of the bit, and he could’ve choked on the rage – he tries to cling onto rage, but all he can remember is the way Franci – Marc – had ridden him, the day after the Assen weekend, and Vale had burst out laughing, suddenly, in the middle of sex.

What is it? Franci-Marc had asked, perplexed.

Nothing, pressing a smiling kiss into the skin of her-his neck, the flutter of the pulse, thinking of Marc, scraped raw through the gravel, hunched over on all fours.

The imagery had haunted him through the weekend, hysterical, and his cock had pulsed with renewed hunger at the memory, the red figure on all fours. Pulled out, maneuvered them around until Franci-Marc was on all fours in front of him, closed his eyes and imagined the spill of Ducati-red before him.

Jesus. Jesus. It was Marc all along.

Valentino’s hand goes to his dick, which pulses with want, longing, at the memory.

They are still talking.

Marc: I know, but I can’t just NOT send back a picture of my tits

Marc: but I also wanted to know if red looks better or black does.

Franci: I told you. blue.

Marc: I couldn’t find them! Anyway I went commando

Gemma: MARC!!!!!

Finally, someone on his side. Someone who sees how fucking crazy it is that –

Marc: what?

Gemma: how could you NOT send me a picture of your tits

Marc: pretty sure you were preoccupied with something else at that time

Gemma: but I’m not preoccupied now

Franci: @Gemma check your private text

Gemma: HWSKJLZKHS WAIT FOR ME

Marc: she just ran up the stairs

Marc: I’ve never seen Gem run so fast anywhere. Ever. Nice one @Franci

Valentino turns his phone away, grabs his pillow and muffles a choked-off cry of arousal, rage, and something in between.

His partner, his pretty-much wife, mother of his children, is flirting with his archnemesis-on-off-many-nightstands’ girlfriend. And Marc is fucking laughing about it. He’s fine with it. He acts like it’s all no big deal.

Franci has probably already slept with Gemma.

When Marc was with him, she’d been with Gemma, in Marc’s body.

The arousal that billows through him is crippling. He can barely get out of bed.

He will have to mute the group chat. There is no concentrating when the peanut gallery is making so much noise there. He has a race to prepare for, and the boys to train.

—

Valentino is wondering how long Franci will be angry for, and how long he therefore should be angry for, if there’s a mutual expiry date, and thinking this can’t go on forever when, one day, he rolls back home from the gym to find the house empty.

Franci left him a note on the fridge.

Took the girls with me for a short vacation. Will be with Marc and Gemma in Madrid.

If you need to reach me, call Marc’s number.

Valentino blew his top. He called Marc right away but it went straight to voicemail, and he, in the heat of the moment, left an expletive-ridden message.

It takes two hours, two hours in which Valentino contemplates seriously flying to Madrid and kicking Marc’s door down, when Marc calls back.

I hope you know you sound like a lunatic, Marc says, What the fuck? How would I even make the body swap happen? And if I had superpowers, Valentino, you think I’d have nothing better to do than to mess with you? I would NOT conjure a plot so convoluted just to steal your wife away from you.

Said out loud, Valentino’s accusations sound far-fetched, but he’s gone out on a limb on far less.

Is Franci there?

He can hear the sound of his girls shrieking. Laughter. Not distressed at all. His heart clenches, he squeezes his eyes shut. Wants them to be just downstairs.

Yeah, she showed up half an hour ago. Gemma went to pick her up from the airport. A pause. I didn’t know she was coming. She told Gemma, though. Well, sounds more like Gemma invited her over for a break from you.

Your girlfriend better sleep with one eye open.

It doesn’t make much of a difference; she can kick your ass with both eyes closed.

She caught me by surprise the last time, I was –

Whatever. I support Gem’s decision. Franci was miserable. You were icing her out.

She wasn’t talking to me.

Oh, right, because you are oh-so-approachable when you’re in a strop.

Of course, you’d blame me, hm?

Well. I like Franci better so, yes.

And yet she isn’t the one you were begging to get fucked by.

You have a dick. That’s nothing special.

Then the fucker just cuts the call. Valentino might’ve screamed. Tossed the phone. Goes downstairs and smashes plates. When he’d calmed down enough, he calls Marc again and asks to be patched through to Franci like this is the 1940s.

She takes the call.

You could’ve, trying to swallow down the fury is like swallowing raw onion, and keeping his tone calm draws up a whole lifetime of willpower, told me you were going to leave for – for a vacation. I would’ve let you have the private jet. And I could’ve watched the girls. If you really needed – the alone time.

Watch the girls? You spend eight hours a day in the gym. I wouldn’t want to burden your mother with the watching.

That kind of hurts, if only for how true it is. Valentino blubbers around before coming back with a pretty weak, I would’ve taken a break to watch them on my own, just – until you come back.

A long pause. Valentino steams in the sizzling silence. You are coming back, right?

I don’t know, Vale.

You … don’t … know?

I just need space. And time to think. Goodbye, Valentino.

Again, with the hang up.

When Valentino dials back, it’s a different voice who answers him, because it’s a fucking carousel over there.

Marc and Franci are bathing the girls, says Gemma irreverently, can I pass a message?

Woman, Valentino grits out, temples throbbing, you – you –

What?

This time he hangs up, if only to have the satisfaction of being the one to have done so.

She needs time, Franci had said. Well. She’d be back. Time and space are just things women say. She’d realize she misses him and the girls will miss him – eight hours in the gym, he winces at the reminder, wonders if they are so used to him not being around that they won’t even notice – and they will come home and they will be a perfect family again.

All Valentino has to do is be patient and wait.

—

Valentino is not good at waiting.

—

The days roll on, and the house is ginormous, cavernous almost with how his every action puttering about echoes. No girls, no Franci, not even his riders.

He takes to spending nearly ten hours in the gym and harassing the boys to show up, regardless of their personal plans. Since they are not blind or deaf, they realize eventually that aside from Valentino no one is living in the house.

Where did Franci and the girls go? Pecco asks.

Holiday. Madrid, says Valentino in clipped tones.

Cele, who is sometimes not very bright about hornet nests and the act of poking them, says, you know, funny thing, I saw a clip on TikTok the other day – a fan caught Marquez walking around a neighborhood with a baby stroller and a woman who looked just like Franci.

Valentino is quite aware because he’d seen the clip. And read the comments.

It’s them, he concedes, grudgingly.

Bez nearly upturns the whole table with how hard he jolted; shooting him an alarmed look, Luca removes his glass from the table.

That was for real? screeches Bez, agog, No, no, NO. Marc?

Next to him, Pecco drops his fork. No, Marc would never, he loves Gemma. Valentino can’t help but notice that Pecco’s argument did not take the angle of, But Franci loves you, Vale! Like it is the natural assumption for one to eventually love Marc over Vale. Speaking from personal experience, Pecco? The thought is tinged only just with the barest bitterness.

This is all getting too complicated. Especially when he’s sort of addled with wine. Valentino should’ve kept his mouth shut. Pecco believes Valentino should’ve been married five years ago. And Luca, who is regarding him with a thoughtful frown, is hitched to his childhood sweetheart. Bez’s most lasting relationship is with his dog. Cele is, actually, Valentino isn’t sure on that front.

Why did he think these boys with their perfectly vanilla relationships would be able to contribute anything meaningful to this discussion? They cannot even begin to understand.

She isn’t sleeping with Marc, Logistically it seems impossible, but he can be sure that, she’s sleeping with Marc’s girlfriend.

There’s a plunk as Pecco drops his fork, again. Or that’s the sound of Bez’s jaw hitting the tabletop. Cele says, Oh, that explains it. Gemma is pretty.

And you’re okay with that? Luca asks, brows rising.

Technically, I was also not faithful, Valentino mutters the last part, but I didn’t know it was Marc. He rallies at once at the reminder, I was the only one who didn’t do anything wrong.

What? Cele says. But you just said you’re also cheating.

Valentino’s eyebrow twitches. Yeah, but I didn’t – 

I’m confused, says Bez, who IS Marc sleeping with? Is this like a creepy threesome thing?

Why is it creepy? Cele wonders.

Bez squirms. Because – because it’s – I don’t know, Pecco?

Pecco says, Vale, what about Leta and Gabi? And that throws some stone-cold sobriety onto the table. Bez is watching him, aghast. Cele blinks. Luca is frowning, faintly.

I’ll still see them, says Valentino, miserably, and it sounds like what every divorced dad says that, for the first time, it really sinks into his bones that his house is in shambles.

—

Do you still have the screenshots of the texts you took from Franci’s phone? The one with Marc?

Uccio: I do

Uccio: in case you needed it in court or something

Franci better not find out you still have them

But send them over

Uccio: Not until you tell me what’s going on first

So I was sleeping with marc

And now Franci’s sleeping with his girlfriend

Valentino is debating explaining the body swap bit when Uccio replies.

Uccio: Please take the screenshots

Wait that’s it? You’re not going to ask anything more?

Uccio: Every time I warn you to stay away from Marc Marquez you don’t listen until it’s too late

Uccio: Frankly I’m getting sick of it and now you are playing a truly fucked-up game

Uccio: I don’t even want to know how his girlfriend is hooking up with yours

Uccio: knowing you, you probably even find it hot

You know me too well

But his girlfriend is

Hot

I have eyes Uccio

And red blood

Uccio: stop texting all these things that are going to look bad if you’re ever subpoenaed!

I did not sleep with her

Valentino is typing…

Uccio: STOP

Uccio goes offline. Valentino, who’d only been typing nonsense into the text box to mess with his oldest friend, feels his lips quirk into the first genuine smile in the week since Marc and Gemma have left.

He is alone in his bed. The house is empty. He scrolls through the screenshots. In retrospect, seeing the texts from Franci’s side of the phone would’ve made him concerned she’s amnesiac. To be asking Marc of all people which brand of diapers they bought for Gabi. He skips past those, they aren’t important, what is are these –

His thumb hovers over the pixelated words.

Marc: I miss his laugh

Marc: I miss when he used to laugh with me.

Marc: Isn’t that stupid?

Franci: Marc, even after everything?

Marc: That’s the stupid part. That after everything I still let him live under my skin like this

Marc: it drives me crazy to see that there isn’t a single picture of me on that wall. I mean, MAX BIAGGI is there. Casey. Heck, even Jorge. Why does Jorge get forgiven for the stupid conspiracy that only exists in his and Uccio’s heads but I’m not??

Marc: he can’t erase me like this

Franci: Marc he does have a picture of you. Hell, it’s hanging over our bed. That Argentina collision

Franci: Most people hang photos of their wedding shots there you know

Marc: that’s not a place of honor

Marc: that just means he can’t

Marc: sorry I don’t know why I keep going on about it. I told myself this year is the year I cut him off for real

Franci: Marc…

Marc: No I mean it. I have a plan. I’ve been planning it for a while. See this car? [attached picture]

Marc: It’s the last thing associated with him that I have. My mother threw the rest of my collection out a long time ago.

Marc: I was thinking of throwing it off a cliff into the sea or something, but now I think I will mail it to you. You can give it to Leta, or Gabi

Marc: does Leta like cars

Distantly, Valentino is aware of the signs of an oncoming panic attack. He drops his phone when sweat slicks up his fingerpads. It stings when it falls on his face. The screen goes dark. Valentino blinks back tears, gets up, walks over to his bike. Runs the palm of his hand over the sleek blue of her body, then he kneels, head pressed against the cold metal of her, grounding himself. He fights for breath, loud in the echoing silence of his too-large room, and as his heart clicks and clacks an unsteady staccato beat, he pulls up the handstand, keeping his shoulder braced against the weight of the bike so that she does not fall.

The floorboard she rests upon is loose; Valentino wiggles it open. Underneath, there is a heap of dust, photos, a Red Bull hoodie, two helmets, and a rally car not unlike the one in the photo Marc had sent to Franci. Black, white, with the loopy swirl of Valentino’s signature scrawled upon its body.

A false replica. The one Marc had given him when they first met – Valentino never forgot the day, will never forget for as long as he lives – was long-lost. Valentino had thought nothing of it, another trinket given by a fan, even if it was a promising rider in the junior series. Then Marc had become someone important to him, and he’d remembered still because Marc rambled about it before, the toy car he still kept. The year before their unmaking and Marc had finally been allowed to come to the ranch for a ‘friendly’ race, Valentino had hounded Uccio to find a perfect replica.

Valentino had put up the rally car on display two hours before Marc arrived, on the shelf he’d planned to take the guests past on the tour and had hoped Marc wouldn’t notice the swap (He would not, Uccio had assured, they are both made in China anyway).

At that time, Valentino had been too distracted by his smoldering irritation to linger on the touched awe shining in Marc’s eyes, Vale, you kept it.

If Valentino hadn’t been so angry with the uninvited guests, he would’ve said, Marc, of course, I kept it.

Marc would’ve beamed at him.

Valentino used to love that smile so goddamn much.

And it wasn’t ten years since Valentino saw that smile. He saw it two weeks ago, and weeks and months before that, when Franci would look around, blink as if pleasantly surprised to see him there, and she would smile the same way.

It was Marc all along.

The thing is disgust is the one missing emotion when he became aware of the swap.

Valentino sits on the floorboard beside his Yamaha in an empty house, and, for the first time, faces the question – what did it say about him that it still made him so happy that it was Marc?

—

What he doesn’t understand, on day three of stewing on his own, with Franci and the girls still gone, is how the fuck Marc – and to a lesser extent, the other two – can act so unbothered when he’s supposedly in love with Valentino.

It didn’t stop him from screwing Valentino over every chance he got in 2015. (Or messing with him now in the liminal space of the group chat.)

Or was that how Marc Marquez expressed undying adoration?

With no one to confer with but her, he texts her: Ciao, Gemma. Which is awfully civil of him since she punched him without so much as a ciao. Even he’d exchanged words with Max Biaggi before they tried to beat one another up in the stairwell.

She also stole his wife. He should hate her. He does not.

Gemma: Ciaoo

Gemma: ??

At the sight of her double question mark, Valentino also finds himself in doubt. What had he planned on asking anyway? He is vaguely sure she is a model, and an influencer of some sort, but what could he ask?

Did Marc tell you you’re the most amazing and beautiful woman in the world only to push you off the catwalk?

Valentino changes tack.

You have a lot of nerve

Sleeping with my partner

Gemma: It took you ten business days to come after me for that?

I was busy

Gemma: That speaks a lot about your priorities

I can see why you are with Marc

You are as annoying as he is

Her reply is an image, a selfie: she has an arm slung over Franci’s shoulder, lips puckered obnoxiously into an exaggerated, sloppy kiss slapped onto the arching curve of Franci’s left cheekbone, and Franci – his breath catches in his throat – is laughing so hard her eyes crinkle, her hair aflutter in the wind. They are wearing sleeveless strappy tops, and they are beautiful. Valentino imagines heads turning to follow them when they walk down a boulevard and feels the irrational urge to arm himself with a spoon with which to carve out eyeballs.

He hates that it’s a picture he would’ve double tapped right away, if it were on Instagram. Lord, it better not be uploaded there. He decides not to tempt this particular woman.

His gaze lingers on the image. When was the last time he made Franci that happy?

Where are the kids?

Gemma: With Marc. We’re having a girls’ day out

Is she happy, at least?

She was angry still the last time I saw her

Gemma: Anyone would be angry, to have their privacy violated like that

It was not me. It was Uccio! And I’ve told her that

Gemma: She’s more mad that you don’t trust her enough to speak with her first

Well well

I don’t see her rushing to tell me she’s been swapping bodies with Marc

Gemma is typing…

Gemma: You are pissing me off now. I told you already at the ranch. How could I tell it wasn’t Marc after only a few times and you couldn’t tell at all

Gemma: Valentino, she was waiting for you to see the difference

Gemma: Who do you see?

Gemma: Marc? Then it’s not fair to Franci

Gemma: maybe it’s time she moves on with someone who appreciates her for her

Admittedly when Uccio had shown him the text chain between Marc and Franci, it is not within Valentino’s estimation that the likeliest scenario is Franci eloping with Marc’s girlfriend.

For some reason, Valentino can hear Marc’s stupid, honking laugh.

What??

You are leaving Marc for Franci?

Gemma: who said anything about leaving marc?

Gemma: I have two hands :p

Red heat splotches the back of his neck, his cheeks. Her shamelessness is on par with Marc’s, but it’s not sheer, incandescent rage that is underlining the thought, only the mortification of hot, sharp arousal.

—

Valentino stews for the rest of the day until, at last, at night he plugs the charger into his phone and watches it light up to life again.

Franci

We need to talk

Franci: ok but this is marc btw

You swapped

Again?

You did not mention this in the groupchat

Franci: I was about to, but then you etxted here

Franci: you can text my number

No. you can help pass the message on

Franci: why should I? :3

Because I’m hoping to salvage this relationship, you asshole. Instead, Valentino aims for Marc’s soft spot, Because I’m trying to make sure my daughters don’t grow up in a divorced household

Marc’s parents had separated years ago. He knew, because he’d watched the interviews, and had sensed beyond what Marc has said verbally that it still impacts him, deeply.

Franci: Okay. I’ll tell her

Franci: I don’t know if I can tell her to leave right away

You don’t need to

I do not want to force her to come to Tavullia before she is ready

We can meet up at my Ibiza house

You know the address, yes?

Franci: Oh, sure. I’ll check the riders’ group chat of 2016/2017. Scroll all the way up to where you pinned the address for a party at this Ibiza mansion

Franci: Where you tagged everyone but me to make it clear

Franci: Who was invited and who was not

I contemplated two options that day

Leave you out

Or invite you over, and dump pig’s blood over your head when you cross the threshold

But then I figured it’s too messy to clean up after

Franci: Pig’s blood?

It’s a classic!

I know you’re illiterate, but it’s Stephen King

Franci: go fuck yourself valentino

Marc

He can see Marc has read it when the ticks turn blue. Wonders privately why they are always devolving into bickering and petty snipes and jibes, and if the swap never resolves itself, if this is going to be forever. The thought kind of hurts, even if angering Marc, making that indifferent façade he presents to the media every time Valentino’s name is brought up before him, makes him smile with vindicated satisfaction. But he also wants Marc to smile, genuinely, adoringly, at him again. This also hurts him, in a different way.

Valentino decides to think simpler.

Send me a pic of your tits?

He does get a picture, though it is of Marc flipping him the bird.

Valentino falls asleep for the first time in days to the sight of it.

Chapter Text

Ibiza: Valentino has lived long enough to accumulate many memories of this place, and it is also ground zero of many calamitous mistakes. Like Sete. Which now he tries to bury deep in the back of his head. Sete who?

The others have already beaten him there.

He’d rolled in from the airport at around six in the evening and the sun is setting; the lights inside his Ibiza house are all on. A zip of energy goes through him at the sight of a house lit up within, filled with the chatter and life of multiple people. Franci. His girls. And even the (hot) Spanish invaders.

Valentino practically runs down the road to get to the door, fingers jittery with repressed energy as he jams it into the keyhole, lets himself in, luggage clattering loudly behind him.

Girls? I’m here!

Since only Leta can walk, she’s the one who comes running, and Gabi has to be carried in – Franci’s arms. The swap from when Valentino had texted Marc has not reversed. He hefts a giggling Leta onto his hip and turns, heart clenching, to Franci regarding him with Marc’s dark eyes. He can hear the television playing some children’s program from down the hallway through which Marc and Gemma have stepped out of, observing them.

Eyes flickering away from Marc, Valentino leans down to buss a kiss over Franci’s lips, but she recoils like he’s a taser. Hurt throbs anew; palm sliced open by the misslip of a knife when paring a fruit.

No, comes the protest, then an elbow in his ribs, we already swapped back. I’m Marc.

Valentino frowns, pulls back slightly, narrows his eyes. Marc’s eyes meet his, then flicker away. No, he decides, resolute, because Marc never breaks eye contact first unless something as drastic as a needle is poking him in the eye, you’re not Marc. I can tell now.

He meant it as an indication of self-improvement. Franci took it like a slap to the face.

Valentino stares as Franci storms away. Bye, bye, Leta waves. Then Valentino rounds on the other two.

Marc is snickering.

I could tell when it’s her now, says Valentino, but she’s still angry.

Gemma frowns at Leta, who is blinking confusedly. Baby, don’t grow up to be a dum-dum like your papa, okay?

Stop talking to her. You’ll spoil her Italian with your terrible one, Valentino says.

When Gemma has also swished away with a dirty look speared in his direction, Marc remarks, offhandedly, That’s got be a record.

Valentino could’ve throttled him, but – taking a deep breath to brace himself – he resists the temptation. He came here with an agenda, and he has to get it off his chest, starting with this one.

Marc, wait. Pushes Leta into his chest, and Marc instinctively stretches his arms out to catch her, bundling her to his chest – and it is enough to get him to stop, to not follow the other two out. Leta blinks at Valentino. Papa, she says, scrunching her little nose and brows, displeased at being unceremoniously passed off when she had not indicated her wish to do so.

Just a moment, says Valentino, kneeling down to open his suitcase. I have something for you.

Me or Leta?

He rummages through the layers of haphazardly packed clothes to the toy rally car he had wrapped in a Looney Tunes shirt. Unravels the fabric and holds up the toy to the light. Lifts it up for a squirming Leta to behold, and for Marc to gaze at.

Recognition flickers in his eyes.

It’s not the one you gave me, Valentino says, holding it just out of Leta’s fingers as she makes a daring swipe for it. Marc does not blink. I actually lost the one you gave me a long time ago.

You mean you threw it out, says Marc, in a colorless voice.

No, I lost it the day you gave it to me, probably. The one you saw at the ranch – ten years ago – that was a fake.

Marc still doesn’t blink. He is going to dry Franci’s eyes out at this rate.

I had thought, Valentino forges on, you wouldn’t be able to tell.

Marc’s gaze tilts from the car to his eyes. Do you understand what I’m trying to say? He wonders, desperation clutching his heart in a grip so tight it could not possibly be beating. Marc used to understand him in only a single glance.

Even if they had been out of sync for ten years and counting, Valentino thinks Marc might still remember, how hard it is for Valentino to apologize, or even accept apologies, and this is the closest he can get to one, on this account because they have too many other tabs open.

I know you lied, but I also understand why you lied, and I forgive even if you wouldn’t have asked for it. From one selfish bastard to another, I understand.

Leta bats at his hand, Papa, gimme, gimme.

Marc reaches out, takes the little rally car, turning it over to examine Valentino’s signature, and Leta grabs for it, whining, Mama! Her pout out, blue eyes widened to dramatic effect.

Here you go, cara, he says, gently, the love in his voice not just Franci’s own, and passes it to Leta, who beams, appeased.

Why don’t you go show it to Gemma and Marc? He suggests, bending over to set her down.

Gemmie! Marc-Marc! Leta charges off, waving the car over her head.

Your room is the one you usually sleep in, by the way, says Marc, as he goes after the energetic toddler. 

Well. That could’ve gone worse.

Valentino lugs his luggage upstairs, wondering what exactly has set Franci off – and wondering if Gemma is doing her best to persuade Franci of the merits of a threesome without Vale – and shoulders his way into his own room.

Valentino is used to being the center of attention, to being the host, but in this house, his own home, he feels none of the surety of being the master of the house. Uneasy, and a little cowardly, he decides to unpack his things, meager as they were, as an excuse to not join the others downstairs. He can hear Leta’s shrieks of laughter, then Gabi’s little cries; he should go down, but he’s here, pretending at folding a shirt so that it does not crease.

The door opens; Valentino jerks his head up, eager.

Marc peeks in on him, Unpacking, Valentino? Nudges the door open wider.

Did you need something? He asks, cordially, because that’s the name of the game. No more ruffled feathers. No more –

Marc steps inside the room and closes the door, locking it, too. Valentino’s train of thought wanders off-track at two-hundred-seventy-two-degrees. Oh? Watches with rising hunger in his eyes, an ache like a fissure cracking open inside him, as Marc approaches him on Franci’s long, slender legs.

The bed dips when Marc climbs onto it, his knee bumping into the back of Valentino’s waist when he joins him there. Valentino twists his neck, looking over his shoulder, wondering what sneak attack is this when Marc slips his arms around his waist.

He can feel the full press of his – of Marc’s breasts against his back, the ones he decidedly did not take a picture of to share with him. Selfish dickhead.

Feels next the press of Marc’s cheekbone against the wing of his left shoulder blade.

Marc? Says the name a little warily.

I missed you, comes the quiet words in Franci’s voice, and his heart cracks open, a hammer swung through the invisible fissures, crumbling. He lets go of his haphazardly folded shirt to take Marc’s wrist, seized by the sudden, raw urgent need: let me see you.

Marc buries his face deeper next to the column of his spine. No.

You said you missed me, so why don’t you look at me?

A muffled laugh, vibrating along the length of his spine. His nerves tingle with the knowledge of it, Marc’s laugh, so close, burrowing into his flesh.

It’s weird, says Marc quietly, you knowing it’s me. The first time –

You mean the first time you guys swapped?

Yeah. The first time, you came back after you were out the whole day and you said to me, you missed me. You didn’t know it was me, but I’ve waited for so long to hear those words.

Marc’s voice trails off into a sigh, wistful, honest as he never was when it was him, I was happy.

If it’d been Marc in Marc’s body, in his voice, would Valentino’s heart twist like so? Or is it Franci’s voice that is undoing him, knot by knot, syllable on syllable, pebbles stacking on until it’s a boulder crushing his ribcage with the force of it?

Valentino swallows, thickly. Clenches his eyes, grips the wrist in his hand tighter, feeling the beating pulse of it.

Marc, he says, flayed by the honesty, wanting to remember it is Marc, as if that would stop the pain in his chest.

Marc, I want to see you.

Look at me.

Please?

Marc shifts; he can feel the press of a cheekbone, Marc considering as he turns his cheek, and then Valentino is looking down over his shoulder, and Marc peers back with Franci’s dark eyes, searching, cautious.

Her face his shield: Marc does not need the impenetrable mask of blankness like this; and her face is a sword, too, because Valentino could not bear to be cruel to her. Valentino doesn’t think he’d have got such raw honesty from Marc otherwise.

Too alike, they are, sometimes. Their ego. Usually Valentino broods on the fact with rage, but now all he feels is startling recognition.

Marc, he breathes, and the name comes gentler than he’d ever said it in the past decade.

Valentino moves, slowly, telegraphing it, afraid to startle. Pulls himself from Marc’s arms so that he can turn and face him, fully. Marc waits, pensive, but he goes when Valentino takes his hand again, and pulls him into his lap.

Slides a hand over the length of his neck, cupping his jaw, thumb finding the groove under his eye.

Their eyes meet. Then Valentino is tipping his head downward, a bow, a surrendering to the tide of emotions rising from deep within him like a wave, and he wraps his arms around Marc and tumbles them both into the bed.

If he’d boarded the flight from Italy to Spain a muddled mess, there is clarity now untangling the Gordian Knot of emotions: he wants this. Wants her. Wants him.

And Valentino Rossi is not in the business of not getting what he wants.

—

When Valentino wakes, it’s to Marc’s furious expression. Wait. Not Marc. It’s Franci. He catches her wrist before she wrenches away. She’s naked, as he’d fallen asleep still soft inside of her – well, Marc.

Marc is not here.

God, I told Marc a thousand times, Franci complains, if he’s going to have sex with you using my body, he better use protection. Scowls at Valentino. I thought you’d know better. I can’t get pregnant right now.

Valentino feels a flicker of hurt, propping himself up. Franci… don’t go yet. We need to talk.

I need to go to the pharmacy.

Send Marc off to the pharmacy to buy a morning-after pill, Valentino says, but stay. I don’t want us to keep fighting like this.

You never had a problem with holding decade-long grudges.

But that’s with Marc, not you! You’re my – life-partner. He’s just … just… A small fucking bastard. A smear on my legacy. The greatest wound of my life.

The love of your life?

No! It comes out as a pathetic squeak. He clears his throat. NO. Her eyes say they don’t believe him. This is not part of the plan; the script he’d cooked up in his head did not encompass this. Look, forget about Marc for a moment. I wanted to say, I am… He chokes a little on the word because he’s so unused to saying it, Sorry.

For? Franci presses.

Valentino had reread his text chain with Gemma in preparation beforehand throughout the flight here and is ready to paraphrase, For accusing you of cheating.

On baseless evidence, Franci emphasizes.

Some battles you avoid if you can. Right. I got – carried away.

And?

This is why Valentino tries to avoid apologies; it is drawn out and torturous. With their previous fights, none as – perhaps – as serious as this, he’d always managed to put a jocular spin to it. Brought gifts, flowers, funny trinkets that he knew would make her smile. Franci’s expression is foreboding, a far cry from the look of dazed pleasure Marc had worn on it yesterday, when Valentino was fucking him.

Valentino wants him back.

Then guilt kicks him in the chest, a reflexive reaction. Thinking about Marc is not helping. Nausea climbs up his stomach, for him to be here, apologizing about cheating allegations.

Sepang flashes behind every blink of his eyelids.

For not – noticing that it’s not you.

For once, she is not blinking. Did you wish it was him?

Valentino opens his mouth but she cuts across him, the truth, Valentino, please.

I, He blinks, hard, can’t exactly admit, can he, that he wished it was Marc just a handful of seconds ago in this same conversation.

Something in her expression cracks at his obvious hesitation. It’s devastating to see a film of tears creep over her eyes. Tell me what I need to do to make it better, he wants to say. 

What upsets me more than any of this, says Franci, getting to her feet, slipping from Valentino’s grip, is the thought that you don’t even notice what you’re doing.

—

He’d come here trying to salvage his and Franci’s relationship, but apparently he has only managed to upset her even further.

It can’t be sleeping with Marc – in her body – that is the problem. She is sleeping with Gemma. Infidelity is not the problem here. Valentino hasn’t raised a stink about it. So as long as she’s not planning to dump him and run away, which, unfortunately, seems more likely with each passing hour.

And even more unfortunately, the culprit might be the only one who has the answer.

Cornering Gemma, however, requires strategic timing, luck and patience.

It doesn’t help that with the kids here now he’s preoccupied with spending time with them, too.

Eventually the first opportunity surfaces around naptime. Leta insists strongly that she’s not a baby like Gabi and doesn’t need naptime – it is always a battle with her on this topic – but Marc manages to entice her with a game of hide and seek, and tricks her – because he is a cunning bastard who shows no quarters even to toddlers – into thinking her bed is the safest, bestest hiding spot ever. She conks out before Marc ‘finds’ her, peeling the covers back to see her snoring peacefully. Marc readjusts her properly on the bed and tucks her in.

The sight of Marc and Leta is, again, like a knife-twist in the gut; Valentino reminds himself of the long-term strategy here and goes in search of the women who have mysteriously disappeared since the hide-and-seek game with Leta had started.

He knew theoretically before ditching Marc with the girls that the chances of finding the women together were high, which would then involve another round of mental gymnastics to find a way to separate them. Somehow, his mental preparation had not included finding them. Together together.

He hears the sigh of Franci’s voice first, Gemma’s chatter threading round it, and goes in the direction of the bedroom, door ajar and he reaches for the doorknob – but it’s not until a high-pitched moan rips through the air that it clicks.

Oh. A better man would walk away swiftly and come back another time. Valentino has never claimed to be a saint; he leans in for a peek.

Dark hair, tanned skin; it hasn’t dawned on Valentino until then how much resemblance, superficially, Franci and Gemma do share. The shape of Franci’s shoulders is familiar; her back is to him, her dark hair spilling in undulating waves over it, as she rocks into Gemma’s hand, buried deep between her thighs, winding her up, working an endless spill of ah, ah, Gemma, t-there out of her lips.

Holy. Holy. Valentino nearly trips through the gap in the door, bang his head against it. It is a surefire way to get himself beaten to death, surely, and he only just manages to catch himself against the doorframe.

Franci cries out when she comes – Valentino’s skin prickles with heat, he knows what she sounds like when she reaches her climax – and Gemma is laughing, a low, sonorous sound, as she tips Franci onto her back and mounts –

Valentino yanks himself away before she catches sight of him, heart thudding into his ribcage, leaving cracks in the bone, surely.

Yeah, he’s going to need a cold shower for this.

Valentino shuffles along back to his room, discards his clothes on the floor, and pads into the bathroom.

Fuck. His cock is rock-hard. Twenty-year-old Valentino would’ve risked it all, bike and balls, to be sandwiched between those two women, but you don’t live to his age without gaining some measure of caution and self-preservation.

He flips on the shower, bracing himself against the blast of icy water raining upon him, a thousand pinprick of needles that would distract him from the heat pooled in his belly, no easy outlet, not with two people mad at him and one out to get him under the same roof. He curls his fingers around his cock, eyes drifting shut, bowing his head against the pressure of the shower –

Franci sprawled on the bed, her breasts bouncing from the force of Gemma’s manhandling, the spread of her thighs as she lets Gemma in, and Gemma Pinto, dark hair, muscled arms, the curve of her –

Ciao, Valentino – oh, am I interrupting something?

The voice is too amused.

Valentino jolts, eyes flying open, nearly slipping off the wall and cracking his head on the bathroom floor; Marc regards him with no small amount of wicked amusement. His wayward heart flutters at that smile. Traitorous heart.

Tries to sound casual when he says, Don’t you have your own bathroom?

Franci left my meds here, says Marc by way of explanation, but he’s smirking at Valentino from his seat on top of the high horse instead of going straight for the cabinet.

Okay, don’t let me stop you.

Shouldn’t I be the one saying that? Marc jerks his chin in the direction of Valentino’s very obvious hard-on, padding slowly over to the cabinet over the sink, breaking his unrelenting gaze only to retrieve a tiny bottle with pills.

He checks the label like he hasn’t been taking it for years, and pivots on his heels. Enjoy your shower, Valentino.

When Marc’s foot is at the threshold, Valentino’s self-control – pride – crumbles.

Marc, Valentino calls out before he can help himself.

It stops Marc from going, immediately, but though he lingers, he makes no move to do what Valentino wants him to do, even though it should be obvious by the heave of his chest, the wide-shot pupils of his eyes, what he wants from the younger rider.

Those infuriating dark eyes regard him, amused, cruel, almost.

A far cry from the earnest dark eyes of yesterday night and irrational doubt flickers in his chest, lit anew.

I can’t read your mind, Marc tells him, just to be difficult, because he always is difficult, and Valentino hates him for that. Remembers all the hatred suddenly.

Just yesterday, he’d pretty much jumped Valentino. Climbed all over his back, he did, and now he was all chaste and coy?

Valentino bites back a growl. Forget it then. His cock throbs, hard and wanting, but he can deal with it on his own.

Marc’s laugh creeps down his skin even after he’s gone anyway.

Small fucking bastard, thinks Valentino, vicious, but it’s the thought of the Baby Champ who had warranted the nickname in the first place with which he brings himself to completion.

God, if he has a type, it has to be the most difficult people in the world, Franci and Marc both, Valentino grumps.

—

His skin still feels tight, stretched taut over the frenetic energy buzzing through his veins, and he’s heading over to the gym to exorcise the antsy feeling when he runs across Gemma, clad in a bikini and he momentarily forgets where the gym is, his mind wandering back up to the room he’d passed, the women –

Heat flashes through him, but his voice is steady when he says, all casual-like, Going for a swim?

Yes.

Alone? Almost too good to be true.

Franci and Marc are napping with the girls, says Gemma, The girls wore Marc out, and I -   

Wore my wife out, yes, I know.

Gemma’s smile is sly, a hook that embeds in the soft flesh of his stomach, like he is a fish, reeling him in. Ah, so it was you at the door.

You left the door deliberately ajar? There are children in this house, Pinto. Mock-chastisement. It is not something he wouldn’t have done, if he were in the mood. And some twenty years younger maybe.

Gemma smiles, eyes glittering something wicked. You look like you’d bitten on a lemon, old man.

Don’t get too cocky, Valentino tells her, she’s just having a phase. That sounds better than saying, she’ll remember she loves me more, we have two kids! You’re just the hot summer fling. Because that would be petty. And childish. It also doesn’t count as an insult. He’s getting rusty at this. WEC doesn’t hone one’s affinity for bitter rivalries.

Gemma gives him a long, scrolling look. Seems like it.

This. Ugh. Wench. He can’t remember the last time someone has irritated him this much, it’s like talking to Casey Stoner.

She breezes past him, the floral cinnamon fragrance of her perfume trailing in her wake like a banner.

Ciao, Valentino.

Wait, says Valentino, trailing after her, catching the door before it swings shut, I will go with you. I need a breath of fresh air.

You are not worried now about Marc and Franci being alone together?

Valentino thinks she is the bigger worry. Says, they’re not sleeping together, quite confidently.

Gemma hums noncommittally, a smile on her face. She spins around and saunters off, so Valentino takes it as wordless agreement; he slips his sandals on and closes the door behind them, and goes after her.

Gemma’s hair is loose in the wind, a lazy, swirling breeze from the west. Valentino’s gaze traces the tangled loops of the dark strands, remembers taking a meandering stroll with Franci down this very same path to the beach. He’d been in love. He still is, even if it’s getting harder to remember.

At last, the words come together in his chest, when did you notice it wasn’t Marc?

Hmm… Gemma’s lips purse thoughtfully. I think it was when I was dressing up for a dinner, for some influencer event, I don’t recall which, and when I asked Marc which dress looked good for me, and he actually chose right, I knew something was up.

Well, if the name of the game was to keep both partners’ ignorant, Franci would’ve blown it out of the water with that alone. Marc has no fashion sense. Or a semblance of aesthetic taste. Just look at his house.

It still doesn’t seem fair that Valentino is at less of an advantage just because Marc is a better liar than Franci is.

He huffs, that was too easy a tell!

But there are just some things that Marc does that is just – just so Marc, you know?

Valentino presses down a scowl. He knows what Marc things on-track are – swing through the field like a wrecking ball, it-was-an-accident his way out of the stewards’ room, etc. – but he can’t find the will to admit out loud he doesn’t know what Marc’s quirks in a domestic setting are. Envy stabs him in the chest. He thinks of hotel rooms shared all over the world, the careless way Marc would toss his clothes everywhere and jump on Valentino, laughing as he kissed him, limpid eyes eager.

I kept an eye out for it, after, because sometimes there’s this version of Marc that looks at me with eyes like he can’t believe what he’s looking at. And he would hesitate, to reach out for me, or he doesn’t remember inside jokes.

Then, once, he cooked the best damn pasta I’ve ever had – when he can’t even boil rice right – and I figured it just can’t be Marc, but I had no clue other than a concussion causing a split personality.

Valentino hadn’t thought that was a possibility in the slightest.

But if you’re wondering when this all started, it was at the Cannes Film Festival. Marc could’ve got into any of the premieres easy but he doesn’t like those, you know? But then he and Franci swapped, and she didn’t just dress Marc’s body up until he looked like a Greek god reborn – bitterly Valentino wonders if anyone had bothered to take pictures and why they have not been disseminated far and wide such that even he could’ve seen it, peripherally or otherwise. Then the rest of her words catch up to him and he grimaces, sucking in his lower lip to nibble.

Had Franci wanted to go to a Cannes film premiere? Valentino racks his head but can’t recall any instance of her voicing it out. He should’ve paid more attention. He should’ve – oh, wait. That. That was it.

Gemma was still reminiscing, but she showed up with me, we danced, partied, and she kissed me by the river.

Gemma’s sigh is nostalgic, romantic.

But then she apologized and said she wasn’t Marc at all.

And I said, then tell me who you are.

I want to know who is making my heart beat so fast.

Gemma spins around, sandals flopping, smiling. And she told me who she was! And I just couldn’t believe it at first, but then she called Marc, and well, it just sort of went on.

But the Cannes Film Festival was…that’s almost three months ago!

They don’t swap every weekend, says Gemma, shrugging, it feels like almost not much time has passed at all.

They have arrived at the beach. She deposits a bath towel on an empty piece of sand and drops her bag on it. Valentino adjusts his sunglasses and squints through it; Gemma is wearing one of Marc’s hoodies, and she is unzipping it, unveiling a musculature as toned as a sportswoman’s.

Valentino is but a mortal man. He stares, tongue pressed against the side of his cheek because the alternative is to get a fist to the eye for giving in to impulsive thoughts, like licking the hard, defined lines of her abs unsolicited.

Franci had this? Marc had this? Fucking Marc. On the heels of that last thought, Valentino is faced with the unbidden image of her fucking Marc, with a strap-on; Marc, splayed under her, the same flushed-faced pleasure and mouth begging, ahh, harder, please.

Coming? She asks, over her shoulder, brows arching. She slips the sandals off her feet.

Remember she is the enemy, Valentino. A voice that sounds like Uccio’s reminds him. His mouth says, embarrassingly, Ten seconds.

What? I meant if you’re coming into the water.

Oh. That. Then yes, I come now.

Gemma’s laughter is as grating as Marc’s, if not as ugly.

Valentino goes into the water, but he wades lightly, keeping a careful eye out for Gemma. The chances of her trying to drown him and make it look like an accident are remote, but not nil. It is better to be safe than sorry.

He swims a few laps, careful not to wander too far from the shore. Gemma wades over a few moments later, her dark hair trailing behind her like the insidious trail of a rope, a noose.

What’re you doing? Valentino asks her.

Nothing, she says, innocently. Flips water into his face when she dives back and swans away, cackling.

Women. Valentino splutters, wipes seawater out of his eyes, and decides that’s enough swimming for the day. Like most normal humans, he prefers not to swim when there is a shark circling the waters.

He wades back to the shore, dripping water into the sand. He sinks down onto the bath towel, rummages for his sunglasses, and plops it back over his eyes as he flops onto his back.

The sun is a little too glaring for it to. His mind feels hazy, wandering, meandering. He imagines his soul floating over himself, rising over the beach and traveling back to the house, where Marc and Franci are with the girls. They are napping. He wants to curl himself between them, the greatest loves of his life, and probably it is time to concede Marc is included amongst them.

Except that Franci is mad at him. And Marc, too, cannot be said to be at peace with him.

The reminder plunges him back onto the sand, moody once more. The sun is abruptly scorching. His skin prickles, drying under the heat, and – Valentino sits up, itchy with irritation. He wants to go back now, thinking, that maybe he’ll just leave Gemma here on her own.

Pinto? He calls.

He doesn’t see her dark head of hair bobbing along the surface of the water. Pinto?

He waits, because she seemed like a strong swimmer who can hold her breath for more than a few minutes, but when he checks his phone and thinks more than four minutes have passed, he springs to his feet and darts towards the water.

Gemma!

He’s waded in, up to his calves in the water, about to plunge right under into the ocean again when he sees a shimmer of a dark shape in the water, and he dives in that direction. Before he reaches her, Gemma is already surfacing, and she coughs when her head breaks through the water. Valentino reaches her, grabs her arms and pulls.

You were under the water for so long, he says, acerbic, I wasn’t aware this was a hot spot for pearl diving.

Gemma squirms. It wasn’t! I had a cramp.

It doesn’t seem like a lie. Something in his chest unknots a little. He braces her weight against his and helps her to the shore, back to the bath towel. Gemma sits, stretching her legs in front of her.

Which leg is it that cramped?

The right one, she replies, and she stiffens, surprised, when he kneels beside her to take up the right leg, checking it over with a clinical eye before he presses his fingers in, massaging.  

You must not tell the other two you nearly drowned under my watch, Valentino says gravely. He pauses in his ministrations to search for a towel in the bag, pulling it out, unfurling it and draping it over her shoulders. Then goes back to massaging the cramp out of her leg.

Gemma hacks seawater out of her mouth, a hand swiping the hair sticking to her eyes out of them. Under your watch? Jesus, Valentino, when they told me you have a god complex, I thought it was just an exaggeration. These things happen. Cramps happen.

That’s enough swimming for today then, says Valentino, refusing to acknowledge the rest of her sentence. He asks if the feeling has returned to her leg and, after a pause in which she flexes her toes, she nods: he pulls her up. She is lighter than he’d estimated her to be, muscles and all, and she is hardly any taller than Marc, or Franci.

She wraps the towel around her shoulders, slanting a look upwards, and furrows her brows.

You – She stops herself, not finishing the thought. Fine, let’s go back.

Her flip-flops send sand flying as she takes off.

Valentino takes her bag, stuffs the bath towel into it, and goes after her, keeping a close eye on her, and it’s only because he’s on edge, anxious, hyperaware that he notices them first as they leave the beach –

The flash of a camera in the sun in his periphery. Too used to them following to not know it’s a camera, a fan, and he looks.

At the same time, Gemma turns, hand extended towards him, Valentino, can you pass me my bottle? Noticing only then the cameras, and she blinks, surprised.

Valentino is moving before he is thinking about it, reaching for Gemma and pulling her behind him, flagging the nosy passersby and their even nosier phones down. They look ready to scamper away, but think better of it and approach.

Eh, scusi, Valentino pushes his affable smile out, no photos, please. I can do autographs. It is a gracious offer considering their audacity, but there is a mad scramble when they realize they do not have pens, because most people did not plan on meeting Valentino Rossi on the streets of Ibiza, so as a compromise, Valentino agrees to a single photo. No Gemma, of course.

Gemma says, Stand over there, and directs the tourists to flank Valentino, I will take your photo.

And after the tourists have gone, shooting looks behind them still, she says, While I had their phone, I checked their camera gallery – they didn’t manage to take anything incriminating. So relax. Because Valentino is still tense, and it’s leftover irritation from that encounter with Marc in the shower mixed now with this, the reminder that life is lived under the microscopic lens of fans. He barely shakes himself out of it to marvel at the quick-thinking.

Gemma goes on, They are going to realize I’m not Franci, and they will speculate. Probably on Reddit. And TikTok.

They always do, Valentino says, moodily, chatter is easy to overlook, but I don’t want them to put a face to the other woman. They will rally and rip you apart.

There is a pause, noticeable enough that Valentino blinks, does a double-take, and goes, Oh.

Gemma regards him coolly. It’s almost sweet, how thoughtful you are to women.

His throat closes up a little. It’s not about that. It was never about that.

She hums, then, Let’s go get ice-cream.

I don’t have any money on me, says Valentino, more surprised than he’d let on that he is being offered this mercy when the first time they met she had bulldozed over him. Marc took my wallet and didn’t give it back.

I bought spare change.

Down the road, they find a small stand selling ice-cream, chocolate, three scoops, and they split it. Between drips of perspiration in the Ibizan sun and the melting chocolate dripping down their wrists and splattering a small trail on the road they take back to his holiday home, Valentino hears himself say, after that year, eyes on the road, the tarmac, a shade that is not too dissimilar to where Marc had hit the ground in Sepang, a track that had stolen so much more than a championship from him, I am more careful with what I say and show to the media. I don’t want the world to see how my girls look like, not even when they’re grown older because – they’ll find something to say, always.

Valentino, Gemma says around a mouthful of ice-cream, you cannot protect everyone from everything.

But he should’ve been able to. He is Valentino Rossi. If not him, then who?

He is not God, Luca had said once, he is just my older brother. He has shunned, inasmuch as is possible, Valentino’s protection, influence, and meandered his own way at his own pace. He is the only one other than Marc who is like that, but Valentino had made sure Marc paid the price for that arrogance.

Till today, they do not speak of Marc’s name in Mugello without cursing it.

Not for the first time, he feels his heart sinking like a stone through his stomach at the thought. It is difficult to cling onto vindication, when there isn’t the handy picture of Argentina – of Marc running him down – to reach for but in his hazy memories, and those are tainted by the fleeting, deluded impression that Marc had tried to reach back and catch him before he fell.

The road tilts uphill. Gemma pulls her hair back into a ponytail and it sways as she skips up ahead. The sun beats down on them.

Valentino climbs.

—

When they get back, the others have only started to rouse from their nap.

Marc is sitting up on the couch, blanket pooling at his hips. He is blinking, bleary-eyed, but he still smiles, dopily, when he sees Gemma and Valentino entering. Gemma saunters up to him and kisses him, sea-salt on her lips; Valentino watches on, fascinated.

Mm, had a good swim? Marc asks.

She nearly drowned, Valentino reports.

Oh, Marc’s brows knit. What did you do, kick her off the cliff?

Valentino glares at him. Marc cackles like a hyena.

Gemma laughs, too. Valentino doesn’t understand these people. Don’t be silly, she says with an eye-roll, I just had a small leg cramp. But I was close to the shore. I swam back. No harm done.

Marc takes her hand, brushes his lips over her knuckles, tender. Like Valentino isn’t even there, watching them, wondering if that is the extent of Marc’s reaction to someone he loves so much almost did not make it back from the shore.

How shockingly blasé about it when Valentino’s heart still pangs at the thought of her vanishing into the water forever and he barely knows her.

Want to nap with me?

No, I have to shower.

At that, Marc’s eyes glide to Valentino, wicked. Mind if I join?

Gemma tugs him off his feet, come on. The look she throws Valentino over her shoulder is almost curious, but she and Marc disappear down the hall to head to the stairs and Valentino is left alone in the living room, dripping, and abruptly, very cold.

It lingers, even as summer swells outside.

The itch of anxiety only worsens when it darkens. They’d had dinner inside. The girls at least keep him distracted. He takes over bath time and insists he can do it on his own at least until Leta escapes, running down the hall screaming like a banshee, and Gemma had to intercept her, carry her back inside. The look on her face when she looks down at Valentino, who is drenched and mortified, makes him entirely unapologetic when he turns the hose onto her face.

She screams and chucks the towel at his face and Leta laughs.

But the worst thing is after it all falls quiet, night cupping the house in silence. Even though he is exhausted, bone-deep so, he can’t fall asleep. Ah, he should’ve taken his sleeping pills along. Valentino rolls around on the empty bed. He doesn’t even have his Yamaha in his line of sight to comfort him, for him to center his thoughts on, bring him back to the track, falling asleep to the sensation of soaring.

He is alone in the too-large bed. Franci is sleeping elsewhere. He thinks he can hear her laugh, intertwined with Gemma’s and Marc’s, but then even that peters out.

Valentino crawls out of bed eventually when the clock strikes three and the itch crawling under his skin is starting to feel like an eczema attack. He’s got a vague sense where Franci and Gemma are sleeping, but he’s not quite sure where Marc slept. He starts checking the doors along the hall. Marc snores, sometimes, he can follow that, too.

When he finds the room Marc is in, he’s surprised to see he’s sleeping alone. He’s sleeping on his front, shirtless, the corded muscles of his back on display. He had forgotten to turn the nightlamp off before he’d fallen asleep. There are scattered poker cards on the night table.

He crawls into bed behind Marc, slipping his arm over the span of Marc’s back, and huddles close. He runs hot, like a furnace; this, Valentino still remembers from sharing beds in hotel rooms, Marc often falling asleep in his. It was always Marc coming to him, never the other way around.

Marc looks too hatefully peaceful like this.

Valentino digs his nails in. Marc snores. He starts shaking him. Marc, he hisses, Marc.

There’s no way Marc is sleeping through this.

He slips his hand under the waistband of Marc’s sleeping shorts and goes for big guns when Marc finally shakes off the silly pretense of being asleep. Hey, you bastard, Marc reaches down to grasp Valentino by the wrist before he can squeeze his balls, elbowing Valentino in the ribs.

Valentino withdraws his hand from Marc’s shorts but does not relinquish the touch of skin on skin. It grounds him, the contact, not that he will admit it out loud.

Marc wiggles around so that they’re face-to-face. Valentino’s hand lingers on his hip. He is not pushed away. But Marc squints at him through his eyelashes. What? Not exactly amorous, just deadpanned, and annoyed. I’m not going to have sex with you. I’m trying to sleep.

It’s not about that, he licks his lips, but now he’s definitely thinking about it, did Franci say anything to you? Earlier today?

Marc tries to roll away, but Valentino digs his fingers in. This is a question you can ask in the morning.

It is morning. It’s, like, three.

I meant ten in the morning, not three.

Valentino refuses to let Marc go back to sleep. digs his fingers into Marc’s ribs, and even though Marc isn’t that ticklish, he squirms. Stop it, you bastard –

Answer the question, he barks.

God, you’re so annoying, Marc slaps his hand away, If I answer your question would you just leave me alone?

If you’d answered it from the start, I would’ve left you alone five minutes ago, replies Valentino, waspish.

Marc heaves a sigh. She didn’t say much. Just that you gave her a lousy apology, and she gave me the Talk again. No sex without protection, etc. That’s it.

She did not explain why she did not accept the apology?

Marc has the gall to roll eyes. Maybe it’s how you so obviously don’t mean your apology.

What? When have I ever apologized and not meant it?

How would I know? I’ve never heard you apologize to me.

And Valentino’s plan, hitherto, is to go to his grave never apologizing. Hitherto, that is. He’s had some very unpleasant realizations, on the hike up the hill back to the house, and then some rolling around in his bed alone when there are three other people laughing together down the hall.

He is going to die alone at this rate: Franci will take the girls and move into Marc’s concrete crap house. And then she will post those sexy pictures with Gemma on Insta and Marc is going to be jajaja-ing in the background.

Unfortunately, he cannot help himself.

I didn’t kick you off your bike, he says.

Marc’s eyes drift shut, but his brows pull together, like he’s suffering through a tooth extraction. Valentino, don’t make me kick you out of bed.

But why would you be angry? You already got even, didn’t you? You already lost me my tenth.

Marc opens his eyes, and his gaze is hard as tarmac. You lost it on your own, playing your stupid mind games and dragging me into it.

Dragged you – you were the one who didn’t know when to stay out of a fight that isn’t yours!

I was only trying to race!

Oh, yes, and you so only happened to race me. Everyone else was, where? Sitting on the sidelines?

Marc’s jaw clenches, then he rolls away, back to Valentino. His silence rolls over Valentino, oppressive, furious. It is not going to be easier sleeping under this suffocation press than it is in his own room, but lying there, scowling at Marc’s back, he realizes he would rather be here than in his bed alone.

Ten years ago, it hadn’t been the case. If he’d had to see Marc’s face at the height of that rage, he would’ve broken his skull in. He would’ve – had – hurt him.

Marc.

He is just –

The love of your life? Franci had asked, like she knew something he didn’t.

I was losing the championship, Marc’s murmur knifes through the tenseness of the air between them, startling Valentino back to the present, and I was losing you. I thought it was because I wasn’t winning anymore. I only wanted you to –

Look at me, look at me, Valentino had thought, in the stewards’ room and outside it, and Marc was just staring dead-eyed at the table, at the floor: blank and cold, impervious. Look at what you have done to me, he’d wanted to scream.

The greatest wound of his life, bleeding all over the tarmac of Philip Island, the hallway outside the stewards’ room, and even now: the floorboards of this house, splattered onto Franci’s skin, the space between them, tainting everything he’d ever touch. It would be a lie to say he wants it gone, that he wants to suture the wound and make it scar, let it start to fade away because it means letting this, Marc, go.

He can’t.

He’s never been able to.

He hadn’t known if he had wanted – if he could – bridge the insurmountable abyss in the gap between them until this swap started happening. Valentino is still stuck on the ground after Marc has knocked him down in Argentina 2018 and he’s still running, gunning to the finish line Valentino, retired, can’t reach.

Remembers sitting on the ground, the marshals coming to him, his bike prone and battered before him, fury and fear coalescing into poison on the tip of his tongue, watching as Marc leaves beyond his reach.

Now Valentino reaches out as he could not, then, in Sepang, in all of 2015, the chasm a decade creates, resting a tentative palm on the coiled, tense muscles of Marc’s back.

Marc.

And the words, sitting there for the better part of ten years, come, unbidden:

I’m sorry.

Under the palm of his hand, Marc shudders, the wings of his shoulder blades quivering. Fuck you, stop lying. The fuck you’re trying to do?

I’m not – I’m not lying, Marc. I meant it.

Gets up, closes the distance, leaning over Marc when the younger man tries furiously to wipe his tears in the pillowcase. Marc, baby, please. That only gets him a shove, weak as it is, to the chest, and a muffled sob. Fuck. Valentino wants Marc to go back to annoying him, being a bastard, not –

Baby. Valentino used to call him Baby Champ. Dropped the champ at some time and never picked it up again, then he dropped the baby part, too. Then it’s just Marquez.

When Valentino drapes himself, carefully, over Marc’s shaking back, Marc does not recoil again. Furtively he reaches up and turns the nightlamp off so that Marc doesn’t have to suffocate himself to hide his tears. The abrupt plunge into darkness makes Valentino clutch tighter onto Marc, hooking his chin over the curve of his shoulder, finding himself murmuring the same nonsense nothings he uses with the girls when they cry. Slips his arm around Marc’s chest, knuckles pressed close to the frantic beat of his heart, laces loosely with Marc’s hand, holding him through the shuddery breaths.

Presses his lips to the pulse of Marc’s neck, every beat a symphonic proof of his liveliness, here, in Valentino’s arms, safe, almost-whole.

Don’t wake me up again, Marc says, hiccupping, when he’d calmed, and the sobs have passed, like a storm flickering past.

Okay. Good night, baby.

Marc doesn’t kick him out of the bed.

—

Valentino is the last to wake the next day, and his arms are empty.

His heart jolts him to full awareness when he realizes that he’s alone, that there’s no Marc in his arms and the sheets are cold, even if they are rumpled. He gropes the sheets blindly before he rolls up. Noises from downstairs reach him, loud bangs and little shrieks.

When he ventures down the hall, he finds the nursery devoid of his children, and half the occupants of the house are missing. The other half are downstairs, being noisier than a hurricane alert: Marc is playing Mario Kart on the PS4 in the living room, Leta sitting in his lap, screaming Hit it, hit it! with glee. She makes a grab for the controller when it seems like Marc is not complying, and he’s going, Ay, no, no, I’m on a streak!

For a moment, Valentino stops and stares. Marc sounds – fine. Not like he’d unraveled yesterday in Valentino’s arms. Could’ve been a hallucination for all it seems impossible in this idyllic morning.

Marc, faster! Leta wheedles, pinching the skin of his wrist impatiently.

Good morning, Valentino ventures.

Marc’s chin twitches, the only acknowledgement he gives at Valentino’s presence.

Have you – two ate?

Uh-huh, says Marc, and he sounds so casual, like nothing happened at midnight, that Valentino’s stomach clenches with nerves, unsteady again. We’ve had breakfast with Gem and Franci already.

And Gabi?

Gabi out, offers Leta, and Valentino smiles down at her for trying.

They took her out on the stroller, replies Marc distractedly, eyes not moving away from the TV screen. Leta said she wanted to stay with me. At this, he does turn to slant a smug smile at Valentino, who flops onto the couch behind them.

On the screen, his kart zooms over a banana peel and spins. Leta cackles.

Valentino snorts.

When that round ends, Marc reaches over to pick up the second controller tucked under the coffee table and holds it over his shoulder, slanting Valentino a look at is not entirely friendly, Want to play a match?

They have not played, probably since before Valentino retired. 2020, he thinks. Covid-19.

Valentino takes the console, fingers tingling. Like they are curled around the throttle of a bike, about to gun it down the straight into Turn 1.

Marc switches from 1P to 2P, and the screen splits. Leta makes Marc choose Princess Peach. Valentino picks Luigi.

And then for the first time since 2021, they are racing. It’s not – serious, but Marc hunches over the console, the top of Leta’s head, with the focus of a champion hungry for his next championship.

Very quickly Princess Peach on screen charges to P1, Valentino sliding around P6.

Two laps in, Valentino slips on a banana and goes skyrocketing, and Marc cackles. Bastard. Little asshole. He refrains from cursing only because Leta is there, giggling. Last lap, Valentino is not making much better progress, still tailing at P8, and he decides it’s time to change tactics. He leans forward and slings an arm around Marc’s neck, yanking.

Hey! Marc screeches. That’s cheating. Flailing.

Leta, thinking it’s a new game, gets up, standing in Marc’s lap, No, I want hug, too, Papa.

Oh, he’s all yours! Lets Marc, gagging, go now that he’s accomplished what he’s set out for, and quite quickly overtakes a spinning Princess Peach for P4, cruising to a comfortable P3.

Marc finishes P6.

That’s cheating, says Marc, mutinous. One more round.

Banana, Leta says, clambering out of Marc’s lap. Nana.

Nope, mi principessa wants to have a snack. Sweeping Leta off her feet and sauntering towards the kitchen where the fruit bowl is, he smirks into the top of her burnished curls as Marc complains, loudly, about losing.

Valentino grins.

It has been such a long time since he had fun competing against Marc in something. The last – God, the last, was it that charity karting thing they’d done? The one before he’d invited Marc over to the ranch, where Marc’d had the same huffing pout, too, when he’d lost; even with his crew and enhanced bike, he hadn’t been able to beat Valentino in the race.

As he sets Leta down in her highchair and peels a banana, he reexamines the memory, and for the first time, the memory does not surface from the depths of his mind drenched in old rage and bitterness, like vinegar.

Leta leans over to snatch up the discarded banana peel when he is slicing the banana into pieces, yanking him from the memory.

Leta tosses it on the floor, giggling, Mario! Marc!

Marc, Valentino calls, she’s calling for you.

It takes only a few seconds for Marc to materialize in the doorway, and he is smiling, warm and fond. Leta giggles in anticipation. Valentino jerks his head at the banana peel.

And it’s like no time has passed at all, the way Marc understands at once what Valentino is getting to, the invitation to be in on a joke, because he mimes taking a giant step over the banana peel and slipping, flailing his arms dramatically when he goes down.

And Marc is laughing already when he falls, Leta’s laugh threading through with his.

Light spills into Valentino’s home.

—

The last day of their Ibizan summer, they set off fireworks near the swimming pool.

They have to be extra mindful of Leta because she’s taken up the habit of tossing things onto the floor to see if people will spin out like karts do in Mario Kart. Marc had explained the joke later to Franci and Gemma.

Careful, Leta, no throwing it around, okay? Marc cups Leta’s tiny hands over the sparkler, holding steady when he sees the mischief glinting in her blue eyes.

Valentino’s gaze shifts only when he sees Franci unfurling herself from their side, trusting Marc to watch over the rambunctious toddler. She turns her eyes upon him and he feels himself swallow nervously, Adam’s throat bobbing as she approaches where he lounges – watching from the pool on her pink float is Gemma, narrow-eyed caution when she regards Valentino – and says, budge over, to Valentino as he wiggles around to make space for her on the deck chair.

She sits next to him. Wordlessly, casually, Valentino slips an arm around Franci’s waist, the slender scoop of it, and pulls her tight into his side, feels the press of her full breasts against his ribcage.

Franci tips her head sideways, resting her ear over Valentino’s heart, which suffuses with what feels like light to have her here, closest as he can be to content.

Water splashes. Fireworks crackle. Laughter, chatter, a mix of Italian and Spanish, a little Catalan because Marc is trying to teach the girls that. Valentino’s breathing melds into Franci’s, quiet, in perfect rhythm. Somewhere, crickets are chirping to welcome the evening.

Valentino’s fingers stroke lazy circles the underside of Franci’s top. Waits.

I think, murmurs Franci, voice low, Gemma and Marc have got this covered.

You mean…

I’m ready to talk now.

The others don’t notice when they slip away, or if they do, they do not call them back.

Chapter Text

You’re a weak, weak man, Marc Marquez.

Marc squirms under her scrutiny. I –

One lousy apology and you caved like a blade of grass. No, a wet biscuit. Gemma rolls her eyes, tutting, Leta has more spine than you. She’d always known Marc would take Valentino back the moment the latter shows even a shred of genuine remorse, so she isn’t too put out but she does have to roll her eyes at the predictability of it all.

And call Alex and let him shout at his older brother.

Yeah, shouts Alex, his voice tinny through the speaker, you fucking loser. Dumbass. Pathetic.

Ganging up on me like this is not fair, Marc complains.

Alex crinkles his nose, pixelated face through the screen of the phone; the spotty Internet connection makes his face glitch briefly. He says, Ugh. I thought this trip was to make Franci leave him.

No, says Marc, think about the girls, Alex. This trip is meant to be good for them.

Alex makes a disgusted noise, yeah, and you, too, apparently? What the fuck do you mean he apologized and you were okay with it?

He apologized, Alex.

It doesn’t mean anything to me, Alex retorts, unless he goes on TV and admit he was talking out of his ass all those years ago about you conspiring with Jorge.

We – I’m not going to ask him to do that. I don’t care about that. It’s ten years ago.

And the calling you the most dangerous rider bit, Alex reminds him, over the renewed barking of his dogs demanding breakfast in the background, about ruining the sport. Make him take it back.

Gemma isn’t paying too much attention to the brothers’ bickering. She rolls off Marc’s abs, propping herself up her elbow. How do you think the conversation went?

They’d noticed, eventually, that Franci and Valentino were no longer at the poolside last night. They’d put the girls to bed. Marc read them bedtime stories. Gemma spent her time trying to see through walls and develop supersonic hearing and did not stop until Leta asked if Gemma was okay, her face was being funny. I’m fine, sweetie.

No shouting, no tears, I think good, says Marc, breaking away briefly from Alex to reply. His hand is tangled in the sprawling dark of her hair.

Gemma bites her lower lip. Marc doesn’t seem too worried. She wonders where he’s getting this much self-assurance from. From seeing the impossible – Valentino Rossi apologizing – happen?

Or, says Alex ominously, he’s had an aneurysm when she told him she was leaving him forever and he’s –

Marc interrupts him, don’t you have to feed Stich and Shira? They’re barking like mad over there. Oh, wait, Leta wants to say hello to them. I promised her yesterday she could see them today.

She can if she comes back with you to Madrid, offers Alex generously.

Stop trying to be a homewrecker.

He did it to himself, says Alex.

Marc shakes his head. Gently nudges Gemma aside as he slides out of bed. I’ll go get the girls, he says. Can you – ? he makes a vague gesture with the hand not holding his phone. Alex has probably made him nervous enough to want to check up on the other two now. And she agrees.

Outside the room, they split; Marc heads right to the nursery, Gemma strikes off to the room she’d claimed for herself and Franci the first day they got to the Ibiza villa.

You didn’t come back to bed last night, ventures Gemma, leaning against the doorway. She’d gotten too restless, sleeping alone. Went to find Marc, half-expecting Valentino there, but no, her boyfriend was alone and twitchy, too. Rather than fret alone, they played a word game and Gemma had fallen asleep first; she'd waken pillowed on his chest and she had clung to him for a long while before she called Alex and set him on his brother.

Franci blinks, long lashes tangling, a wan, faint smile on her face when she turns to look at Gemma. She does not appear overtly tragic or tired. Gemma waits, heartbeat ticking in her pulse.

We spoke, she says.

Gemma thumbs at a peeling of skin on her index finger, nervous. And then?

Franci pats the spot on the bed next to her, an invitation, and it is a relief to be reeled in like this; Gemma goes clambering onto the bed, leans into her, arms coming up and around her. Inhales the apple blossom of her shampoo, as Franci murmurs, into the top of her head, and I think I’d like to spend more time away from the house.

Oh.

Really? So you’d come back with me and Marc to Madrid? It is almost too good to be true, the exact outcome Gemma had, selfishly, hoped for.

For now, Franci concedes, I have work. I will stay then, I have to fly out.

And the girls?

Vale says I deserve a break, a laugh that is almost incredulous slips from Franci, and it’s a rope-length thing, looping, well, all those things just pour out. The things that seemed small at first, him traveling so much, on top of the big one like what he and Uccio did – the lack of trust – we talked about it, and I wonder where all the trust went on my part, too. When he said he could take the girls – she inhales, sharp – I didn’t believe he could handle the both of them alone.

Gemma’s grip tightens, but Franci seems to read what she feels in that gesture alone. Reaching up, clasping her chin, lifting it the slightest so their eyes meet.

You don’t have to feel bad.

I … Gemma wavers. I worried if I’d made it worse. Deep down, she knows she’d been brash.

When she’d borrowed Marc’s Audi and drove off to the airport and came back with Franci and the girls, he’d woken from his nap, perplexed, then astounded by her recklessness especially after he learned that Vale had only been left the courtesy of a note.

You shouldn’t have done that, Marc had said, later, quiet with reproval.

I couldn’t have left her there alone, Marc! She was miserable!

They would’ve worked things out without your – our – interference, Marc bit back, it’s just how Valentino deals with things. He sulks for days then he will make amends.

He sulked for years and never made amends with you.

But that’s because he hates me, Marc argued back, his exasperation with Gemma overpowering the age-old hurt, he wouldn’t, not with Franci. Marc ran his hand through his hair and might’ve said more if Leta did not start to call for him, Marc-Marc!

Marc puffed a breath, well, what’s done is done. Guess we’ll just have to see what comes out of this. Do not be surprised if Valentino starts a smear campaign against us. Vogue’s Worst Couple of the year or something stupid.

There isn’t such a category, she said, but relieved too because he wasn’t mad at her.

And now Franci, too. Something in her unknotted, at last. I only want, Gemma begins, bites her lip, I only want you to be happy. Happier.

Gemma, I will be, thank you – for – for coming to pick me up at the airport. And everything. Franci presses her lips to hers, and Gemma sighs into it, I needed the push to get on the plane. The distance helped.

You still want to work things out with him.

We are working things out already, I … it just takes time. I want to remember.

Remember?

Who it was I fell in love with, and I think he needs the time – and space – to differentiate between us, too.

—

In the end, they decide to divide and conquer.

Marc needs to go to work, too; there’s a Ducati test in Balaton Park. Valentino mutters something about a private jet. They take Gabi with them, and Leta opts to stick to Franci and Gemma, convinced easily by a girls’ only trip and waves her dad and Marc and her sister goodbye cheerily.

Watching as Marc and Valentino get into the same car rental, she supposes Franci isn’t the only one Valentino is still in the process of making amends with.

She wonders when the dust settles where it will leave her.

—

Valentino: How is Franci?

Good! So, so good

She’s getting Vitamin G everyday

Which was lacking in Tavullia

Valentino is typing…

Valentino: Be smug while you can Pinto

Valentino: I will win her back you know

Valentino: I am Valentino Rossi

But you are bald now

I have great hair

Valentino: I’ll have you know I look good bald. I have rocked that look before you were even born

Most people don’t put ‘old’ and ‘decrepit’ in their Tinder dating profile

It’s not a flex

Valentino:

[sent an attachment]

[sent an attachment]

[sent an attachment]

Valentino: You see?

Valentino: You are speechless now, I know

Valentino: I was a catch

You are typing…

What are you smiling so manically about?

Gemma yelps, surprised, and drops her phone flat on her face. Ow. Marc sniggers. Asshole.

She sits up, unslinging her legs from the couch, smiling innocently. Just a random reel on TikTok.

Marc’s brows climb. Okayyyy, he drags the word out, disbelieving, Get up then, we want to get to Austria sometime this week, you know?

Mmhmm. She continues to lounge on the couch while Marc crouches down to help Leta into her little shoes, typing, we’re on our way to Austria.

You’re not on TikTok, says Marc accusingly, you’re texting someone.

Gemma hops to her feet, clutching her phone to her chest, screen turned inward. Don’t peek.

I wasn’t. I could hear your nails clicking.

Marc is crouching over Leta, tying a neat little ribbon of her slippers. He mimes claws, she has such long nails, he tells the little girl, and she is giggling already seeing the exaggerated snarl of his mouth, like Maleficient. Or a tigress. He mimes chomping down on Leta’s head and she shrieks with laughter, his claws turning into tickle attacks.

When Leta squeals her name for help, Gemma gets up and kicks Marc’s butt out the door.

We’re supposed to be on our way ten minutes ago. Alex will leave without us.

—

Marc: hey we’ve arrived at the ring

Marc: want to bike the track tomorrow morning? @Vale

Valentino: In public?

Marc: there’s a private track at the ring?

Valentino: Don’t be an asshole

Marc: If anyone looks over and see us within ten feet of one another, we tell them to close their eyes, okay?

Marc: Of course in public

@Franci you’re here already?

Franci: not for another two hours! I went out after the event was over. Still a little hungover

Lol I saw the pictures

Someone definitely enjoyed herself

I can’t wait to see you baby <3

Franci: soon love

Franci: Gabi is with Steffi for this weekend. how is Leta?

Marc: [sent a picture] Leta slept though the whole flight! <3

The receipts are turning blue. Valentino is reading it all but he is not responding swiftly.

Marc: @Vale? Bike tmr?

Valentino: I think not. I will watch Leta. I’ve missed her

She waits, but nothing else is forthcoming from Valentino. This man. Honestly. She exits the group chat to go to the one with him.

Valentino what are you doing??

Valentino: [sent a picture]

Valentino: I’d invite you over but you have no taste

Jerking off in your old age is the only way you’re getting off

If you don’t up your game

Valentino: What are you talking about?

FRANCI

I thought you wanted to win her back?

Tell her you miss her

She will be sad that you did not say you miss her too

Valentino: I do miss her

Valentino: A lot

Valentino: But I do not want to pressure her

Valentino: She says she needs space

Valentino: I am giving it aplenty

Valentino: Besides why are you being so helpful?

Because I happen to love Franci and I want her to be happy

And somehow you make her AND Marc happy in their lives than without

So I try

Though you are making me feel like I’m wasting my breath

Valentino: Calm down, woman

Valentino: I am replying

Valentino: and I do not need your help

Valentino: I can win my own wife back without help from the enemy

In the group chat, Valentino finally sends, three minutes late, @Franci I missed you too

Though it is Marc who ends up answering: did gemma tell you to say that? jajajaja

Valentino: Tell marc to shut up for the love of god

Valentino: I know he is right there next to you

What happened to not needing help from the enemy? :p

Gemma throws her head back, groaning, and Marc is giggling jejeje on the other side of the bed.

Shut up, she tells him, Leta is sleeping.

Marc casts his phone aside, rolling towards her, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her close to cuddle. It is rare that he is the larger spoon. Gemma shifts a little onto her side, readjusting herself to be comfortable in his arms. His heartbeat thumps reassuringly on her back. She feels sleepy already. The texts on her screen blur together.

His eyes linger on the screen of her phone.

So it was Vale you were texting all throughout the day, he murmurs, breath tickling the side of her neck. There is no judgement, only amusement in his voice. Is he asking you which branded handbag Franci prefers?

He’s getting there, I think.

Marc’s laugh is quiet against the back of her neck.

—

Valentino: Stop torturing poor Pecco

I didn’t even DO anything to him

I wished him luck

I even smiled at him

Valentino: Hah

Valentino: Please, you were feeling up my wife in front of his eyes

Valentino: Grabbing her by her boobs from behind while she was talking to Pecco

Valentino: Have some couth

He dropped his tumbler

It was sooo funny

Valentino: Don’t think I can’t see through your paltry attempts at mind games

Valentino: Just because Pecco is good at this track and Marc is not

Valentino: And you want to give Marc even the slightest bit of an edge

Hmph

I suppose with all your conspiracy theories you’ll end up right one of these times

But if you want to help Pecco

You should spend it advising him, no?

Valentino: Pecco has outgrown the need for my constant hovering

Valentino: He is a world champion in his own right

Besides he cannot do what you advise him to do

That is what Marc tells me

Valentino: Well he is not me

I’m going to show this to Pecco

His mentor has no faith in him </3

Gemma doesn’t look up but she can feel the heat of his attention swinging over to her.

Valentino is typing…

Gemma?

She looks up – Carola is standing in front of her. I was going to grab a coffee at the hospitality, she says, tucking her hands into her red Ducati sweater, you want to come with?

Over Carola’s shoulder, Valentino, who is leaning against the wall, glances over. His eyes are veiled behind his sunglasses. He looks back at his phone and types. Gemma’s phone buzzes.

Valentino: If you are going to the Ducati hospitality, get me cappuccino

Valentino: They have the best. Everyone else’s is just meh

Where’s your usual gopher

Uccio Salucci

Gemma, calls Carola, from the mouth of the garage.

Yes, yes, I’m coming! She gets up and goes after Pecco’s sister, typing as she goes, which is rude, she knows, but Valentino just so happens to drop a very interesting tidbit:

Valentino: He is not speaking to me

Oh no! Not another breakup

Such a huge shame

Does Marc know

Valentino: Of course

Valentino: It is 100% Marc’s fault

Valentino: He walked in on us and has not been speaking to me since

Gemma snorts. Marc had failed to mention that when he came back from Misano. After Ibiza, Marc had gone to Balaton Park, test out the newest track – he is not a fan – and from there to Misano, where Valentino had booked the track for himself and the Academy riders. Press releases of that event were carefully curated to exclude Marc. Private photos taken on Valentino’s phone had been shared in the group chat; the bewildered looks were priceless. Even Franci had laughed.

Gemma, says Carola, and her attention wanders back up to her friend. She pockets her phone with a guilty smile.

Sorry, I was just –

Texting Valentino? Carola’s brows crease.

Gemma’s smile smoothens. Oh, that would be a very unusual person for me to be texting.

Many things have been unusual of late, she says, Pecco told me that Marc rode with them in Misano.

He did.

And Franci and the girls were living with you. And Marc.

She shrugs, easily. What can I say? We are all friends now.

Carola regards her with a gorgeously obliquely arched brow. She puts up with no nonsense at all, this woman, and once a few times before she has made Gemma’s knees feel weak. She is objectively hot, just Gemma’s type of women, with the Mediterranean tan and lustrous dark hair and plush lips, but she does not roll with jokes and insouciance as easily as Franci does. She supposes with Valentino as a partner, one must’ve been able to appreciate whimsy in the first place – the Bagnaias are good folks, but not the most playful.

Would she still sleep with Carola if given half a chance?

Before Franci, yes. Now, no. Their bed is large, but not so large they can accommodate more than four. And Marc would never have laid a finger on Pecco’s sister, not even for an advantage. She can imagine his smugness when he says, I wouldn’t even need to go that far. All I have to do is ride better than him. Valentino though, she thinks, will probably sleep with a competitor’s sister just to fuck with the rider. He is a bag of dicks like that.

She catches herself before she smiles at the thought.

Valentino is a dick, she reminds herself that, pressing down the corners of her mouth. She should not smile about that.

Things have been strange, Carola says, Pecco is worried.

He shouldn’t be, says Gemma, we are doing fine. Everyone is getting along.

I don’t see Franci here.

She’s coming, today – later today, I mean.

It is another thing Carola thinks is unusual, the fact that Gemma knows Franci’s schedule.

Like I told you, we are friends now, repeats Gemma, gently.

Friends, echoes Carola dubiously, is that what they call it nowadays?

Gemma shrugs. She is not as good as Franci at deflecting or Marc smiling creepily at you until you submit. She changes the subject, hooking her arm through Carola’s, So, coffee! and tows her on the way.

The truth is, friends as a word does not even begin to cover their relationship.

Later, because Marc is not the only annoying shit in the relationship, she makes a point of bringing Valentino coffee if only to see Carola’s jaw drop.

It is funny to tease the Bagnaia siblings.

—

The coffee is finished, the mug is sitting empty on Pecco’s side of the garage, and Valentino has wandered off once to check on Marco Bezzechi, and at the same time, Casey Stoner swings by the garage to meet Marc.

Gemma takes a picture and sends it off to Valentino.

Valentino: why are they embracing

Marc has a thing for blonde guys

And Casey Stoner still has all his hair

Valentino: that whore

Casey is now whispering in Marc’s ears

Valentino: Stop lying

[attached picture]

Valentino: I’m on my way back

Gem, calls Marc just then, waving her over, come meet Casey and his family! And she tucks her phone into her pocket and goes, all smiles.

She’d always been sort of ambivalent about kids. She’s good with them in general, and Casey’s daughter is sweet and polite, but she’s surprised by the abrupt flicker of missing someone – Leta and Gabi – even though Leta is just a garage down, with Franci and Migno in the VR46 garage.

If she walks over there though, she might as well have just unleashed a nuke onto the circuit. As she mulls over doing so, Valentino comes jogging into the Ducati garage, calling out, Stoner!

A Dorna cameraman trying to be sly and sneaky trails after him, hefting his equipment like a bazooka.

Casey and Valentino have long-since buried the hatchet, and Casey’s attention diverts briefly from Marc to say, Ah, Valentino, and hold out his hand, going for a handshake. Valentino is all smiles, ciao, ciao, as he greets Casey, pulling him into a one-armed hug, then – without acknowledging Marc at all – starts towing the Australian ex-rider away.

Casey’s wife and daughter watch with the same unabashed curiosity as every living person in the garage.

I was talking to Marc, says Casey, digging his heels in a little.

You can speak later, we have more important things to be discussing, says Valentino, deliberately loud, we need to organize a second outing at the ranch soon.

Casey shoots Marc a look that is almost pitying and finally lets Valentino haul him away, his wife and daughter following with awkward goodbyes in their direction. They probably feel very bad for Marc.

Even the mechanics from Pecco’s side of the garage are pausing to shoot Marc looks.

Marc’s lips twitch, manic, trying hard not to burst into a laugh.

Gemma sidles over to him. She knows not to distract him when he works, but she gives him a quick squeeze, a hug, just a reassurance, even though they both know Valentino is just pretending. What they share is so new, so complicated, so wonderful that they all want to keep it under wraps still.

I like Casey, Gemma says to Marc, he’s nice.

If his wife and daughter weren’t here, says Marc, I think he would’ve stuck around to make Valentino invite me to the ranch. He is not that nice.

—

Casey doesn’t come over to the Ducati garage again. Word is he’s hanging around Aprilia now, with Bezzechi. Gemma doesn’t know the story behind that.

Valentino takes to flitting between his own VR46 garage next door and Ducati’s. Since he hasn’t done anything but ignore Marc, Marc’s side of the garage has also taken to ignoring him though the camera crew parked permanently outside the Ducati garage seems to be salivating for a fistfight.

They do not get their wish of anything interesting happening until free practice.

Marc crashes out, and – and Gemma’s used to it, watching it happen on track or hundreds of miles away, knowing that he’d do as he promised, get up as quickly as possible to show he was okay.

Except.

He doesn’t get up.

It’s odd, says someone furtively, a hushed fear draped over the garage because Marc has never not get up immediately like this, it looks like Marc just passed out?

Someone is already murmuring about underlying health condition and medical checkups, but Gemma shoots to her feet so quickly Carola shoots her a bewildered look, jumping a little.

Marc, she thinks.

Valentino, she calls, and the alarm in her voice is sharp enough he whips away from the screen; he is pasty-faced, stiff-jawed, any instinctual reaction repressed but one look in her face and he understands at once, tension unraveling.

Oh, fuck, he breathes out, horrified.

They’d swapped: for the first time, it had happened when Marc was on the bike. Then Valentino is running out of the Ducati garage, and she is fast on his heels, ignoring the cries of confusion they are leaving in their wake.

Valentino grabs his bike from the garage next door, clambering onto it, and turns to look at her, eyes wide: Hurry, he says, and she mounts herself right behind him, bracing herself on his shoulder. You take the helmet. There is only one. And guns it down into the track once she’s hastily slapped it on and buckled it.

The marshals are already at Marc’s side – no, Franci’s. She knows it’s not Marc even through the helmet and the leathers because the way the figure in Ducati red is getting up is slow, stilted, stunned. It is only free practice. Marc would’ve hopped up, ready to get going again, fearless.

Franci would’ve been scared. The way Gemma would’ve been scared to pass out and go crashing out like that.

Her phone is ringing in her pocket. Marc calling, frantic. She doesn’t pick it up yet.

Franci! Valentino calls, heedless of the marshals that might hear, thinking he’d have lost his mind.

Gemma dismounts, and he does so, fluidly, and they run towards Franci. At the sight of them, Franci stirs, more responsive than when the marshals were hovering over her. Valentino gestures for the marshals to take the bike away, then reaches down to help Franci up.

Gemma reaches for her visor, flipping it up. Marc’s wide, startled eyes gaze back at her, mute with shock. Tears creep into the corner of Franci’s eyes. Gemma’s chest throbs. She leans forward, pressing her forehead to the glass of the visor, murmuring in a mix of Italian and Spanish, it’s okay, we’re here, you’re safe, cara –

We need to get moving, says Valentino, interrupting, a hand on her shoulder, another on Franci's, we are too exposed here and – the crash did not look too serious, but it’s best we get you to the medical tent, eh?

Franci glances at him, and the film of tears in Marc’s eyes must’ve hurt him as bad as it’d hurt Gemma. His arm lifts, a compulsive jerk, like he wants to wrench Franci into a hug and not let go, but he is also conscious of all the cameras train upon them. He settles for gripping her shoulder, come on, get on and I’ll give you a ride to the medical tent.

Franci draws a shaky breath, nods. Okay.

Lets Gemma draw the visor back down over her face, take her hand and guide her to the bike. They mount: Valentino directing Gemma to sit in the middle, and asks Franci to hold on tight to Gemma.

Franci clutches her hard enough to bruise her ribs, chin resting on her shoulder. Her hair flutters back, weaving around Marc’s helmet.

They make for quite a sigh zipping through the road, past the pitlane and to the medical center where cameras and nosy journalists are already positioned. Gemma glances at them warily but then Valentino is blocking her view, ushering them all in.

Inside, Marc is already there, pacing, the bracelets Franci usually wears clicking when he spins around to start another round. He whips around, eyes going wide, Franci!

He runs towards them, but skids to a halt an arm’s reach away, consternation clear: he doesn’t know what to do. Valentino takes his arm and maneuvers him out of the way and Gemma smoothly guides Franci onto one of the beds.

The doctors, at least, are professional, not questioning why Valentino and his partner are here with Marc and his girlfriend. They do not even kick Valentino out even though surely this is not normal procedure and they are overcrowding the space; such, Gemma thinks, is the power of being Valentino Rossi on the grid.

She’s never crashed before, mutters Marc, fluttering around, restless because he is not out there flying around on the track, and concern hounding his heels. Gemma, leaning against the wall, hands laced behind her, marvels at how much energy he’s able to evince from Franci’s body – he has also forgotten to wear a bra, so he can see the trace of Franci’s tits, which is distracting enough her worry diverts, briefly.

She glances at the curtains, drawn shut, as the examiner checks Marc’s body over.

Out here, Marc is still ranting, My body is used to it, but the mind –

Darling, interrupts Valentino at last, you are not going to be able to make it to Q2, much less Q1. Unless you swap back today, you are not racing.

This at last stops Marc in his manic pacing.

He whips around to glare in Valentino’s direction. He is slouched, arms crossed in front of his chest, frowning.

You don’t know what, says Marc.

I don’t, agrees Valentino, that is why I said that.

Marc’s lower lip quivers, stubborn.

Valentino uncrosses his arms, opens them. With a muffled whine, Marc sinks into them, the concaveness of his chest. Fuck, I can’t believe this happened on a race weekend, Marc groans, it’s never happened before – never.

Valentino doesn’t say anything more, but he cards his fingers through Marc’s long, sweeping hair, lingering in his scalp, calming. Gentling him.

Gemma’s heart is a tense muscle, gripped by – something. She cannot put a finger on it right away.

The curtains swish, the medical officer attending to Marc comes out. Like they’d expected, there isn’t any permanent damage, only some bruising which is expected and normal. Technically Franci is free to go.

When Valentino peeks in, tears spring to Marc’s eyes, Franci’s psychological response pushing through the body, and when a small whimper escapes, a name goes with it: Vale, and Valentino twitches, surging towards her, enveloping her into an embrace so tight. He puts his mouth to her ear, murmuring something in Italian too fast and too low for Gemma to catch from where she stands.

Watching them, she feels the strange, off-balanced sensation as when she’d seen Valentino embrace Marc and comfort him through the potentiality of sitting out this race weekend because of the swap.

Someone makes a very startled noise, tearing her out of her contemplation. They whirl around to find the medical officer gawking at them.

Some privacy, please, says Gemma shortly, and yanks the curtains shut.

Marc says, well, so much for keeping things under wrap.

They’ll gossip? Even though they’re doctors, she meant.

They’re Italians, says Marc, dryly. And Valentino is their favorite topic.

Rumors are already spreading like wildfire. Marc has Franci’s phone and he opens it to go through Instagram; they’ve retreated back outside the confines of the curtains to let Valentino and Franci have a private moment together, Gemma following Marc’s cue.

MotoGP’s official channel has already gone wild; there are many, many angles of the same shot, Valentino and Gemma on the same scooter, riding to Marc’s rescue. Valentino pulling Marc up from the gravel. Reconciliation gets said so many times it is starting to lose all meaning before her eyes.

Gemma leans over to peer down at Franci’s phone.

Marc, being a dick, starts liking the posts.

She pinches his arm warningly.

What? It’s not my account, he says, then goes on to follow his own account using Franci’s. Eagle-eyed, stalkerish fans with the sixth sense of vultures will soon swoop over it and capitalize. Reddit threads will spawn with their multitude of theories, often unhinged.

The curtain swishes; Valentino reappears, his sneakers squeaking against the floor of the medical center.

My body, says Marc, I mean, Franci’s okay?

You can go see her, Valentino waves Marc in, she wants her phone back. Marc flashes Franci’s phone screen – with the posts – at Valentino who squints at it, sighs, and pinches his brow.

Yeah, says Marc, and goes on inside.

Gemma gets up, about to follow – but Valentino brushes his fingers fleetingly over her shoulder, you might not want to go around alone for a while, in the paddock. They will mob you to ask questions. The look in his eyes might be concerned. She is surprised to recognize that in him, for her.

Can you blame them? This is big news, to them, She shakes her head, They won’t back off so easily. When I peeked through the windows just now, there are camped out there like artillery men with their cameras.

It is a little unnerving. She works in front of cameras, too, but in the austere, confined spaces of studios, not out in the open like this, a battlefield of sorts.

Valentino twists his mouth, thoughtful. He is not pleased by the attention but he is used to navigating it.

There is a backdoor. When Franci is ready to go, you guys sneak out through there. I will go out and draw the fire.

You will explain about the – swap?

Of course not! People will think we’ve lost our minds. Valentino rubs his chin, but I have a plan. I will distract them.

Is this plan going to be as good as Sepang 2015’s press conference plan?

Valentino glares at her, and suddenly the off-kilter feeling is gone. She has managed to annoy him yet again; equilibrium has been restored. Hurrah!

No, but that’s plan B. I will tell them we are sleeping together, Valentino grins, waggling his brows, if only to see her face scrunch, which does, but not in reflexive disgust as it is to find herself unbalanced once more, a swooping sensation in her belly like she’d taken flight. The joke is – it’s not bad, it’s crude, a typical Valentino joke, funny only because he is charming in his delivery.

Before she can respond, a gasp pops through the space; they whip around to find a medical officer holding a clipboard up to her mouth to cover her surprise.

That’s a joke, Valentino tells the medical officer with a smile that is so forceful it’s painful.

Gemma snorts.

Chapter Text

In the end, Valentino’s idea of distraction is almost mundane.

He has decided to change his mind and will, in fact, ride out tomorrow in the parade of legends before the actual race. This decision gives neither thought nor consideration to Yamaha for having to scramble last minute to get everything ready for his shock appearance: what Valentino Rossi wants to happen, they will simply have to find a way to make happen.

The thought of Valentino riding again on track drives the journalists enough into a frenzy that the topic of Valentino and Marc are momentarily buried under the questions about riding again, and – when Gemma rewatches the brief interview that took place outside the medical tent, she’s impressed by how skillfully, subtly – he weaves in the names of the other legends riding in the same parade, Dani Pedrosa and Casey Stoner, and from there, reels them back to the past to talk about his rivalries with them.

They are hungry for Valentino, Gemma realizes, with startling recognition. Like beasts, like –

I really am fine, you know, says Franci, and her voice makes Gemma look up from the phone, muting it.

Leta is balanced on Franci’s knee, dodging a slice of apple Marc is trying to feed her. Franci holds her by the waist when she wobbles.

You two do not need to hover like this, Franci goes on. I have mostly got over the shock. She grimaces, I can never understand how your brains are wired, to be risking this every weekend.

When you start them young, Marc muses, a little jokingly, but his gaze lingers on Leta consideringly.

Don’t, Franci warns, Vale will kill you.

He took her riding. I saw the photos.

It’s not the same, dismisses Franci. And you know it.

Marc waves the apple slice in front of Leta. She swats at his hand, catching his little finger. Marc feigns a gasp of shock, clutching his hand.

Hey, what did I say about hitting people, reprimands Franci sternly. Leta stills, then, slyly, Marc-Marc, you want apple?

They burst out laughing.

Gemma’s phone buzzes with a message. She checks it.

Valentino: Where are you guys?

Marc’s motorhome

When Valentino joins them, seemingly having dodged an entire battalion, he is sweaty and he’s panting. Papa! squeals Leta, sliding off Franci’s lap and dashing to him; he swings her off the ground and onto his hip, holding her securely at his side, easy as anything. Leta tries to shove the slice of apple into his mouth. Caught off-guard, he takes it, chewing, and Leta giggles, triumphant.

I was trying to get her to eat that, says Marc, giving up, putting the bowl down and plopping onto the couch. He leans carelessly into Franci’s side.

Franci has changed out of Marc’s leathers, which hangs now on the wall of the motorhome. Gemma hasn’t missed how Marc’s gaze keeps gravitating to it, increasingly manic. Valentino will kill him for real if he tries to sneak out in Franci’s body all suited-up – though it’s unlikely his team will have failed to notice it’s not Marc’s body pulling up to ride on Sunday.

Ah, Leta, you should eat your apples, says Valentino. They are good for you.

Leta says, No.

Goodness, such stubbornness, Valentino quips, tickling her until she kicks and shrieks to be let down, wiggling so hard she’s almost upside down in his grip; he grapples her squirming body as he comes over to the couch, depositing her in Marc’s lap where she squirms upright immediately. Where did it come from?

Don’t blame yourself, says Marc sweetly, and Gemma and Franci laugh.

Valentino leers at him. Looks around. Marc’s motorhome has two couches; the three of them are piled on one, Leta crawling from Marc’s lap into Gemma’s now, tugging on her hair, babbling in such cute, baby Italian Gemma can’t help but squeeze her tight, pressing their cheeks together, nuzzling her until she giggles.

Valentino plops down on the opposite couch, glancing at Gemma and Leta – she raises her brows in wordless askance, what? – but he clears his throat and cuts his gaze back to Franci and Marc.

You, he jabs his finger at Marc, no racing tomorrow.

Not unless we swap back, says Marc airily. His knuckles are white, resting on his knees. Franci rests her hand over his.

I thought you said swaps have never resolved within twenty-four hours, says Valentino.

It never has, Franci sighs, but who knows. There’s a first time for everything. She’s patting Marc’s hand as she speaks; the words are more for his benefit than her own.

Allora, you might not race, but I will ride out tomorrow, Valentino declares.

Marc blinks. You are substituting for me?

Don’t be stupid, says Valentino, I’m going to ride in the legends’ parade. I have negotiated it with Dorna. In exchange, they will not ask you – well, Marc – anything about today, not that crash, not about me and Marc reconciling.

The way Valentino’s gaze lingers on Franci, it is for her benefit. Because she is trapped in Marc’s body and the onus will be on her to answer if the vultures are left unchecked, and Gemma’s heart squeezes at the natural conclusion of that thought.

He protects her because he loves her.

The softened look in Franci’s eyes – through Marc’s eyes, like that – Gemma wonders if this is the man Franci saw, fell in love with, the protector.

She ducks her head, her hair falling over her eyes, over Leta’s little head and her limpid blue eyes like her father’s, and tries to distract herself from the churning in her being, a sandstorm rising.

Too much dust to pick out a single emotion, a feeling, except this – hunger.

All-encompassing.

—

The swap does not resolve itself.

They had expected it, everyone except Marc – stubborn and optimistic to the end – had accepted Marc is going to be missing the race. They spent the evening together confined in Marc’s motorhome, Alex coming to visit and stayed for dinner and played with Leta; when even Marc has run out of steam – and good cheer – from making up possible scenarios of how Valentino is so totally going to flub his special appearance tomorrow, they decide to call it a night.

Marc’s expression is thunderous.

Valentino suggests, not so subtly, that he and Marc return to his motorhome, but since Leta is already asleep here, she can spend the night here. Clearly he is thinking that he’s doing something selfless by working excess energy out of Marc before he does something crazy like ride a bike.

When the door closes behind them, Gemma rolls her eyes so hard she can see the back of her skull. How thoughtful he is of Leta, she remarks.

Franci laughs, quiet, then leans over the top of Leta’s head, pillowed on Gemma’s chest, we can have our own fun. You can be quiet, can’t you, babe?

The pulse of pleasure shoots straight down to her clit. She presses her thighs together.

Unlike Marc, she can be quiet.

—

The next day, Valentino looks haggard.

Bloodshot eyes, eyebags the size of Gemma’s carry-on, and pale, greasy skin. His hair hangs limply around his ears. He is shirtless, so, Gemma can see the full extent of the red scratches along his torso, the hickey bruising violet on his neck, chest, the imprint of Marc’s teeth on his ribs.

A stray thought brushes along the forefront of her mind; what had it felt like, to sink his teeth into that flesh. Tongue presses against skinny ribs, the spill of little freckles between the valley of each bone.

Leta’s voice pops through the thought, Papa! She waves. She doesn’t seem to notice how battered her father is. She starts to slide down Gemma’s hip when she begins to wiggle and squirm, a sign that she wants to be put down.

Wow, Gemma says, clearing her throat, you look like shit.

Shit! Leta echoes loyally.

Look what you taught her, rasps Valentino hoarsely. He reaches out for Leta, who goes easily when Gemma passes her along.

She’s asking for Mar – Franci.

Valentino tells Leta, Mama’s still asleep. Finally. To Gemma, he confesses, in Spanish so that Leta doesn’t understand, I was ridden like a horse the whole night. If I fall off my bike later today, know that it is with rapture because I saw God thrice last night. His face spasms. Maybe four.

She hates that she finds it funny, that her mouth, unable to resist, lets the laugh building up in her stomach since she laid eyes on him burst out.

Valentino shuffles inside, hunchbacked.

I will get you two – three – breakfast from the hospitality. You don’t seem to be in a state to go anywhere. Gemma smirks.

Valentino slumps onto the couch, head thrown back over the top of it, squinting at her, that’s awfully kind of you, Pinto.

Well, it’s a small thank you for the sacrifice, old man.

My performance last night was not that of an old man.

Mama! Leta calls out, springing to her feet. Valentino catches her before she can go charging off, Marc – ah, Mama - is still asleep, darling, and I would like to keep it that way. With some luck on top of all my effort invested, he will sleep through the race.

He combs his fingers through his daughter’s long, dark blondish hair, murmuring softly to her, trying to convince her to be good and quiet, let Mama sleep in, hm?

When he moves his arm to cup the back of the child’s head, where she stands, she can see the trail of hickeys on the side of his ribs: Marc had been busy, brutal, even.

In her mind’s eye, she can see Marc – in Franci’s body – straddling Valentino, the way he would groan when Marc sinks his teeth in, scraping against flesh, watching with amused eyes as Valentino squirms, because Marc’s hand would be curled around Valentino’s cock, which of course she doesn’t know how it looks like but –

Gemma stands there, horrified, mortified to realize she’s trying to imagine it.

When Valentino notices she’s hovering there still gawking, he cocks a brow, curious. Pinto?

I’m going to get breakfast, she iterates, then turns and runs out of the motorhome.

In the cold morning air of Austria, her cheeks are warm.

—

Gemma’s morning is spent restless. She deposits breakfast with Valentino and Leta, but Marc is still snoring away, so she goes back to Franci, who is awake, because Marc’s body is wired to wake like clockwork on race day at the precise hour of seven a.m. But because Marc is going to use a stomach bug as an excuse to sit out the race – induced vomiting and all – Franci can’t go around with Gemma for a jog or a walk for her to work off the restlessness.

But Carola, though, is free, as is Gabriela. And she’s all too relieved to have company even though she can’t focus much on what they’re talking about – some Labubu thing.

The morning passes fast, frenetic. News hit the grid eventually that Marc is apparently out sick and will sit out the race weekend to recuperate properly, but they are, of course, quickly distracted by the legends’ parade.

Red is forgotten as neon-yellow blue steps out into the sight of the cameras, the world; on the grid for the first time since 2021. Casey Stoner all suited up in Honda reaches out to dab hands with Valentino when he joins the older rider on the grid. They are so much older now than when they were actively fighting for the championships; when they laugh at one another, there is no animosity, only crinkles when they smile.

With Marc out of commission, Gemma doesn’t have much of a reason to hang around in the Ducati garage but Carola says it’s fine and tugs her along.

So in the pitlane she goes, watching the legends walk, the huge screen there.

Valentino’s helmet – one hastily flown in by an assistant, plucked from the ranch, because he hadn’t designed anything for a weekend he hadn’t planned to ride at – is an old one, the sweep of a highlighter-yellow crescent moon curving around the joints where the visor is attached to the helmet.

When he puts it on and straightens, swinging his leg over the bike of the Yamaha provided for him, there isn’t any of that hunchbacked haggardness; Rossi reborn.

Cheers and screams of jubilance shred through the air as Valentino adjusts his underwear, plops down on his seat, bows, and guns the engine, riding out.

He leads the helm of the parade, Casey Stoner following, then Dani Pedrosa, and then Andrea Dovizioso, but her eyes – like the others – follow the rider up front, her stomach swooping low when he does so, tipping into the turn of the first corner –

Then he’s accelerating, wind and gravity bending around him, and all the perception of the world.

All at once she understands: Marc, Franci, she almost hollers, I get it, I just got it.

Oh, the gasp she lets out is soft, unintentional, but next to her Carola catches it anyway.

Gemma, says Carola, her voice gravely with warning, distant with how little Gemma registers it.

Her heart is already racing away, gunning down the straight at two hundred kilometers per hour, a sweep of neon-yellow on blue, leaning into the upcoming turn, a crescent moon.

She cannot take her eyes off him.

—

It’s Marc who goes to parc ferme as the ride of the legends wind down.

Gemma watches the live-feed from the Ducati garage.

Franci’s body, and it’s Franci the world thinks they see, as Marc lopes his way to the front, and the world is so blissfully ignorant of the fact that for the first time since Valentino Rossi retired, since Sepang happened, that Marc Marquez and Valentino Rossie are sharing parc ferme and absolutely thrilled about it.

Marc surges up to the barriers, and Valentino clambers off the bike, and it’s to Marc he goes right for, flipping his visor up as he hurries over.

Marc opens his arms, and Valentino sinks into them.

The camera hones in on them, the crinkly-eyed pleasure of Valentino’s blue eyes, the sheer joy radiating in them, so bright, as he looks at Marc, gesticulating to his bike, saying something in only the language they share.

And something in Gemma just – bursts.

She takes off from the garage. There’s only one person who will understand, even a little of what she feels, and it’s to Marc’s motorhome she goes running to.

She goes bursting right in, Franci sprawled on the cream-colored couch, watching with unblinking dark eyes that are almost like Marc’s but not – and those frank dark eyes turn to her. Gemma, says Franci, a little surprised.

You were –

Watching the livestream, agrees Franci with a weary smile. She is looking up at Gemma, and at the sight of her Marc, of Franci in Marc, something in her unravels, cracks through the foundations of her face and Franci’s expression flares.

Gem, she says, and the gentleness of her tone has Gemma crumbling, flinging herself into her arms, the familiar, comforting breadth of Marc’s chest, where she can always trust to hide herself in, to be shielded from the clawing grip of the world’s horrors and stressors.

I saw Marc there, with him, and I felt jealous, bursts out of Gemma, and she feels childish even when she confesses it. I couldn’t help it.

Silly, says Franci, tipping her chin up. Kisses gently each teary eye, and Gemma presses quivering lips together, her insides scorched with the acid green of envy.

That was Valentino Rossi you saw riding, Franci says, gently, fondly, of course you could not help it. When I saw him there, I remembered, too.

—

Franci and Leta fly back with Valentino, after Austria. Gabi will already be missing them, however much fun she’s having with her grandmother.

It’s not only Marc who feels the ache of longing already, watching them leave for the airport at dawn, Leta sleeping through the goodbye, drooling a little on Franci’s shoulder.

Franci kisses Marc’s cheek, but the kiss she shares with Gemma lingers longer. Her lips are wet when they part, swollen, but hunger persists still, makes her teeth ache with the keenness of it. She presses a kiss to a sleeping Leta’s cheek, and the softness of the child, the baby scent that she still has, calms the ravenous hunger. A little. She’s loathed to watch them go.

When they part, Valentino and Marc had yet to. Franci has to clear her throat, eyes rolling as she does so, before they do.

Gemma says, Marc, he’s not going to war. You can stop making moony-eyed faces at him now.

Marc makes a little noise in acknowledgement of that, a low whine climbing in the back of his throat.

Valentino peeks a blue eye in her direction, and even though Marc has just stepped away, he yanks Marc back for another lip-bruising kiss, his eyes on Gemma the whole time. Challenging.

Heat gushes in her stomach. She tells herself it’s stomach acid even as her cheeks splotch heatedly.

When again they part, Marc huffs, hot and bothered, but Valentino grins like a cat who got the cream.

He jerks his head into a nod at Gemma, see you around, Pinto. Don’t cry too much when I win.

She flips him the bird and he laughs as he goes.

—

Franci: [sent an attached picture]

Marc: jajaja

Valentino: @Franci I TOLD you not to send it

Franci: but it’s so cute and rare. You are in actual tears. Thought Marc and Gemma would like to see too

Marc: what happened?

Valentino: Nothing

Marc: did he stub his toe?

Marc: @Vale did you lose a championship

Valentino: Fuck you

Franci: he was making dinner and he was dicing onions

Baby

Franci: Yes?

Marc: Yeah?

No, I’m calling @Vale a baby

I’m insulting him

Valentino: well fuck you too

Valentino: next time you lot come over I’m not making dinner

Valentino: you will be sorry

Valentino: I made a mean ragu for pasta

Franci: I think something is burning in the kitchen

—

Gemma never knew how greedy she could be until now. Hungry. Hungering for more than what she already has, one in each hand.

She wants, wants more than what she has each hand for.

No shame in the want, only the ugly, burning hunger and the ache where envy sits.

—

Valentino: Date night with Franci went well. She is back to laughing at my jokes again.

Valentino: you are so losing this Pinto

—

Valentino: which flowers do you think I should get?

Valentino: I would go for yellow

Valentino: remind Franci of me but I know women place significance on color so pink or yellow?

Valentino: [sent an attached picture]

It doesn’t matter which color

She will appreciate it all the same

It’s from you after all

Valentino: Well

Valentino: That is true

Valentino: but also strange for you to say it outright

Don’t pretend like you don’t know the effect you have

The Valentino Rossi charm

Of course she will fall for it

Valentino: what’s this? Admitting defeat?

Valentino: what happened to me being the phase she’s gonna outgrow? Hm?

—

Valentino: Pinto?

—

Valentino: Gemma what’s going on?

—

It’s Marc who comes to find her.

Gem, he says, Valentino called to ask if he needs to be sleeping with one eye open. Apparently he has angered you greatly, but he does not know what.

I’m not angry, says Gemma at once.

She regrets the speediness of her reply, the unintentional curtness of her tone, because Marc does not even look surprised. A fist tightens in her guts. She knows – suspects – that Franci will have told Marc, that, stupidly, after the legends’ rider, she’d grown stupidly emotional and went running to her, bursting out like that.

But Marc is never one to push her before she is ready to confront her feelings.

Like Franci, he is gentle with her, tender. Slides his arms around her, kisses the side of her head. It is a quiet night at home, a little empty, a little too quiet because there are no giggling toddlers and Franci and Valentino; she puts on music and pulls Marc flushed against her, dancing, and he laughs when she trips over his foot.

She wraps herself in his laugh and wonders when she got so greedy for more than this.

—

[sent a link to a poll]

Valentino: Pinto you are finally replying

Valentino: What is this poll

Valentino: HOW THE FUCK AM I LOSING TO MARCO

Because you are old

And bald

Valentino: who created this poll?

Me

Valentino: you come back from your social media detoxification for this?

Who said I was on a detox?

Valentino: Franci

Okay then, yeah I did :)

Valentino: You are infuriating, Pinto

Valentino: And so are these people

Valentino: How could I lose

Valentino: To BEZ of all people

Valentino: If it HAD to be anyone

Well you are not as such a big thing you think you are

Valentino: These attacks are getting personal Pinto

Valentino: Marc and Franci would not say what it is I have said or did

Valentino: I like to think I have done nothing wrong

As usual

Valentino: Well if you DO have a problem with me

Valentino: [sent attachment of a plane itinerary]

Valentino: Come say it in person

???

Valentino: I have an endurance race on the seventh in austin

You are inviting me to go watch you lose?

Valentino: Don’t count me out so fast Pinto

Valentino: You’ll be surprised

Valentino: So

Valentino: Will you come?

I’ll think about it

Valentino: You will get a free ride from my private jet

I SAID I will think about it

Valentino: No one has ever SAID they’ll think about it when I whip out the private jet

Maybe because it’s so much smaller and not as impressive as expected

Valentino: Fuuuuck

Valentino: I walked right into that one, didn’t I?

:p

—

Franci says she’s got work. Marc is, of course, racing.

Neither of them is going to be accompanying her to Austin, Texas. Even after she’s touched down, exiting the very spacious private jet, texting, landed, to Valentino’s number, she’s wondering if this is all one big mistake.

Valentino: I have sent someone to pick you up

Valentino: keep an eye out for the sign

[sent attachment]

Really?

Valentino: you do not like it? I made it myself

Is WEC that relaxing? You have that much free time?

Valentino: I’m great at arts and crafts

Valentino: it did not take long

Valentino: I will meet you at the hotel once I’m finished with my team’s debrief

Valentino: I’m taking you to dinner

Marc put you up to this?

Valentino: Franci picked the flowers

Gemma swipes out of her inbox, lips tingling. She’s tempted to ask Franci what she’s thinking but she would not even be awake yet in Europe. But unlike with Marc, she doesn’t think Franci has told Valentino about – well, that.

There are limits to what Franci will tell Valentino, one that doesn’t exist between Marc and Franci by virtue of sharing a body.

She pockets her phone and goes with the cab driver.

In the drive over to the hotel, she sends a flurry of texts, the requisite, routine texts of assuring family and loved ones that yes she has arrived safely, something that never grows old; even now, her mother would track her flight. Sometimes Gemma wonders if the reason she is so greedy is because she is used to a glut of love, to have been loved so preciously all her life.

After, she tells herself, she will call her mother; she has missed her voice. Then, a shower, and a nice, short nap.

—

A knuckle is rapping maniacally on the door of her room.

Gemma jerks awake, ripped out of a dream of wagging tongues, crinkling blue eyes and too-long fingers burning a path on her skin, and nearly rolls off the floor.

The knocking has evolved into pounding.

Oy, Pinto!

Gemma launches herself off the bed, thinking Valentino and reservation and shit. She doesn’t even have time to run her fingers through her hair to untangle it before she reaches the door, ripping it open before bony knuckles can make contact on the wood again.

Blue eyes flare sharply at the sight of her.

Allora, she lives, says Valentino, when the door swings open. At the sight of her, his face spasms, like it’s wrestling down several emotions at once. He settles for scowling, You were not picking up your phone for the last two hours. Marc is asking if I’ll call for the CIA’s help.

We missed the dinner reservation? Gemma flushes. I’m sorry, I fell asleep and didn’t –

Valentino shrugs, rolling his shoulders, careless, Ah, it’s fine. He surveys her carefully. The muscles in her belly draw taut under his scrutiny, even if his gaze remains mostly on her face, like he is trying to read through her mind.

A flush crawls up the back of her neck; if he could read her mind – well, she assures herself, he will probably not stop making fun.

There is a restaurant in this hotel, he says, it is not as good as the place I have reserved, but it will do. Vamos, Pinto.

He makes to turn, and he has already turned before her voice wiggles round the block of shock in her throat, You did not already have dinner?

Valentino turns to look over his shoulder, and his brows do their funny thing, wiggling upwards. Then they settle back down, calm, almost, when he says, No, I waited for you. Are you coming or not?

Gemma steps out of the room.

Somehow, she gets through dinner without once giving away the hint of the dream she’d been having before he interrupted.

If he finds out, the smug asshole’s head will not fit through doors for how big it will swell up.

She hates that she finds the thought funny.

—

Gemma isn’t actually sure how WEC races work.

Marc has only a passing interest in it, insisting in the main that two-wheeled sports are superior, and Franci probably has a better grasp of how it goes but it’s not like she and Franci talk about WEC. Just have fun, Franci had told her, it’s not that much different from a MotoGP race. Or an F1 race.

There’s a pre-race grid walk, too.

That at least is something that is the same, familiar; Marc prefers cycling with his friends, but she and Gabriela will sometimes walk along, not doing the full circuit, but present. She doesn’t know anyone here and she wouldn’t call herself a shy person, but she’s not sure if she’s meant to go with the group that is being organized to take those with VIP passes around or she’s going to trail after one of the teams’ own scheduled walk.

Valentino spares her further wondering by sending her a text – that reads more like a summons – to show up at the pitlane at a precise time to join his team.

We need to take photos, he tells her when she arrives, a keepcup with coffee his hand goes for, trying to swipe it.

Gemma holds her cup out of his reach, and he pouts. Photos? I’m not here on business.

Group chat, says Valentino.

Gemma swings her phone up from where it dangles on her wrist by a strap. Her nails clack against the screen when she taps it to life. Yep, there’s one new message from Franc since last night: @Gemma take a picture with Vale’s car

Marc: do it the right way

Gemma frowns. What does he mean the right way?

It’s Valentino who answers, a sly smile curling his lips, this way to my car. I show you. He takes the momentary slip in her attention to swipe the keepcup from her and she would’ve kicked him in the ankles but that’s when they are joined by the rest of his team’s personnel and she plasters on an angelic, PR-perfect smile for them. Three paces ahead, Valentino’s shoulders quiver with a repressed laugh.

It is a warm morning, warmer than what she is used to in Europe, and the air is dry in a way that itches in the back of her throat. Valentino is wearing his usual fare of baggy pants and too-large black shirt, and she wonders if he is not hot in that. Her gaze lingers on the give of his throat, the tendons that strain there when he speaks, the bob of his Adam’s apple.

Her mouth feels wet.

She turns her gaze away and lopes ahead to catch up with one of the other only women walking out here with the team. She only turns back when she hears the rapid-fire Italian conversation petering out: Valentino dismisses the engineer he was speaking to just as they approach the blue BMW with the neon 46 emblazoned on it, and she watches as the engineer darts back to the garage with the feedback.

Come here, we are going to take pictures, like this. Valentino beckons for her to bring her phone up, and she complies, but not without a lot of eye-rolling.

He sits himself gingerly on the hood of the car and tries to strike a post that involves propping one leg up, in a ‘hip and cool’ manner but all he does is end up flailing, nearly slides off the hood of the car, Whooups!

Try not to slide off the hood, says Gemma because being mean is easier than being flustered, easier to roll her eyes than acknowledge the maddening heat pooling from cheek to belly, it would be very anticlimactic if you have to sit out the race because you broke your hip.

If Marc didn’t break my hips in Austria, there’s no way the gravel here can.

Gemma snorts a laugh. Well, that’s true enough. She lifts the camera up, frames him in the shot, the lackadaisical sweep of his right foot over the floor, obscuring the front plate of the car, the easy prop of his other foot on the hood of it, elbow left to dangle from the arched knee.

In the light of the morning Texan sun, his hair is almost gold again, like that of his youth. (She has to admit that Marc has good tastes in selecting his posters.)

Valentino beams at her, eyes blue as the car’s paint, and crinkles in his smile.

The smile is infectious; her lips curve, and she takes the photo.

Now your turn, says Valentino.

—

Race day, it starts in the afternoon and ends only in the evening.

Marc and Franci have been keeping up with how things are going through a flurry of texts but understandably Marc drops entirely off the grid – text-wise – when Saturday hits and he has to focus. She has dinner with Valentino, and Franci video-calls them for the girls to say hello.

He calls the girls his treasure, in Italian, and he blows them kisses into Gemma’s phone.

I will be home soon, he promises.

The experience of being the one holding the phone, at once at the receiving end and yet not the recipient, is a startling sensation that sinks into her stomach, cold like ice cubes.

He has been looking at her strangely. Prolonged squints, when he thinks he’s being subtle – he is never subtle with his facial expressions – and when she arches a brow, he only smiles vaguely and changes the topic.

This is the longest amount of time they’ve spent in person together without someone else – Marc or Franci or the kids – as a buffer and though she shouldn’t be, she finds it surprising nonetheless that it’s easy to talk to him. Even when she makes fun of him, he can roll his eyes and shoot a retort right back. It is – fun. That’s the word that is the safest to use here.

Franci: @Gemma has Vale been treating you well?

He has been a surprisingly good host!

WEC is not boring as Marc said it would be

Valentino: What does marc know about endurance racing? Absolutely nothing

Franci: Marc can be a little judgmental

Valentino: A little?

Franci: He’s not here to defend himself so I thought I should try

Franci: but never mind marc

Franci: @Vale good luck with the race today

Valentino: I don’t need luck but thank you my love <3

@Vale don’t be too cocky

I’ve seen your timings against the other teams

Valentino: Hah we’ll see who’s laughing this evening

—

Gemma’s had the thought the first time they spoke, in the bedroom with the blue Yamaha. A stray, passing fancy of a thought, of how favored Valentino is by the forces of the universe, or God.

The fucker pulls into P2 at the Lone Star Le Mans.

The cameras will record the way she gasped, hands flying to her mouth, eyes popping wide open when the 46 car crossed the finishing line in P2. They will say she looked thrilled for him, for this outcome.

It wouldn’t be a lie. She’d been at the edge of her seat towards the last hour of the race, knee jittery, jumping up and down, twizzling in her seat, and then rock-like tenseness as the minutes trickled down. When Valentino had crossed the finish line, the burst of jubilation that exploded in her is not unlike when she’d seen Marc win, for the first time in Ducati red, for the first time again since he changed teams to Gresini: pure, unadulterated joy, and pride, too.

Valentino’s car pulls into parc ferme, and the team is spilling out of the garage, rushing to join him in the celebration. Gemma, someone calls, come on, and she finds her footing, leaping upwards, joining the exodus outwards.

Shouts and cheers rupture the evening air; fireworks explode. The charged energy of adrenalin hitting the climax – victory – seeps into her.

The crowd buoys to a halt at the pitlane, frothing, overspilling like a fizzy drink poured into a glass; Gemma’s eyes trace along the shapes of the cars parked, victory on wheels, picking through the multitude of racers clad in their suits, searching, searching for that one specific neon-yellow blue color –

Like the sun, he is not hidden for long.

He’s clapping the back of a teammate’s shoulder, laughing, his horseshoe earring shaking as his head moves, animated when he speaks and laughs, miming a bumping motion with his hands. He is glowing, victorious, coming down from the high of a race well run, looking just as he had in Austria.

And the manic impulse that has haunted her since Austria – since she saw Marc in parc ferme embracing Valentino – seizes her and she lurches forward, slipping through the crowd, avoiding jostling elbows and wiggling hands, the voices chanting Vale, Vale, Vale like it is a prayer.

It is not a Madonna she’s reaching for.

Vale, she calls.

And for a moment, she thinks he hasn’t heard; he’s wiping sweat from his eyes from the towel wrapped around his neck, his eyes shining as he speaks to his technician, but hardly a second since his name left her lips, his blue eyes – electrifying even when the flashing lights of the cameras all around them are competing to drown them out – find hers.

She sees the way his mouth parts into a smile around her name as he approaches.

Hands reach for him, when he’s close enough, pressed as they are against the barrier, but it’s only her he lets touch, lets her fingers curl into the front of his fireproofs, pulling him in, close and –

It actually hurts a little, the clash of their teeth clicking like that, because she’d yanked too hard, overeager, and his lips had parted in surprise, a small gasp she swallows. Her hands have moved up from his suit to his face, cupping the stubble of his jaw, the tips of her fingers brushing his curls, sweat-soaked. He smells of sweat and motor-oil and the giddiness of having podiumed, he smells exactly like what she has hungered for all these slow, torturous weeks.

Silence seizes upon the crowd, broken only by the blistering shutter-clicks of cameras in rapid-takes.

Cameras flash.

Oh God, oh God.

The world comes back to her; he is the center of it, but not the only occupant.

Gemma drops back on the flat of her heels, her mouth parting from Valentino’s, shaping a horrified syllable around, oh no, Valentino, I –

He looks down at her, surprised, then understanding: No, Gem, hand cupping her cheek, so large, larger than even Marc’s hand, covering her eyes from the lenses through which hundreds and then thousands and millions will view this entire scene, and he is just as gentle when he says her name, like Marc’s, like Franci’s, Gemma, it’s alright.

Don’t look at them.

Them, still clicking away, hushed, furtive murmuring breaking through now like a spread of hornets released from a hornet’s nest overturned.

Both hands cupping her face now, crowding her back, his taller body bowed over hers, shielding her –

Look only at me.

You came all this way for me, si?

Valentino is grinning, thrilled, delighted by more than the win, and it’s three beats of her accelerating heart before it clicks that, oh, yes, that’s because of her, how happy he is right now, and still she manages to muster a huff, egoistic bastard.

He tilts her chin up, the other hand sinking into the voluminous dark of her hair, cups the back of her head and pulls her flushed against him.

When their lips meet again, she closes her eyes, let the white of the flashing cameras fade out of sight.

She does not care about them.

Right here, right now, there is only this: his lips on hers, his hand in her hair, around her, and her gawping, yearning hunger, at last, sated.

—

Marc: what the fuck @Vale @Gemma

Marc: how could you?

Franci: @Marc you owe me 500 euros

Franci: and also 10 weekends of babysitting

Franci: and a trip to Norway to see the Northern Lights

Marc: COME ON @Vale @Gemma you couldn’t have WAITED another week to do THAT? I would’ve WON

Marc: Unbelievable

Marc: I can’t believe you guys would let me down like this :(

Chapter Text

MOTORSPORTS WORLD ROCKED BY SCANDALOUS AFFAIR BETWEEN NINE-TIME MOTOGP LEGEND AND BITTEREST RIVAL’S GIRLFRIEND

Last weekend, while eight-time world champion Marc Marquez lined up for lights out at Barcelona, his old rival Valentino Rossi had a WEC race in Austin, Texas.

Aside from Marquez’s resurgence to pursue the vaunted ninth title that would equal Valentino, there is very little overlap now about these two riders, at least, until our journalists happen to catch sight of Spanish model and social influencer Gemma Pinto, who is Marc Marquez’s partner, at Rossi’s WEC race in Texas.

If it came as a surprise for Gemma to be seen all cozied up with her partner’s longtime rival – one could even describe Marquez and Rossi as enemies considering the longtime enmity between the two beginning from the contentious 2015 championship title fight (not won by either of them) – on Friday during the grid walk where they were pictured laughing, and again posing with the #46 BMW, it would be topped by the heated kiss shared between Marquez’s partner and Valentino Rossi in parc ferme on Sunday night.

In the post-race media scrum, when he was asked about the very public display of affection, Rossi was all cheerful smiles with no hint of guilt or discomfort on what had happened: “Allora, eh, Gemma was congratulating me. P2. It was a very good race. When we came here tonight, we were not really feeling strong but – ” Rossi promptly swept the topic back to the race that was just had, focusing largely on his team’s efforts that have resulted in the P2 earned today.

However, during the closing stages of the media scrum, a last attempt at getting answers from the elusive MotoGP legend was made: “Valentino, how will this very public entanglement with Marc Marquez’s girlfriend affect your relationship with him and – and that of your partner?”

Rossi, having already risen to his feet, turned back with a laugh.

“I answer a question like this before. I said then and I say now, in bed, no change.”

—

Marquez got cucked lol

[TikTok Video Description: Flashing lights and shutter-clicks of cameras going off in the post-race press conference for the Austin weekend of the WEC. Valentino Rossi is standing, about to leave, when a journalist asks a question. Smiling, Rossi replies before leaving.]

@marc marquez @francescasofianovello

#motogp #wec #valentinorossi #marcmarquez #gemmapinto #francescasofianovello #biggest divorce of the century incoming

alexmarquez73: 🤦‍♂️

       User424: Omg @alexmarquez73 what do u know?? Does Marc know? is he okay?

        User366: @ User424 Jesus these are real people. Give them some damn privacy

               alexmarquez73: @User424 👩🏻‍🤝‍👨🏼 👫🏻

                           User463: @alexmarquez ???

                                alexmarquez73: 😐

User132: hey tagging marquez and rossi’s partner is just plain cruel

User134: @User132 there’s NO way they haven’t already seen the clip a thousand times over somewhere else

User123: i’ve lost all respect for rossi like wtf????

User135: NOOOO MARC LOOK AWAY

User466: @gemmapinto why 😭

       User264: I knew there was a reason why I’ve never liked her and I’M RIGHT fucking cheater s***

User245: I bet this is another rossi conspiracy to stop marc from winning the ninth. He can’t stomach the thought of them being equals. Fucking loser

       User197: @User245 Marc is the fucking loser. He can’t even keep his girl from running off for an old man 😂

User932: the old man dick cannot be that good

User277: marc’s ninth this marc’s ninth that. Rossi has an actual family who’re gonna be affected by this. Priorities, people. Sheesh.

        User143: if rossi had any priorities, he wouldn’t be smooching someone else’s girl, won’t he?

User560: Y’all have NO ears. Rossi said in bed no change. He meant Marquez surely. Did anyone pause to consider they are all sleeping together?

User299: has someone checked on @francescasofianovello after all this?

        User300: @User299 nope her socials are empty

User679: Gemma is so much hotter not surprised Valentino traded in a younger model lol

—

At one point, Franci is tempted to dunk her phone into a glass of water, but then she remembers that it is fully waterproof; the downfall of such an expensive phone.

Also, she has too many photos in there to want to destroy the hard drive so irreparably. Some photos she has not uploaded to the cloud, better not take that risk. She has become more careful about what she saves in her phone or anywhere else for the matter, ever since Uccio did what he did.

Her lip curls at the reminder.

She goes downstairs in search of her family.

Marc is watching over the girls. A TV show – a cartoon – is running in the background, and she has to repress a sigh at that; she tries not to let the girls poison their minds with too much screen time but Vale is of the staunch opinion (when is his opinion never staunch?) a bit of TV nurtures the creative mind. And Marc, of course, doesn’t care because he grew up watching TV like it’s nothing, too.

Marc, she says, and he looks up, a distracted hum on his lips, let’s go out somewhere. With the girls.

Marc rolls up from the floor, and Gabi cranes her neck, trying to follow him. Leta likes her Marc-Marc well enough, but it’s Gabi who searches for Marc when he is not in the room, who cries when he leaves her field of vision. Her little face scrunches up in a preemptive measure to stop him from leaving.

Marc notices and he laughs at her, cupping her chubby cheeks and pinching, gently. I’m not going anywhere. Gabi coos, appeased.

Franci tries not to let the sheer adorableness of the scene distract her from the restlessness itching under her skin. Marc, she repeats.

Marc looks up to regard her, his dark eyes unblinking. Before she knew him – before she had the chance to wear his face – she used to find it sinister, unnerving.

Where to? he asks.

Anywhere but here, she thinks. Out loud, she says, I want to go to the mountains.

This isn’t the trip to Norway I owe you, right? He’s pouting at the reminder of his loss.

She laughs, No. You’re not getting out of that one. She has already planned to go with her best friends. She loves Marc, Gemma and Vale, but they are not her girlfriends.

Marc thinks about it, Vale has a place in the Dolomites, right?

Franci says, let’s go, already pulling out her phone to put together the logistics, absentmindedly calling out for Leta, darling, let’s go on an adventure with Marc-Marc, okay?

No!

She’s in that phase, says Franci.

Marc picks Gabi up, swinging her into the air, eliciting a fresh burst of giggles, Okay, then we’re going without you. Gabi and I are going to have so much fun with Mama. Aren’t we, baby? He puts his nose to hers, nuzzling her and Gabi giggles.

… No!

Franci shakes her head, lips curled into an amused smile as little footsteps run towards them. I’ll call the nanny and start packing. We fly tonight.

Marc nods. I’ll see if Alex and his girlfriend want to join us there. There are still a few more weeks to their next race. When Marc had indicated he would be joining Franci in Tavullia, he’d offered for his brother to join him – and the VR46 boys – to train at the ranch. Alex laughed that offer out of the country.

Alex’s continued snub of the ranch remains an unconquered hill for Valentino, who finds it mildly offensive that Alex Marquez dares to say no to visiting the holy ground of motor racing, and endlessly chagrined as it meant Marc would still fly out to Spain to spend training time with his brother, which translated, in cumulative hours, less time spent here, with them. Though Valentino has not said it out loud, his grand plan was for Marc to move in.

And I suppose if he comes, so will Pinto, Valentino had said, the week before Austin, frowning when he mentioned Gemma’s name because she had yet to resurface. I will build a walk-in closet for their room.

And Franci had smirked. He fancied himself a grand schemer, but sometimes he was all too obvious.

Thinking of their other halves, Franci checks the group chat, still silent. No read receipts shown for the other two. She can assume they are very preoccupied indeed.

Nevertheless, she lets them know:

We’re going to the Dolomites.

Downstairs, Leta shrieks, Mama, Marc-Marc is trying to eat me!

—

The rumble of the plane’s engines are like white noise to Franci, lulling her to sleep. Luckily the girls take after her when it comes to flying. Valentino could never sleep so easily whenever they fly, even though he should’ve been more used to it than anyone of them.

In contrast, Marc is an easy flyer. He was playing a game on his phone – Leta sat on his lap and directed him with the boisterous surefootedness of a navy commander until Franci palmed her off to the nanny to get ready for bed – but now, with the girls tucked away, he’s taken to scrolling mindlessly on social media, breaking out into a quiet snicker every time he sees a meme he finds funny – which he will show to Franci – or snort at a hateful comment.

Franci is on her phone, too, but as she stares until the words blur together, she wonders how Marc can be so unbothered. She glances at him now, seated beside her, his legs stretched comfortably in front of him.

Her skin prickles, like it wants to slough off her skeletal frame. She runs a soothing hand over her own arm, even as she misses the gnarled, race-roughened fingers.

Marc glances at her, what, you think we’re going to swap?

He calls it her tingle senses. In general, Franci has a higher probability of getting it right when she says she thinks they’ll swap soon. They will, soon, she thinks, but probably not during the flight. The itch isn’t as strong, and she tells him as much.

Marc doesn’t go back to his phone. He considers her carefully.

Want to talk about it?

Hm?

You’re not going to tell me we’re flying to the Dolomites on a whim, are you? Because it’d be a lie and I’d know.

With anyone else, she would’ve held her silence. Let it steep until it got stale and lukewarm and the other person would just drop it. Valentino has never liked feeling uncomfortable; he would have conceded the silence, and kissed her brow, promising that when she was ready, she could always come find him. If she never did, he would assume it was a problem resolved without needing his interference. If it was Gemma, she would attempt a flimsy guilt-trip but she’d relent, with the widest, saddest puppy eyes ever, and mournfully supposed she’d wait for Franci to be ready to confide in her.

With Marc, though, there is no need for such pretenses.

The words come, coaxed easily, Gemma went to that WEC race.

Marc’s brows rise in acknowledgement of the grand event that was.

Yeah, my phone is still blowing up with notifications about that. My fans, well, haters have been having a field day … I got cuckolded by my worst nemesis. For obvious reasons, they think it’s funny. To be fair, the memes I’ve seen are funny.

I’m glad Gem and Vale have sorted things out, Franci says, but – I was at an ambassador event, and obviously, that was all anyone could talk about when I was there. I don’t know what was worse, the snide remarks or the genuine pity. The comments that they’ve always seen this coming, that they’ve been expecting this to happen all along, about how, hah, the dream’s ending now.

That’s all just stupid noise, says Marc bluntly, too used to the vitriol of strangers and unfair persecution, though he frowns, It doesn’t matter what they think. They can’t undermine the bond you and Vale have. Not even me or Gemma can, no matter what we might mean to Valentino. You’re the mother of his children. You –

It's the absolute worst thing he could’ve said.

Her expression ripples, and he stops. Franci? 

Stupid, stupid. Franci reaches up to brush the dampness leaking through her eyes. Sorry, this is just – I don’t know, she laughs a little, wetly.

Marc’s brows furrow, concern etched in the lines between his brows. He looks older, because of those lines, even though they are the same age. He reaches over, cupping her cheeks in tender hands, unbearably gentle.

Ay, don’t cry, he says, you’re going to scrunch my beautiful face.

And she giggles. Reaches up, clasping his hands over hers. It’s unexpectedly nice like this, to have the warmth of his rough calluses resting on her cheeks.

Marc doesn’t remove his hands, still holding her. I thought – we spoke about this – I thought you were okay with me and Vale, and Gemma and Vale.

I am okay with it. Jesus, Marc, I planned this whole thing with you. Franci sucks back a sniffle. I mean, I want to be in a relationship with Gemma, it’s hypocritical if I tell Vale to keep his dick away from our relationship.

Marc relaxes fractionally. Okay, and then?

She has never – not even with Vale, or with her closest friends – never said this out loud. This niggling insecurity that has never quite snowballed from a molehill into a mountain, but it has persisted, like mold creeping wider in an aging house.

But who to unload it on, if not Marc?

She already knows what Vale would say, the outrage he would feel on her behalf, and many promises of destruction and hellfire to be wrought in her name to right the miscarriage of justice, but it’s going to feel like an echo chamber in here, but Marc. She trusts the clarity of his thoughts, his judgment, the way he perceives things, clear-cut, no-nonsense and theatrics when it comes to matters like these.

Hiccupping, she gets it out.

I know, we’ve talked about it before, and I knew what I was getting into, with Vale – another stray tear escapes and it makes her feel ridiculous, that slip of weakness, but Marc’s thumb catches it for her and it’s safe, she lets him catch them for her, We have two kids, and he loves me, I know it, but when I come back from hearing those whispers behind my back, it’s just hard to take it with a pinch of salt. On days like these. When those comments –

Franci closes her eyes, presses her cheek harder into the grip of Marc’s hand, her own hands sliding to his wrists, holding him there, wanting this, the bracing pillar of support; infallible.

 – laugh about how he’s replacing me with a younger, prettier model, it hurts, because –

Because that’s how everyone has always, deep down, seen it, hasn’t it? It’s not like Vale married her. He’s just settling down for a bit. He can always pack her stuff up in a few bags and chuck her out.

Because deep down, she has always feared that she is a replacement, a placeholder for this man holding her up now.

Valentino didn’t choose her only because she was beautiful. She was cleverer than the others, she knew, she saw what Marc Marquez meant to him. When he chose her, she had wondered, briefly, intermittently, if it was the physical similarity he desired, if not the soul within?

When they spoke, when they patched things up and Valentino promised he would be better, that he would listen better this time, that he wasn’t going to let the Marc Marquez of it all affect what they had as much as complement it, she had been fine with it. She loved Marc, too, flesh and bone and soul, the way you loved the other half of your soul, could not imagine him not a part of her life.

But insecurities do not vanish overnight, and the unplanned whammy of it is as shocking as the crash in Austria. She wakes still some nights after Austria, freefalling from the beast between her thighs, phantom pain over her chest and arms and legs, heart shivering.

Marc does not interrupt her to tell her it’s bloody ridiculous or offer to take bloody vengeance. He listens, patiently, brows furrowed and lets Franci get it all out.

It’s been years of this sort of treatment, these backhanded attacks and comments. The curse of seeing so clearly through others’, even when they have made no or poor effort to hide it, and it’s not just random strangers and faceless fans and jealous colleagues. It’s also – she swallows, thickly – Uccio.

Uccio? parrots Marc in the same sort of tone one reserved for compass pencil, something you ditched in secondary school and have no idea why anyone would be bringing it up now.

You know how big of a role he plays in Vale’s life.

If body swapping was a magic spell he could use, I think he would use it on himself and Vale, says Marc, not very kindly, and that makes a giggle bubble out of Franci.

He asked me, you know, she goes on, sniffling a little, what I thought I was doing. With – you. With Gemma. Seems like Vale told him about me and Gemma.

What did you say?

Nothing. I just – ignored him. I don’t owe him an explanation. It’s my relationship. But God did it piss me off.

Fuck yeah, says Marc, vehement. His mouth curls. In the eerie half-glow of the phone’s blue light, Marc’s face is almost monstrous; the shadows slip over the softer touches of his features, leaves only the sharp cheekbones, the angry planes of his jaw, the cavernous furrow of his brows.

Someone else might’ve found this façade frightening, but she likes his face. Not – romantically, or sexually. Not like slipping on her favorite designer fur jacket, no. It is something akin to an armor, but more intangible, something she has never felt in her life, not even when Vale had promised he would protect her, always.

Invincibility.

When she is Marc Marquez, she feels untouchable.

Her skin itches.

I can’t make the comments stop. He himself has never been able to shut his haters up. But we should do our own photoshoot, says Marc, his face splitting open with a grin that a reporter might’ve called demonic.

Franci smiles through the drying tears.

—

[Image ID: Franci is kissing Marc’s cheek in the picture and he is caught crinkly-eyed mid-laugh, his arm around her shoulders]

User123: da FUCK is going on????

        marcmarquez93: intercultural exchange jejeje

francescasofianovello: @marcmarquez93 <3

User124: they’re swingers. All of them. There is no other explanation that makes sense

User125: them being swingers or whatever is not the part that doesn’t make sense. It’s that it’s ROSSI and MARQUEZ. They hate one another. 2015 championship says hello???

        User126: @User125 not anymore

—

It is chilly in the mountains.

They bundle the girls up before they go out. Marc pushes Gabi in her stroller. Leta holds Franci’s hand. She’s singing a little nonsense song from some Spanish cartoon Gemma had introduced her to. When she starts to skip and dance, Marc takes her hands and spins her around, and their laugh rings into the air.

Franci snaps a picture of that and posts it on Instagram, too.

Later, when she opens it again, she finds that Marc has personally replied to every snide and hateful comment with a retort of his own, short, pointed, but still vague enough to rile them.

She closes her phone and smiles.

—

Eventually Vale’s jet lands back in Italy, Gemma in tow. They are hounded at the airport, but Valentino is, as usual, able to ‘ciao’ his way through the crowd.

By the time the other half of their dynamic quartet returns, Alex has gone back to Spain with Gabriela, a lovely young woman, but she can tell the young woman is a bit shy around her, vaguely intimidated, and there just isn’t enough time to parse through it.

We need a plan, announces Marc.

He had spent the better part of the evening since Valentino and Gemma’s return mercilessly teasing them, catcalling, wolf-whistling, until a suspicious silence fell and Franci wandered over to check on him and found him pinned against a wall, terribly preoccupied with his fly unzipped, and a hand fisted around his cock, Valentino’s mouth at his ear, hissing absolutely filthy things he was so good at.

She’d have loved to join except she had to go pick up Leta from ballet and Gemma detached herself from the proceedings to volunteer accompanying her.

Wipe the stains, Franci had reminded them and departed after only twin nods of acknowledgement.

Now they are in the yard. Marc wanted barbecue. Valentino grumbles about how warm it is and how he wants pizza, but he goes and set it up anyway and is suspiciously obedient when Marc shucks his shirt off to cook. He is all solicitousness, here, Marc, let me help, when Marc is helpfully shirtless and sexy.

When Vale is being kind, Marc is weak against it, and it is blindingly obvious the way he melts into the taller man. Franci watches this with mild amusement from where she is sprawled on the sofa outside.

Evening sky darkening, the firepit cast a bronze glow over her skin, Gemma sidles up behind Franci, looping her arms around her waist, an embrace from behind, resting her cheek on her shoulder, and Franci goes, hmm?

Reaches behind her, carding through the long, silky dark hair. Water sliding through her fingers.

Nothing, says Gemma, hushed, I just want to be close to you.

There is a burst of emotion, a hot rush of sensation taking flight in her chest, and she sinks into Gemma’s embrace, eyes fluttering.

What plan? asks Valentino, distracted. Franci opens her eyes to find him watching them, and she licks her lips, sultry, amused. She reaches up, sliding her fingers up the arch of Gemma’s throat, going behind her hair. Valentino’s eyes trail her hand, his throat bobs.

Marc elbows him and Valentino nearly hits him with the tongs; the women laugh at him. He scowls at Marc, rubbing his ribs. Ow. What are you trying to do? Dismantle me?

A plan, Vale. We’re going to Misano in a few days. Everyone will have questions. What is our story?

Valentino rolls his shoulders into a careless shrug, flipping the meat on the grill. Eh, you don’t need to worry about that. You just focusing on racing. Gemma, do you want the meat well-done or – he looks around, spies the salacious grin already splitting Gemma’s face open, and his own scrunches, Stop.

I haven’t even said anything! Gemma exclaims, tightening her arms dramatically around Franci, pouting.

You don’t need to. I can hear it already.

Franci laughs, but Marc isn’t so easily waylaid, Valentino… don’t change the subject. His tone is forbidding.

I wasn’t changing the subject. Smoke is unfurling from the grill. Valentino turns back to it, conveniently hiding his expression from view, Allora, I don’t see why we need to do a whole press conference and all that circus hoo-ha. We should just… He turns around to find Marc crossing his arms, narrow-eyed.

Enjoy ourselves, he finishes, lamely. Under the combined weight of their deadpan stares, he flings his arms up uselessly into the air, oh, come on! Why does everything need to be publicized?

It’s not about the clicks, says Marc, it’s about setting the record straight. Otherwise the harassment on social media will continue to be – bad.

They’re always bad, grumbles Valentino, do you know how many of your stupid stan accounts I had to block because they wouldn’t stop hounding me? I don’t see how announcing we’re all sleeping together will change anything. I’d rather keep what we have now to ourselves.

A pulse is ticking in Valentino’s jaw, observes Franci. Not angry as much as he is tense, like he is perched on the precipice of a cliff.

Gemma untangles her arms from around Franci, shifting slightly. Marc, I don’t mind the hate comments, really.

Well, I mind, says Marc, I don’t care if they make fun of me, but when they call you all sorts of nasty names –

I’m the one who jumped the gun and put all of us into the spotlight. If Vale needs time –

It’s not your fault, Franci interrupts, it was always going to leak. People were already piecing together the pictures of me and you in Madrid, and me and Marc –

Ay, ay, ay! Valentino whacks the tong on the edge of the grill. Bzzt! Time out. You lot – need to stop being dramatic.

Dramatic? echoes Marc, crossing his arms over his bare chest, this is serious.

Exactly! People think it’s serious. Like we are actually cheating on our partners –

Not so nice is it, mutters Marc, to be on the receiving end of cheating allegations.

Valentino ignores him, waving the tongs around to illustrate: But we aren’t. Ergo, it’s not that serious, and we have room to make fun. He capitalizes on his momentum to add, that was my plan all along! To string them along until the time is right.

Marc scowls at the blatant lie.

You don’t want this news to overshadow your championship win, do you? leers Valentino, shrewd, before Marc can counter him, and it is a riposte sharper than rapier for Marc stalls.

I, Marc hesitates, well, no.

Valentino looks at Gemma and Franci, and some of the determined cheerfulness mellows into something more serious. Marc is Marc, but the both of you… it will come down heavier on you two. Negative or positive. If it is too overwhelming, I will –

Franci catches Marc’s eyes and knows he is thinking of the conversation they had on the flight to the Dolomites. If it had not happened, probably she would be bracing herself to say something different. Now, she only nods slightly at him, wordless indication that she will be fine, and her only concern is of the woman next to her.

She turns to Gemma, cups her cheek, swiping a thumb over her cheekbone. Gemma’s dark eyes are almost amber in the light of the sunset, staring back into her, cognac chips.

My love, she says, you do not have to force yourself.

Gemma turns her chin, kissing the tip of Franci’s thumb. For now, she emphasizes the last word, it’s sweet how you all try to protect me from the consequences of my actions. Eventually it will be annoying, so listen to me when I say I am perfectly fine with the negativity and backlash up and until Marc wins and then we can set the record straight.

I will mop the grid every weekend, Marc promises, grinning.

Gemma smirks, I expect no less.

You are already doing that, says Franci with raised brows.

They are not making it very hard, Marc says, with a deliberate look slanted in Valentino’s direction. Pecco, especially. Oh, dear. The tension cracks under the force of his cackle, dodging when Valentino aims a kick at his calves.

Valentino points his tongs at him. Pecco may be struggling, but Bez – he will take you down a peg or two one of these days.

Marc rolls his shoulders, his smile smug and superior, all that needs to be said.

Valentino barks at him to stop smirking.

If there’s no more protest from the peanut gallery, come here and hold the tongs so that Gemma can post a sexy picture about it and Franci will be in the frame and the Internet can blow up.  

—

[Image ID: Marc is shirtless in a pair of orange boxers as he works a BBQ grill, smiling as he half-turns towards the woman captured in the frame, her dark hair drifting over her back, her shoulders bare, except for the straps of a black-stringed bikini top.]

User123: that looks like franci. Or gemma. I cannot tell.

User245: francesca and gemma actually do look a LOT alike. Rossi has an obvious type I fear.

        User67: and if I say marc too… [shot]

User204: that is not marc’s concrete cube of a house

User721: @User204 looks like Tavullia

        User204: @User721 how can you tell?

User721: @User204 checked back one of franci’s old posts. That literally looks like rossi’s swimming pool

User567: I’m waiting for the next Rossi podcast to find out what kind of conspiracy this is. Man has never been able to shut up his whole life. He will tell us everything for sure. #ForzaVale

—

Gemma: [sent an attachment]

Gemma: Oh come on… I studied so hard, too!

Marc: I heard many sounds the night before the exam. Nothing about it sounded like a diligent student studying

As her teacher I strongly attest to her studying very hard!

Marc: Something was hard alright jejeje

Well a teacher rewards a good, diligent student

Valentino: @Gemma let ME tutor you

Valentino: Franci you can just retire

You are hardly more qualified than me, Vale

Valentino: I have fourteen years more experience of speaking Italian than anyone else here

Well damn

Marc: gotta give the old man that one

Valentino: you may laugh Marc but who was it that helped you practice Italian?

Marc: oh yes all those tongue twisters 😛

Gemma: I’m sorry I can’t be there with you all tomorrow at the race

Marc: You shouldn’t be. The fans will be vicious.

Gemma: I could’ve practiced my Italian swear words at them. I’m very good now!

I know

<3

Valentino: When would you have heard her swearing?

She called you a toad-fucking troll the night you dramatically ran away from home to stay with Uccio’s after READING THE TEXTS HE CLONED OFF MY PHONE

Among other things

It was very inspiring

Marc: jejeje someone doesn’t have anything more to add I see

@Valentino I know you want to keep things on the down low

But if the fans don’t control themselves…

Gemma: 😳

Marc: 😳

Valentino: Booing is part of the sport

And fake graves?

Valentino: I will speak to security to confiscate those. Or bar those who insist on bringing insulting effigies and props.

Good

—

Franci can tell that the management of the sport has done their absolute best to – attempt to – keep the recent supernova in the personal lives of the riders from influencing the paddock.

Marc was not fielded for the press conference rotation. Valentino would arrive fashionably late, and limit his presence to, say, the VR46 team garage.

Uccio is there. He’s brought his wife and daughter, too, and for that, Franci is slightly more at ease. Things have been tense between. Uccio never apologized or even acknowledged what he’d done, and Valentino’s go-to approach is to pretend the unpleasantness hasn’t happened.

But Franci can’t forget. She’s just – hadn’t found the time to handle that yet.

Glimpsing Uccio, even as he’s just going around doing his work managing the team rather than speaking directly to her, makes her blood boil. Still she hasn’t come this far in life and the cutthroat reality of being a public-facing persona that she can’t compartmentalize and clear her face of disdain. She joins Uccio’s wife at the team hospitality and it’s easy to fall into conversation.

There is a tentativeness in the way Uccio’s wife speaks to her, and genuine concern in her eyes, especially when she asks, how are things at home? In a tone so delicate, so like that of other friends and family members who have reached out over the last few days that Franci already knows it’s because of the Austin kiss.

Vale and I are fine, says Franci vaguely.

I’m always here to talk, if you need to, Uccio’s wife says, leaning over, clasping her hands. I know how hard it can be when they travel all-year round and it feels as if there’s some… disconnection over the distance. Her smile is a little tremulous?

Franci smells blood.

She puts her hand over the other woman’s, widening her eyes. Oh?

—

Uccio’s wife has barely left when Franky, bearing a squirming, squealing Leta, wildly unhappy, comes jogging into the hospitality to find her.

Franci squashes her expression flat, turning her phone screen over before she manages to send, I have so much to tell you, to Gemma.

Oh, no, Leta, what happened?

Her daughter is red-faced, her brows all scrunched and she looks so much like Valentino in that moment Franci almost laughs.

Mama, Franky won’t let me down! She wails, her voice pitching to a scream that has Valentino’s oldest student wincing.

She was trying to follow a Ducati engineer to their garage, Franky explains with a fond little smile, even as Leta makes a grab for his earring, She wanted to visit Marc.

Marc! Leta yelps.

Franci reaches out to pluck Leta from Franky’s arms. Sorry about her, she says, smiling over the top of her daughter’s curls, absentmindedly fixing the crooked bow pinned to the side of her head, You can go back to work. I will take her from here. Leta, say bye-bye to Franky.

Leta blows a raspberry.

Franci pinches her bottom in warning, and Leta huffs a petulant bye. Franky slants her a rueful grin. Ciao, Leta, Franci and – Franky ducks into the pram to beam at Gabi, who blinks sleepily, halfway to a nap – Gabi. He tickles the edge of her socked feet, which she kicks, and then he’s gone.

What did I say about hitting people? Franci says, sternly, and Leta wilts a little, but her pout stays, stubborn.

I wanna see Marc.

In her pram, Gabi gurgles in recognition of that favorite word, kicking again. So much for sleep.

See? says Leta, even Gabi wants to see Marc.

I know, darling, but Marc is working. He can’t play with you. Marc was so single-minded on race days she knows he will barely spare them a glance. When he is in the zone, he might as well have been on another planet. The girls aren’t old enough to understand yet that it is not meant to be hurtful.  

When I see Marc? asks Leta.

After the important race, darling. We will go to his motorhome, okay?

How long?

Soon, she promises, because the Sprint is going to start in twenty minutes, and she was hoping to watch it without a tantrum to contend with.

Hating herself a little and hoping Valentino will not see it (because he will never let her live it down that she has resorted to using his favorite method of bribery), she pulls out her iPad. How about we play a game together? Just a short one, to settle Leta in before the Sprint, and then she will never use the iPad in this way again.

Leta settles in Franci’s lap, amazed by this generous offer when usually only Marc and Valentino would offer screentime. Racing game? She requests, sweetly.

Franci downloads one.

They soon find out she is terrible at it.

Mama, you’re not very good at this, Leta says. Papa and Marc are better.

… I don’t race for a living. She tickles Leta’s sides until the little girl concedes to that point. Then Leta takes over the game from there. Franci can see why so many parents give in to the temptation of utilizing screentime. Leta has never been quieter than when she has the iPad all to herself, and she is – Franci’s brows rise in appreciation – damningly good at racing, even if it’s just a blue cart on a track you can litter banana skin with which to blow your opponents off your tail.

The game keeps Leta engrossed – and Gabi finally settled down to nap – until the start of the Sprint, and well into it.

Marc cuts a crimson swathe on the TV screen in the hospitality, as he leads the charge across the Misano circuit, Bez hot in pursuit of the Ducati rider. Roars shake the stands.

Franci watches, fingers pressed to her lips.

Her concentration is so finely honed upon the race that when Leta shrieks – Aghhh! I crashed, Mama! – she jumps, and Leta slips down in her lap.

Whoops, she says, but her voice is drowned by the distant cheers and roars in the crowd. Something had happened.

She looks back up again, and her heart leaps in her throat, a gasped, No, escaping her lips when she sees the crimson rider go sliding into the gravel.

Marc Marquez – Turn 15 Crash

Leta looks up, too, and she recognizes the red color of the rider’s race suit easily enough. Marc-Marc?

The screen cuts then, to Valentino, on the pit wall. He’s leaning against the railings, propped on his elbows, and there’s no mistaking the twitch of his head, the smirk on his mouth.

Then they show the grandstands, the cheering crowd.

And Franci sees red.

—

[sent an attachment]

@Valentino

Gemma: fuckers I SAW that

Gemma: I would’ve flipped them back off

Valentino: I can’t control THAT franci

Valentino: [deleted message]

Gemma: I also saw that

Gemma: Franci he has the audacity to say it wasn’t his fault

Valentino: Don’t you have work? Get off the phone

Gemma: I’m in hair and makeup. I can text just fine.

Valentino: @Franci? I don’t quite understand what you want me to do with the picture. One of them is basically a kid, a stupid teenager. They’re being idiots. I cannot do anything about idiocy.

Gemma: I can hear you panic through the screen

Valentino: Well why did she send that and drop off the group chat?

Gemma: Unless she was reaaalllly angry oooh Vale’s in trouble

Valentino is typing…

Marc just called me

He said it’s fine

Gemma: Pft trust Marc to be nice about it

Marc is too nice

I am not

I would rather these fans not come to any races in the future

They do not deserve to be here if they do not respect every rider risking their lives every weekend for the sport

Valentino: you are asking me to ban them from the race tomorrow and then forever? A little harsh, Fran

Not forever. If they want to come back, there should be an apology as public as their offense to Marc

Honestly Marc forgives and forgets too easily

Valentino: They do say forgiveness is a virtue, my love

😒

Valentino: I promise you and Marc will not lay eyes on them nor breathe the same air as they do tomorrow or ever until and unless they apologize publicly. Happy?

No, she isn’t.

She’s still angry. She is, quite possibly, as bad as Valentino at letting of anger. Franci, it’s okay, really, drawls Marc from where he’s sprawled like a starfish on the couch. He must’ve heard – with his preternaturally sharp ears – the hiss she let out, the rapid heartbeat of a furious heart.

Valentino had taken the girls back home after they have seen Marc. Gabi doesn’t yet understand what crashes mean, but Leta has an inkling, and she had clung to Marc longer than normal. This seemed to make Valentino uncomfortable, by the twist in his expression. I worry, he muttered when she prodded him, she will have nightmares about crashes like that. Maybe they should not come to the races as often.

Children are more resilient than you think, she said, brushing her thumb over his wrist, pressing into the silver of his thin bangle.

Valentino’s gaze flickered with a memory, and she had wondered if it was of his own father’s crashes that he was thinking of. But Valentino tucked that memory away and pulled his smile up in place: Leta was calling for him, Papa!

That was two hours ago. Franci had stayed to have dinner with Marc and Alex and the Gresini team – Nadia, lovely, lovely woman – who have presumably been warned off of asking probing questions. Now she sits with Marc in the motorhome while he lounges on the couch. She is hitching a ride back to the ranch with Luca later, once he’s done his debrief with Honda. Mig is still around but she knows asking Mig to give her a ride back is like volunteering for a live dissection. Luca has probably guessed at some things and decided he does not need to know anymore, for the sake of his own peace.

Marc is watching replays, but his phone buzzes. Gemma and Vale are still texting in the group chat.

Is it because you are both riders? Franci finds herself asking, unable to contain the bafflement anymore.

Huh?

I feel as if Valentino is taking all this very lightly.

Well. He is.

And so are you!

I’m used to it. This is not the worst I’ve –

Punching a fist into the seat of the couch, she leans on it when she rounds on the Spaniard. Marc, I know you have a big heart, and you do not like holding onto resentment and you love the big idiot –

So do you, Marc reminds her, in case she had forgotten or something. His eyes lift briefly up from his iPad to look at her.

– but this sort of behavior is not usually acceptable.

For the first time, something in his amused, above-it-all vague smile falters. It is if it’s at Marc Marquez. Didn’t they tell you? I’m a special case.

Marc, be serious. Valentino let them run unchecked all these years and now they think anything is fair game. She wouldn’t have noticed, or she would’ve but not put a second thought behind it, if she had not known what it was like to be in Marc’s shoes, walking miles in them.

Marc squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. Even if he speaks up now, it won’t undo the haters’ behavior overnight. And I don’t like being angry, Franci. I’ve had enough of that for those years, with the arm. I tell myself as long as I can race again, everything else is secondary, that I will be grateful.

You shouldn’t have to earn grace with pain, says Franci. Imagine if they had done that to the girls, or Alex or Gemma.

Then I will kill them with my bare hands, says Marc, flatly. When he opens his eyes, they narrow into a formidable glower.

You love so fiercely, says Franci, reaching for his cheeks, framing his face between her hands, brow furrowing, I wish you would love yourself the same.

Ah, Franci, he ducks his head, shy at the splurge of affection, I have you and Alex for that. I do not need to try half as hard. Jejeje.

She pretends she doesn’t see the wet sheen of his eyes.

—

The drive back to Tavullia from the circuit is made in silence. Luca lets her keep her peace, but he does ask, once, All-good at home, Franci? Steffi asked if we could all have dinner after the race. Pause. Marc and Gemma, too.

Gemma will fly over Sunday evening, agrees Franci absentmindedly, but it is a good plan.

Luca hums in agreement and keeps his foot on the gas.

Her reply has probably filled in the rest of the blanks for him. His side-profile, handsome, similar to Valentino’s but distinctive still, reveals a small smile.

Franci turns to look back out the window; watches the signs flash in the darkness, when the headlights glance off the bright yellow signs, resting her cheek on her palm. It’s not like she doesn’t understand Marc’s determination to ignore the topic, the torrent of abuse, past and present, because as a sportsman your mentality is tougher than that, and maybe this is where they differ.

You’re not Marc, she reminds herself. Even if they share a body sometimes, she isn’t him. She shouldn’t be subjecting her standards of Valentino – she did not start to forgive Valentino until she had seen that his sincerity to fix things was true – onto Marc.

She’s toying with the phone strap with her other hand, her phone resting in her lap, when she feels it buzz with a text. She picks it up, the glow of the phone screen bright in the dim lucence of Luca’s car, and checks her notifications bar, wondering if Gemma has replied.

It wasn’t Gemma, but Valentino who had sent her a private message. Check Insta.

Curious, she navigates to Instagram.

Valentino has posted a story:

valeyellow46

I’ve always been thankful for the fans’ support over my years of racing and I’m happy the enthusiasm hasn’t waned even after I’ve left.

But today I was not very happy to see unsportsmanlike behavior in the stands after a certain rider crashed, especially at this circuit which has been named after a dear friend of mine who is no longer with us. When you cheer and make obscene gestures at a rider after they crash, you bring a bad look to the sport and other fans.

Thankfully this time the rider was not hurt.

They are not always so lucky.

Remember that.

—

At home, Valentino is waiting for her in the patio. They have a swing set installed for the girls, but they have been put to bed, and the house is quiet with only them; the chains of the swing creaks when Valentino twizzles on it, turning at the sound of her approach.

I’m home, she says, simply.

Valentino smiles – the barely-there twitch of his lips, but which makes his eyes soften around the edges, that brings out the laugh lines - it’s her favorite smile out of all his smiles.

She still remembers the first time she saw it directed at her, when they started dating, some six, seven months in, and she’d been flying into Rome where he was going to pick her up but her flight got delayed twice, eight whole hours she was late, and she’d expected him to have left and arranged for a cab: instead, in the hushed September dawn, she stepped out of the lounge to find him sitting hunched over, and she had recognized him by the pronounced jut of his terrible spinal posture and hideous bucket hat just as he recognized the cadence of her footsteps as she approached and he looked up –

You’re here, Valentino had said, with that smile, that smile like a fist, reaching into her chest, wrenching at her heart.

She was clad in a hoodie and comfortable sweatpants, bare of makeup and her hair a mess, and he had smiled at her like he’d waited his whole life for her.

You’re home, says Valentino now, eyes crinkling. He sways on the swing’s seat like a big kid, reaching over to snag the chain of the other swing, Want to join me?

She does want to. She wants to crawl into his lap and melt into him, in fact, but she can do that later. She wants to talk.

She plops down in the swing next to him, kicking the ground a little to push herself in motion.

I saw the story, she tells him.

I wanted you to. A pause, deliberate. She knows without looking that Valentino would have that look of pinched concentration, carefully choosing his words. I know it was important to you.

It was. Thank you, Vale.

He nods absently.

Did you think it was silly? Franci blurts out, To make a big deal out of it?

A little, at first, admits Valentino, and it was only the stripped-raw quality to his words that give away his vulnerability rather than his body, which looks relaxed as he sways on the swing, but then I remembered what Gemma said in Ibiza about how I have double standards between Marc and… everyone else.

His feet dig into the ground, pulling himself to a halt. Franci mimics him, pulls herself to a stop, too. Valentino is looking at the spot between his feet, his shoulders bunched, like a huge bird about to take flight.

He and I are used to hurting one another. At times, it was the only way we could reach one another.

Vale, she says, throat tight.

Ten years, says Valentino, almost wistfully, his mouth curving into a rueful smile, it’s going to take a while to unlearn something that went on for so long.

Franci abandons her swing – the rattling of chains makes him look up – to stand in front of him, and he slides his knees apart to make room for her, let her stand closer in, and she goes, fingers under his chin, tipping his face up to face hers.

I will teach you, and so will Gemma, Franci promises him.

Valentino blinks, and a new smile, a cheeky one that twinkles in his eyes, shows. I’ll be a better student than Gemma is with Italian.

Franci laughs. Oh. That bad, huh?

The worst, says Valentino gleefully, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her onto the swing to join him, and she laughs.

—

They have Stefania and Luca and his family over at the ranch for family dinner on Sunday evening after the race.

Marc smuggles Alex out of the circuit and into the backseat of Luca’s car, his brother grumbling a token protest the whole way, and Valentino goes and returns with Gemma from the airport, laden with bags of presents and souvenirs, even as Valentino complains that she is spoiling Leta and Gabi rotten like he does not do so himself.

Mama! calls Leta, running over with excited eyes and a big grin, cheeks flushed from chasing Gemma around the hallways, her hair in two braided pigtails Marc has clumsily put together. She holds out her hand for Franci to take. Everyone’s here.

Smiling, Franci lets her daughter lead her to the dining table.