Chapter Text
When Marco crashed out of training, he immediately knew something was wrong with him.
His collarbone was hurting, and so was his head; it was throbbing as if he had just been hit by a baseball bat. Upon trying to get back up and run to his bike, he immediately understood that this was it for him.
Fuck…
His dark gear caught the Italian sun of Tavullia as he heard people rushing over to help him. He simply sat on the ground and waited for someone to come to him, like a lost child.
“It hurts like a bitch!” He shouted to nobody in particular, kicking a leg straight and raising a cloud of dust from the track. Marco decided to try to take off his helmet, only to realize that he probably shouldn't move his right arm too much.
“Bez! Are you alright?” Pecco fretted as he kneeled next to him. Marco tried to give him his most unimpressed glare from under his goggles.
“Obviously not, fuck!” He howled when he was jolted by someone else. “Vale, watch it,” he hissed in pain.
His mentor reeled back like he was slapped, looking out of breath from his run. “Where does it hurt?” the older man barked in a commanding tone, making Marco straighten instinctively.
“Ah, shoulder. Maybe collarbone…?” He trailed off, unwilling to move his arm to test out which theory was true.
Pecco made a pained noise next to him and helped him get up slowly. “You're sure you're alright?” He asked in worry.
Marco gave a scoff.
“I'm fine, it just hurts,” he said with a reassuring smile despite his heart beating loudly in his chest. It didn't feel like a small injury. Marco was smiling through gritted teeth from how painful it was. He didn't want the others to catch on; the last thing he needed was to worry them even more.
“We need an ambulance!”
“No, we don't! Stop freaking out, Cele, he's not dying!”
Marco groaned.
This day just kept on getting fucking better, didn't it?
*
“You will need surgery.”
Fuck his life.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, “And how long will the recovery take? Hypothetically?”
The doctor hummed.
Vale shot the man a scorching glare.
Marco rolled his eyes.
Luca had offered to drive him to the hospital, and so had Pecco and Franky and Luca and Mig, but Vale had decided that none of them were competent enough for the job and had thrown him in the backseat of his BMW like a hurt child.
“We'd like an answer within the next decade,” Vale growled.
The doctor looked up from his paperwork to give his teacher an unimpressed stare.
“If the surgery goes well, and combined with physical therapy, around two weeks. There shouldn't be any complications.”
“Two weeks?!”
“Does that mean I'll miss the next race?” He asked, feeling lost. He…he couldn’t. He was third in the standings. If he wasn’t cleared for Mandalika, then what was the fucking point?
The doctor sighed, “Marco, I am not the one who will clear you for the race, nor do I make the rules. Now, we have some place for you right now, but we can always reschedule—”
“No! We'll do the surgery now, thanks!”
Like hell he was going to drag this longer than necessary.
“I'm an idiot!” He whined at Vale once they were out of the room. Of course, he had to go and break himself like a dumbass the weekend before a race. He ruined everything.
“You are not! It was an accident, Bez. We will make sure you're in shape for the next race, okay?” Vale said, giving him a hug on his left side.
“You really think I can?” Because even with the surgery, he'd have to work his ass off to get back in good shape. Could he even do that in one week?
“We'll get you the best physiotherapist we can find,” the older man promised, his face serious. Marco's shoulder dropped in relief.
Right. He could do this. He could.
Marco sighed as a nurse signalled for him to come forward.
First the surgery, then rehabilitation.
Easy peasy.
*
“How do you feel?” Vale fretted over his hospital bed. The older man looked like he hadn’t stopped pacing since Marco got into that operating room.
He hid a smile. It was nice to see Vale so worried about him.
“I feel like I shouldn't move my right arm and shoulder, but otherwise I'm…good? I think it went well!” He said with a smile. It hadn’t been a very big or long surgery, after all. He did feel really good; he might just manage to get cleared before Indonesia.
“Grande! That's good. Now I have already contacted a specialist in—”
“Hello, gentlemen,” the doctor said as he entered the room. Marco had the stupid urge to wave his right hand before realizing he couldn’t move it due to the immobilizing cast they gave him. He settled for an awkward smile.
“What now?” Vale snapped impatiently, making Marco's eyebrows raise in astonishment. Was there some kind of history between the two he wasn’t aware of? Why was Vale being so rude?
“Everything went smoothly, you both can go home, but it's also my job to provide this young man with a list of physiotherapists, Valentino,” the old man said, sounding exasperated.
So he wasn’t imagining things; they did know each other.
His teacher rolled his eyes, “He does not need your stupid list—”
“Those are the best physiotherapists for sports injuries in the world.”
“Like I said, stupid.”
Marco watched the back and forth with wide eyes. “Vale, if this list has the best guys, shouldn't we want to…look at it?” He asked, feeling stupid.
He was missing something, but he also didn't really care. If there was someone who could get him healed up in time, Marco would take it. As simple as that.
“The physio I called is perfectly qualified to rehabilitate you. He can meet you this afternoon,” Vale argued.
“But he's not the best, right?”
His teacher froze, and so did Marco after clipping his mouth shut. He didn't know why Vale looked so angry. Wasn’t the goal to get him back into shape?
The doctor sighed and handed him the list. “We're aware of your situation, and we've already contacted the man at the top spot. Fortunately, he was already in the region for business. You can go meet him and decide whether you want to work with him or not. Ultimately, the choice is yours,” the old man said, putting a special emphasis on ‘yours' while shooting a look at Valentino, who immediately glared back.
Marco raised the paper with his functioning left hand, scanning all the names until he found the top spot.
“He's not even that good,” he heard Vale complain.
He heard that name before.
Marc Márquez.
“When can I meet him?” He asked numbly, and Vale's head whipped around to stare at him.
“Marco, you are not considering this.”
He shrugged.
Yes. No. Maybe.
“I can always say no,” he reminded the older man. He knew why Vale was acting like this; it made sense now, but he still had to try, no matter how hesitant he was.
It's not like he was a fan of the idea either. Marc Márquez was…
“Good. I will send for him.”
And with that, the doctor disappeared with one last nod in their direction. Marco looked at his fucked collarbone and sighed.
Cazzo, he hated this.
Vale didn't say anything, only muttering under his breath before standing up and leaving. Probably for a smoke break.
Marc Márquez.
Marco knew about him. Of course he did. Vale ranted enough for two people. The Spaniard had been his physiotherapist a long while ago, and whatever happened between the two of them had been monumental enough for Vale to curse him every time his name was mentioned. It had always been weird to Marco, because as far as he knew, Vale had actually gotten better under Marc's guidance, despite the older man saying the Spaniard was terrible at his job.
He was probably a massive asshole. Vale didn't just dislike anyone like this.
So when he was told a room number to pass by, he bit his cheek and smiled. He wasn’t going to be intimidated or bullied by someone meant to help him. So he laughed and laughed as he went to meet the guy, thinking: ‘How pitiful must that bastard look, huh? To be hated by Valentino Rossi.’
He opened the door cackling.
And froze right after.
Márquez turned to look at him and gave him a cocky smile. “Mr. Bezzecchi, please have a seat.”
Marco sat down, still staring.
Surely this wasn’t the right guy.
Vale, he'd…he'd never said how old Márquez was, but surely this wasn’t him. Marco had imagined a guy Vale's age with a mean look to his face and a cruel tilt of the lips. Not a man barely looking in his thirties with an arrogant grin and intelligent eyes.
Márquez raised an eyebrow. “Are you alright?”
Marco blinked and fought the blush that threatened to crawl on his face.
“Marc Márquez, right? They told me you could help,” he said, not beating around the bush.
The Spaniard gave a laugh, like he had just told a good joke, and Marco frowned. He didn't like him.
“I can, yes. You have until Friday, si? We will need to put you to work, and I will need you to follow every single instruction I give you. If you complain or refuse, it won’t work out. But ultimately? It is doable,” the man said, writing something on the sheet of paper in front of him. He didn't look like he cared much about Marco, like he was just another inconvenience to order around and quickly get rid of.
He didn’t know why it made him so angry.
“If it's so easy, then why the hell should I pick you? I have other options lined up,” He growled, not liking getting ignored. No way he was going to accept working with this controlling bastard, Vale was right. He'd rather have a nice physio who listened to him and did his job like a normal person.
Márquez didn't look up. “Because I'm the best at what I do. If you want to settle for second, be my guest.”
Marco felt frustration travel through him.
“Maybe I will! It's not like you could make much of a difference!” He spat and stood up. Fuck this, Marco wasn't going to spend more time with this arrogant piece of shit. How the hell did he still have a job? His clients must be running the other way around.
Only then did Márquez bother looking at him, and Marco froze all over again. There was a light in these eyes. It looked like a challenge.
“You wouldn't be able to handle me anyway.”
He didn't answer, only glaring one last time before turning on his heels and slamming the door behind him as he left. He stayed in the alleyway for a short moment, panting in anger.
That asshole was lucky he couldn't punch him right now.
Marco gritted his teeth and opened his phone to text Vale.
Fuck this shit.
*
“You made a good choice, Marco,” Vale said, patting him on the thigh. Marco only rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in front of his chest, squinting to protect his eyes from the setting sun.
“Yeah, sure. I should be out there, Vale,” he whined as the roar of motocross bikes came closer. He loved evening training, and instead, he was stuck on his camping chair with an arm immobilized and fury radiating off him.
“You will be soon enough. Stephano is very good at his job,” Vale praised with a smile, and Marco allowed himself to feel bad for a singular moment.
The thing was, he lied.
He'd left his appointment with Márquez feeling like he'd rather die than employ him. The guy might have a pretty face, but he was just like Marco had imagined him to be: an asshole not worth his time and money. But then he met Stephano in the afternoon.
The man was fine, but…
Something about his energy told him he couldn’t care less about any progress Marco made on his injury as long as he was paid. He’d looked at him and at his bound arm, and had simply said he would give him a few exercises to do. That didn’t sound like an efficient way to heal in a week. The lack of drive in the man’s eyes had been completely off-putting to him.
So Marco, in a move that surprised even him, still employed the physiotherapist, told him to keep his mouth shut and act like he was doing his job, and gave his name to his friends the moment he came back to the ranch. Vale's face had lit up in joy at the news.
Then, secretly, he’d texted Márquez for a second appointment.
Sure, Vale told him he was terrible; a liar that messed around and didn't take his job seriously. Marco trusted him, and he wanted to get better as soon as possible. So why would he stay with that guy, especially when their first meeting had gone so terribly?
Curiosity.
Pure, unbearable curiosity. He had a second physio now anyway.
At first, he didn't want to, but it was an odd feeling to have professionals praise Márquez and have Vale diminish him. Who was he even supposed to believe? This didn't make sense to him.
He really didn't know why he was doing this, but he liked a challenge, and that was exactly what Márquez had issued him. And if someone got wind of who he was paired with, they would be separated quickly enough. Vale had influence as his boss, after all. But Marco was curious, sue him. What could this guy even do? They told him he was the best at his job, but that annoying asshole didn't look like it.
(But then he'd confidently told Marco he could fix him in a few days, while Stephano had rolled his eyes at him like he didn't matter.)
He'd laughed, thinking Marc was nothing but another piece of shit he had no need to put up with.
Now? He didn't feel like laughing anymore. His entire career in MotoGP felt at stake, and here he was, being curious.
(Could the Spaniard really do it?)
His phone vibrated with a new text message. An invite for a Zoom call with a name stamped right on it. Bez watched the guys do their laps around the ranch and gritted his teeth.
"Something came up?"' Vale asked next to him, his helmet now discarded.
Bez simply shook his head and flipped his phone face down. He gave a smile he hoped felt convincing.
"Nothing important.”
No one asked him any questions about how his meeting with Stephano went, and Marco didn't bring it up.
And just like that, he was going to get fucking better.
No matter what.
*
They didn’t really get along, which wasn't a surprise to him. Marco was irked because the moment Monday hit, his friends kept asking for updates on his situation every single hour of the day. They looked even more anxious than he was. Vale was also being very annoying about every single detail of his recovery plan, and the perpetual lying was starting to get tiring.
He had to relay info to his second physiotherapist and act like he'd been spending time with him. All to keep Márquez a secret because he'd rather die than get in an argument with his teacher right now.
The worst part about this terrible plan was probably that everyone was actually buying it. It was like they really thought he would want to spend his rehabilitation time with that overcooked noodle with no fire inside of him. What was Vale thinking, recommending him?
And Márquez? He was smug and sharp, and he poked at his forming scar with a laugh, throwing him exercises to do and baiting him all day long. A complete pain in the ass.
“I could lift that weight with two fingers.”
“Why are you raising your arm like this? It’s wrong.”
“Stop complaining and stretch slowly! Speed won’t get you anywhere.”
“For someone who wants to get better in just a few days, you’re not acting like it!”
The constant comments were starting to get to him. Marco tried to spend as little time as he could in Marc's presence. He agreed to this, but that didn't mean he had to prolong it. He refused to admit that the insults were actually fueling him, or that Marc’s face whenever he achieved a new exercise both made him want to preen and punch him.
“You're slacking off!”
“I'm not, this hurts, asshole!” He snapped back, making Marc pause. He tried to lift the weight with his tensed arm once more, only for a hand to land on his good shoulder.
“Stop,” Marc simply said.
He growled, “I'm trying to get better, so unless you actually want to help, you can fuck off—”
“No, I said stop, Marco. You're only going to prolong the healing process if you keep this up. Rehabilitation is slow, don't push it.”
“I can't afford to be slow right now!” He hissed, feeling frustration boil inside of him. But Marc only gave him a patient look, far too understanding for his taste.
“I know, but you have to. You may not like me, but trust that I want you to be healed as soon as possible,” Márquez said, none of that arrogance present. It threw Marco out of the loop.
He wanted to argue, to say that he didn't dislike Marc…but that wouldn't feel like the complete truth. He did dislike him and his attitude. The fact that he managed to get on Vale's bad side only brought more reasons to stay away.
(And yet here he was.)
Marc sighed. “We're done for today. Do that exercise once more before sleeping, and you'll be set.”
Marco blinked. “Already? But we didn't—”
“Marco. You spent three hours in the hospital with me, went back home, then came back because you wanted to do more. You're already on the right track,” Marc explained with an exasperated look.
He winced. He did do that. Marco might not like Marc all that much, but it didn't matter against his hopes of getting better. If he had to bear the Spaniard cackling as he failed to raise a weight, then he would take it.
(His laugh wasn't so unpleasant either.)
“So I just go back home and do nothing?” He asked helplessly. This wasn’t how he thought it would go.
Marc shrugged. “You have to let your body recover. I know you might feel like rushing it, but trust me, it's not worth it.”
There was something about that tone that stopped him short. The older man sounded like he knew a lot about it. He wanted to ask, but…
It wasn’t really any of his business, was it?
So he gave Marc a tired nod and left the hospital feeling as if he had just finished racing Suzuka 8 Hours. He'd sleep, he'd wake up, and then he'd come back to the clinic and train again. Easy.
(It really wasn't.)
He felt…alone, as he made his way back to his house in Rimini. The rest of the Academy was training, and Vale couldn’t really visit when he was so busy with them. Not that he’d want them to; he did ask for some space, after all.
Curse his curiosity, and curse Márquez for this.
All of this would be so much easier if he hadn’t been an asshole and pissed Vale off to the point of attempted murder.
speaking off…
His phone rang, and Marco picked up with a sigh.
“Hi, Vale,” he muttered in exhaustion.
“Allora, Marco. How did it go? Did you make some more progress?”
“I feel like you already asked me that a hundred times,” he chuckled. “It's fine, Vale. M—Stephano is helping, and I already feel better.”
Vale made a happy noise. “Good, good! I should call him too, to get his notes on—”
“No! You really don't have to do that! I swear I am perfectly fine,” he hurried to say, his heart rate picking up. Maybe it was stupid to hide something like this from Vale, but it truly felt like the right thing to do. The things the man had said in the past…Marco couldn’t just believe he'd allow this. It was next to impossible.
He heard the older Italian sigh. “Be careful with your body, yes?”
“I promise, Vale,” he whispered.
And he would be.
Vale hung up, and he sighed, grabbing a towel. A shower, then the exercises, then sleep. He was going to get better one day at a time and be patient, just like Marc said he should be.
He didn't really pay attention as he got inside the shower, and he immediately felt like he would regret it for the rest of his life as he slipped on wet tiles. Marco yelped, and he didn't even get to utter a single curse as he fell on his right side, exactly where his collarbone was still aching.
He stayed unmoving on the floor, his mind numb with pain. Drops of water hit his face, but he didn’t bother shaking them off.
It hurt.
It hurt.
It hurt.