Chapter Text
March–April 2025.
It cannot be said that Marco Bezzecchi isn’t a friendly person.
A little shy? Perhaps. But once he gets used to someone new, his attitude warms up, and he becomes quite a nice, maybe even a little charming fellow.
Those who knew him for longer than a few weeks complimented his sense of humour and childlike spontaneity, appreciated his kindness and honesty. Whether it was a good company or help that one needed, he was always there, and even though he had his moments of emotional exhaustion or simply bad mood, he still was overall a great guy whose number pretty much everyone was happy to have in their contacts.
His new flatmate, however–
You see, to hold grudges against people whom he just met was not in Marco’s style. Yet the moment he looked into Marc Márquez’s eyes, big, dark, and shiny as two ripe cherries, he felt a current run through his spine.
There was nothing alarming in that guy’s appearance, though. He was handsome as hell, and perhaps even hot; so ridiculously Spanish as if his job was to be a walking stereotype. In reality, what he did for a living was modelling, which made perfect sense, unlike the fact that he was, apparently, single and didn’t make enough money to afford renting a flat alone.
And yet there was… something.
Something in his rich Spanish accent, flowing like a fast little brook, marked by crisp, rolling ‘r’s and soft, slightly lisping ‘s’ sounds. Something in the way his shoulder muscles strained against the sleeves of his shirt and his deep, golden tan contrasted with its stark white fabric. Something that made Marco freeze for a solid five seconds before reaching out to shake Marc’s hand, blushing a shade of red that probably matched the Ducati motorcycles.
And that unexplainable snag, some kind of a pitfall that he sensed from afar but just couldn’t see yet, made Bezzecchi’s life, frankly speaking, miserable.
Truly, if anyone asked him whether he wanted to share his space with that person, he would’ve said no before even hearing the end of sentence, but alas.
His previous flatmate, an introverted dude from his class whom he didn’t really hang out with much, had not even warned him about moving out until Marco saw him packing up skillets and knives. Ten minutes into the passive aggressive discussion, Marco learned that earlier that day, while he was fighting sleep at the lecture, their landlord had already met the new tenant and showed him around.
And just a week later that guy crossed the threshold of a relatively spacious two-bedroom apartment in boring west London, smelling of fancy cologne, carrying a goddamn Rimowa suitcase, and looking like he just walked off the last Men’s Health cover, his grin bright enough to blind.
So basically Marco had no choice but to accept it. Shake hands, fake a smile, and hope his gut feeling was wrong.
And so he did.
It doesn’t mean he was enthusiastic about it, though. On the contrary, the welcome he gave his new flatmate was probably colder than their radiators, because, after all, sharing square meters and rent never implied being pals, so why bother.
Which, in hindsight, was the first red flag, since Marco, though hardy a social butterfly, had nonetheless been brought up with good manners and Italian hospitality, and would certainly have invited anyone else to at least have dinner and get to know each other better.
And in that case he didn’t.
But to be fair, he wasn’t exactly rude either. Just kept a respectful distance and tried not to speak more than just necessary. After all, his only goal was to simply set clear boundaries and by that protect his own peace of mind, and that was it.
Because all he wanted to was to live his calm, quiet life of an automotive engineering student who worked part-time as a motorcycle mechanic to survive in the current state of economy. To keep focused on his daily grind and brighten it up with some little joys. To drink his morning coffee and smoke a nice evening cigarette on the balcony; to wind down with Friday night beers and FIFA with friends or, occasionally, a couple tequilas in one of their favourite spots; to have three hour long video calls with parents and play amateur basketball with some guys from the local sports bar.
And yet his new flatmate intervened.
Marco wasn’t paranoid enough to think that the guy was doing that on purpose, for sure. No, he was taking it for what is was – just a series of very annoying coincidences.
Sometimes, though, they pissed him off so badly that he unwillingly wondered whether they really had always been unintended.
First, Marc always waking up earlier because he was religious about his morning runs and craving a cup of coffee exactly when Marco would finish his breakfast. Freshly showered, with his hair not yet styled and still a bit damp, Márquez would greet him with a perfect wide smile, take out his own moka pot, and politely suggest to make a portion for him as well. And even though Marco would absolutely decline that kind offer each time, it would nevertheless be made.
Every. Single. Day.
Next, Marc having a ritual of spending free evenings cozied up on their living room sofa, glasses on, an e-book in one hand and a mug of some herbal tea in the other. Which wouldn’t even be bothersome if only he didn’t give Marco a look each time the guy was sneaking past him, as quiet and quick as a shadow, onto the balcony with a Marlboro pack picking out of his pocket.
Occasionally he would also say some unnecessary shit like “It’s cold, take a jacket” or “You’ve left your lighter on the windowsill”, yet most of the times he just stared in a silent judgment that, despite being soundless, spoke louder than any words. He also wrinkled his beautiful nose at the smell of tobacco as Marco walked back, but never complained directly, and it was driving Bezzecchi a little insane, because even a full scale scandal seemed like a far better option than whatever behaviour that was.
And then there were… contacts. Physical ones. Not really much of them, but still way more than there should’ve been.
Not deliberate, just accidental. A feather light touch on Marco’s back when he was blocking the cupboard door while cutting vegetables. A sudden brush of fingers when Marco handed the IPhone adapter, one that he lent so graciously when Marc left his own at the coffee shop. A graze upon Marco’s elbow, stopping him on the way to his bedroom because he forgot to close the balcony door.
All perfectly explainable and undoubtedly unintentional, and yet so irritating that Marco shivered with something he wished he could’ve called disgust each time he remembered them.
Apart from all that, though, Márquez never crossed the line.
He gave up his pointless attempts to be friendly by the end of the first week, and since then they have hardly spoken, except for short morning greetings or, say, purely polite suggestions to make a cup of coffee. There even were days when they didn’t see each other at all, their tight schedules not intertwining at any point, and the only thing that reminded Marco that he, in fact, had a flatmate was the smell of expensive perfume that seemed to have soaked into pieces of furniture and stuck to the paint on the walls.
Yet Marco failed to accept new reality nonetheless. Which was absurd, or embarrassing, even, because there were no objective reasons for him to be this annoyed. But as he couldn’t change the way he felt about the circumstances and moving out wasn’t an option, he had to take at least some additional measures.
So he tried to move his boundaries even further.
To minimize their already rare interactions, he started smoking outside, and if it was raining, he’d puff away right by his room’s open window, not giving a damn that the bitter smell lingered on the bedsheets and curtains. And to avoid Marc in the mornings, he sacrificed precious ten minutes of snoozing to get up earlier and have his coffee before the guy would come out of bathroom.
And thankfully, a few days like this later, it seemed to have worked.
Until one evening.
***
April 11th, 2025.
It was the first Friday evening in months that Marco was spending at home.
One of his friends had a cold, and the others were either busy with different plans or not in the mood for adventures, so a bachelor’s dinner and some good movie from his endless “to watch” list was the only decent option he had left.
After finishing his shift at the garage, he did the usual five stops on the Tube, then popped into the local Tesco for a tin of tuna and ice cream and was just about to head home, but the weather was so nice – English definition of nice – that he just couldn’t resist having a cigarette under a blossoming tree.
The sun was only beginning to crawl down to the line of horizon, hidden by too many buildings of the dull overcrowded city, yet its rays still slid through the gaps between nearby houses and reached the lush cloud of white petals, painting them a warm shade of yellow and falling onto his badly shaven face. A romantic with smears of oil on his forearms and dust in his curls, as pale as a ghost after a week of bad sleep and unending stress, he thought, “Why not?”, already flicking the lighter, and let himself enjoy the beauty of the moment, not even caring about how ridiculous he must’ve looked from the outside.
The sweet solitude lasted no longer than a minute, though. While he was slowly inhaling nicotine, thinking about nothing in particular, out of nowhere appeared a small tabby cat, rubbed its head against his legs, and let out a loud, raspy meow.
“Are you hungry?” he asked in a silly voice, tapping off the ash, and the animal looked up at him, swishing the tail, and repeated the sound, squeaky and bold, clearly irritated by the dumbness of that question. “Of course you are”.
Attentively watched by a pair of green eyes, he quickly finished his cigarette, said “Wait here”, and went back to the shop for a sachet of Sheba or anything of the kind. The cat was smart – all strays usually are – and stayed at the exact same place, not an inch left or right, as it seemed, and only when Marco came back, it sprang to its feet and impatiently shoved its face under his hands, making it harder to squeeze out the jelly.
“Here you are,” he crouched down, as the tabby began chewing, and carefully scratched it behind the ear. “You like salmon, huh?”
The cat didn’t answer, obviously, but a satisfied purr was enough. His own stomach growled, though, and the ice cream in his bag had certainly started to melt, so he gave his new friend one more gentle scratch and finally went home to take a shower and cook some food for himself.
When he entered the flat, Marc was nowhere to be seen, but the pair of his favourite trainers remained in its usual place, and each of his jackets was hanging neatly on his half of the wardrobe. Noticing that at once, Bezzecchi sighed and internally prayed that the guy had already had his dinner; to get stuck in the kitchen with him would’ve been a real torture.
Heavens listened to him that time; when he walked out of bathroom, the flat was still dark and quiet, with only a sliver of light seeping under Marc’s bedroom door. Relieved, Marco tossed his T-shirt into his separate laundry basket, then slipped on his headphones, put on one of his many playlists, and started laying out ingredients on the counter, quietly humming along to the familiar tunes.
Olive oil, onions, tinned tuna and gorgeous passata his mum always put in his bag when he was leaving Rimini. What he was about to cook out of those was a simple, yet hearty dish, one of the few that he knew how to make by heart, with no recipe or precise measurements needed. Not much to be proud of for a man pushing thirty, but still better than ordering noodles that would’ve given him stomach cramps.
Thinking about how many of those boring Londoners were paying money for heavily overseasoned and overpriced takeout, he smiled to himself and rinsed the knife under cold water – a little trick grandma taught him to keep from crying when dealing with onions. “Does Marc ever eat takeout?” he wondered then out of the blue and immediately shook his head, wincing as if the thought itself was something indecent and shameful.
“Perhaps not,” it went on nonetheless, and he put the cutting board down too hard, his jaw clenched and cheeks blushing. “Too much carbs and cholesterol, not enough fibre and class”.
Which was, most probably, true, because Marc really looked like he ate boiled chicken and leafy greens only.
Marco saw him shirtless a dozen of times, as he had a habit of leaving his hair ties next to the bathroom sink and remember it just as his flatmate was done taking a shower, and also had curious sisters who stalked Márquez’s Instagram and sent him a ton of screenshots. Sweaty gym mirror selfies, aesthetic beach photos, high-resolution pictures for underwear brands; Marc’s body was gorgeous on each. A perfect balance of muscles and flesh, a beautiful smoothness of sun kissed skin, and a single flaw of somewhat eerie scar on a shoulder. A person ordering Chinese on Fridays could never be like this.
But it’s not like Marco was jealous, no. On the contrary, he admired the dedication and years of hard work, and if that dude wasn’t making him anxious for whatever illogical reason, he would’ve, perhaps, even expressed it directly, but‒
The thought broke off in the middle, as he felt a warm touch on his back.
Caught off guard, he flinched, so the knife twitched in his hand and its blade quickly slipped. A sharp pain followed, and through the sound of music, he heard himself swearing loudly, then popped his finger into his mouth and felt a salty, metallic taste on his tongue.
Gradually grasping what had just happened, he reached for his phone and paused the song – one of his favourites, what a joke, – then finally turned around, sensing the subtle citrusy smell of Marc’s cologne before even seeing his face.
“I’m sorry,” the guy said as soon as they made eye contact, and surprisingly enough, it seemed like he actually meant it, his voice worried and brows slightly furrowed. “I didn’t want to scare you”.
“It’s okay,” Marco lied, a flush of embarrassment burning his scalp and ears, and hurried to step to the left and twist the cold water tap. “It’s my fault”.
“I’ll bring a plaster,” Marc answered, noticing bright red blood before the thin stream washed it down. “And something to clean the cut”.
“But I’ve already cleaned it,” Bezzecchi objected, trying to rip off a paper towel with his free hand, and heard something between a chuckle and heavy sigh in response. “It’s just a scratch, so–”
“Just dry it,” Marc interrupted him softly, then took the whole roll, pulled off a small piece and carefully tore it off. “And wait for me here”.
“Don’t tell me what to do”, Marco wanted to say, and those words even tickled the back of his throat, but he swallowed them just in time.
“As if I have anywhere to run”, he almost blurted out next, yet the bleeding began again, so he had to eventually take the damn towel and cover the wound with it.
“Thank you”, he murmured at last, his stare studying the tiles on the kitchen floor, and it must’ve looked awkward as hell, or at least it felt so, but Marc just hummed in approval and walked to the bathroom door.
He returned in less than a minute, but the white paper had already started becoming pink, and the pain changed to a dull, pulsing ache. Marco didn’t even think the wound was that deep; his Saturday shift was about to be screwed, apparently. One of the regulars brought their new Honda, ungodly pricey, for urgent servicing, and then there was also a weekly clean up–
“Come on, let me see,” Marc broke into his thoughts again and took him by the left wrist, as confidently and quickly as if the concept of personal borders ceased to exist. “Relax,” he let out a short, quiet laugh then, “I promise I won’t make it worse”.
“You make everything worse,” Marco snapped back in his mind, but kept his mouth shut and cautiously flattened his palm.
“Does it hurt?” Márquez asked and slowly put up the towel, and his touch almost made Marco shiver.
“Not much”.
“Lucky you,” Marc said, then reached out for a bottle he took from the first aid kit. “A little closer, and the knife could’ve hit the nail”, he continued and popped the cap off. “Which wouldn’t be fun at all”.
“What is this?” Marco followed his swift movements as he flipped the bottle over, gave it a squeeze, and dripped a bit of brown liquid onto the cotton pad – all with one hand, since the other was still gripping Marco’s as if he might’ve bolted.
“Don’t be scared,” Marc glanced up at him with a smirk. “Just some betadine. It will sting a little, but at least you won’t die from sepsis”.
“I’m not scared,” Marco answered, annoyed, but his cheekbones got unpleasantly warm again. “Only curious”.
“Or suspicious. Because you don’t trust me”.
A second passed, and then there was a mild burning and a harsh hospital-like smell. Marco said no word about either, yet couldn’t ignore the clear bait. “I could never trust people who wake up at six thirty to go for a run. Only psychopaths do”.
“Or people whose job is to be fit and hot,” Marc chuckled and finally let go of his wrist to peel the backing off the plaster. “You’d be terrified to learn how many more awful things I do to remain employed”.
“Please, spare me the details, then”.
That time Marc didn’t respond, yet the corners of his lips, still faintly curved, twitched. Carefully, almost gently, he wrapped his fingers around Marco’s wrist again and put the plaster on the cut, unnecessarily slowly, but steadily. And then, fastening the adhesive flaps, he raised his eyes, waited a moment or two, and quietly spoke again, “Not too tight?”
“Just enough,” Bezzecchi nodded to it, perhaps with a little too much enthusiasm, and almost intuitively flicked his arm. “Thank you”.
Marc took the hint quickly and let go of his hand at once. “No problem”, he said, tilting his head to the side and squinting ever so slightly, just like felines do when watching something they don’t understand. “After all, it happened because of me”.
“How nice of you to take the blame,” Marco thought, but opened his mouth for a different, more polite thing. “What did you come for?”
“I wanted to make some tea. But you stood in my way, so I tried to ask you to move”.
“Oh?” Marco made an awkward sound, not even knowing how to react anymore, and immediately looked away, not able to withstand the mocking smile that grew wide on Márquez’s face that very instant. “Okay”.
“’Okay’ what?”
“I mean, ‘okay, take it’. Please. And I– I’ll go wash my hands”.
Nervously biting his cheek from the inside, horrified by how stupid he must’ve seemed, Marco walked past his flatmate so fast and clumsily that he nearly bumped into his shoulder.
“You’ll wet the plaster!” he heard from behind, already crossing the kitchen threshold, and felt like drowning himself in the shower cabin or, even better, turning back and committing a murder. But parents raised him a Christian, and even though he had already found some excuses to miss the Rimini Easter mass in a week, he didn’t want to stain his immortal soul with a sin worse than blasphemy or bisexuality.
So instead he just mumbled, “It’s waterproof”, and hurried to shield himself from that guy with the bathroom door.
***
April 27th, 2025.
“I think you have a crush on him”.
With a heavy sigh, Marco lowered his eyelids and lay down on the rubber crumb, warmed by generous April sun. His muscles ached, his clothes clung disgustingly to sweat-soaked skin, and his heart pounded so fast that he thought he would die right there, on a dusty basketball court in west London.
“I thought we agreed not to talk about him again,” he spoke at last with his eyes still shut, knowing that Pecco was there, sat by his right, panting just as hard. They were both embarrassingly out of shape, and if Sava could see them, he would’ve bullied them with no mercy; good thing he was still fighting his cold.
“But I see that it bothers you still,” Bagnaia went on and, judging by the sound, opened his water bottle. “You look like a dog that peed on a carpet, Bez. It’s a pitiful sight, and my kind heart can’t take watching this any longer”.
“Then fuck off and find a new friend,” Marco snapped back, but with no real bite to it. His relationship with his flatmate was the last thing on Earth he wanted to discuss on a warm Sunday afternoon after a tough match. After all, there were plenty of way more important concerns in his life: the creeping anxiety about the upcoming finals, some fresh gossip about his new colleague, plans for Italy in July…
Anything, but Marc Márquez.
“No, but seriously,” Pecco said anyway. “I am worried”.
To which Marco scoffed, “Thank you so much,” and got punished for it with a poke in the ribs.
“That’s what I’m talking about! You’re becoming impossible to be around, man,” Pecco sounded not only sincerely preoccupied, but quite disappointed as well. “You’ve gone all scatty, you don’t laugh at jokes, and you only eat smoke and caffeine. Damn it, you don’t even send me a hundred dumb vertical videos a day anymore!”
“I thought you liked them,” Marco pouted, trying to interrupt, but it didn’t help at all.
“You know what, I genuinely start to believe that your dude has put the evil eye on you and now gets off watching you suffer”.
“He is not my dude”.
“It doesn’t seem so with the way you talk about him,” Bagnaia sighed. “My flatmate this, my flatmate that. Does he even have a name?”
“He does”, Marco responded quietly, then pushed himself up with a heavy grunt. “But if I tell you, you’ll laugh”.
“Surprise me”.
Not really willing to answer, Bezzecchi reached out for Pecco’s bottle instead, but the guy grabbed it swiftly and shook his head. “Say it”.
And it’s not like it was that difficult. After all, Marc was a common name, perhaps even basic for Southern Europe; exactly why they both had it with one letter difference. Moreover, Marc had never done anything terrible enough to avoid referring to him by that, once again, very usual name. He just… was. Lived his life, worked his job, and posted too many shirtless pictures online.
And yet.
“I’m waiting,” Pecco reminded and shook the bottle, making the water in it splash invitingly.
“Okay, fine,” Marco rolled his eyes, but then nervously ran a hand through his hair. “It’s Marc. And he’s gone to Spain, by the way, so if you stop being a prick, we can watch football at my place today”.
“And that’s it?” Pecco snorted, paying zero attention to the football part. “I thought he’d be named like one of your exes or something”.
“As if I had that many”.
“Well, who knows,” Bagnaia smiled wider and shrugged his shoulders. “You’re such a mystery to me, Bez. With this pretty face of yours, you can have any woman or man you want, but you’re pining over that guy like some insecure teenager. It’s kind of embarrassing”.
Marco felt his breath hitch and face flush.
“First of all,” he said then a little too loud, “You’re wrong. Second–”
“Please, don’t scream,” Pecco asked, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. “There’re people watching”.
“I don’t care. They don’t understand Italian anyway,” Marco snapped, but lowered his voice nonetheless. “I’m not pining over anyone, especially over Marc. But even if I did, I would’ve never told you, because you suck at being a moral support”.
“Yet every time we meet you have something new to tell about him. His blow dryer makes too much noise in the morning, his phone rings too often… Brother, you’ve even mentioned the exact firm of his skincare products when complaining about him forgetting to put them away”.
“I’m just good at remembering details,” Marco objected – obviously, in vain.
“You keep your cards’ passwords in the notes app, because you fail to remember four digits”, Pecco retorted easily. “And before you try to tell me it’s different, it is not”.
“If my problems bother you this much, I can just stop sharing them,” Bezzecchi muttered and finally grabbed the bottle that had been seducing him with its content for too long. “All you have to do is just ask”.
“I don’t mind you being sincere with me. The problem is that you’re not being sincere with yourself”.
The water was predictably warmer than he would’ve liked, but at least Marco could avoid saying anything in reply while drinking it, making deliberately small, measured sips. Which didn’t save him, though, because Pecco waited patiently for him to finish, never taking the sharp, studying gaze off him, so that the liquid almost caught in his throat like a lump.
Yet Marco really had nothing to confess in.
He could’ve called Marc physically attractive, yes, but one had to be blind not to think so. He liked that cute Spanish accent and stupid sly smirk as well, but even so, anyone else would’ve liked them, too. Because Marc was just… perfect.
Before one started living with him and being a victim of his pointless mockery and irritatingly healthy routines.
And if anything, Marco only liked people who were nice to him. He’d never been that guy who fell for mean attitude and “enemies to lovers” kind of thing; instead, he preferred to leave rude words and rough actions in bedroom. And yeah, maybe – just maybe – he wouldn’t mind taking his hot flatmate there, but as it could’ve never resolved the tension and, on the contrary, would’ve certainly made it worse, he didn’t intend to even think about it, let alone mention it to his best friend.
Therefore he gulped down the rest of the water, screwed the cap back, and got up from the ground.
“Let’s go home”.
“But Marco–”
“Pecco, I beg you, don’t”.
Visibly very displeased, Bagnaia clicked his tongue, took his backpack and, ignoring the hand offered to help him, rose to his feet on his own.
“Alright then, be quiet all you want,” he said, shaking the dust off his shorts. “But when it turns out I was right, don’t call me to drown your sorrow in cocktails. Unless you’re paying, of course”.
Grateful for the understanding, Marco smiled and gave him a light pat on the shoulder, in response to which Pecco huffed like a cat and demonstratively brushed himself off.
Having exchanged goodbyes with the other guys, they walked from the court in tired, yet comfortable silence.
That particular part of overall loud, hasty London was surprisingly quiet on Sundays, so if a car or a bike wasn’t passing by, even the chirping of birds could be heard. It reminded Marco of what springs felt like back in school: soul aching in anticipation of freedom, brain melting in worriless warmth, and brief crushes making hormone-charged body buzz. He’d been a loser back then, too obsessed with everything that had engines and wheels to hang out, and remained one now, but tried to hide it with piercings, tattoos, and cigarettes, as if they could’ve changed the permanent look of confusion and tiresome on his face.
Yet the memories felt kind of sweet nonetheless, and he even smiled, pushed by a surge of that simple joy, like tomorrow wasn’t the start of a new study-and-work week and the finals weren’t drawing closer with it like sharks.
“So… What about football?” he asked when they stopped at the road crossing. “Your Juventus is playing, and I have some beers”.
“Non-alcoholic ones?”
“Sure”.
Pecco grinned.
“Fine,” he nodded then and took out his phone. “I’ll text Domi– Oh, shut up!” hearing Marco chuckle, he blushed and painfully nudged him with his elbow. “See, this is why I am married, and you are not”.
“I’m just a free spirit,” Bezzecchi answered, his mouth still curved, and rubbed his bruised side. “And I’m not laughing. I actually think it is really cute that you’re such a good husband”.
“Uh-huh”, Pecco grunted, then hit the “send” button and looked up again. “Shit, Bez, green–“
Running across the road after a couple hours’ purely amateur basketball wasn’t much fun, and the only relieving thing was that, apparently, it felt the same for them both. Nevertheless, they managed to reach Marco’s place without tripping over anywhere, which was definitely a success, and as soon as they stepped inside, Pecco said, “I’m using your shower”.
“No problem,” Marco agreed, dumping his bag on the floor. “You could even stay the night, if you were allowed”.
“Oh, you’re so sweet,” Bagnaia teased back. “But what would Marc think about it?”
Immediately regretting his own irony, Marco bit his lip and kicked off his shoes.
“I don’t give a damn about what he thinks”.
“Yeah, right. I hope you don’t expect me to pretend I believed you”.
“Francesco”.
“What?” Pecco asked with an angelic smile and tugged at the hem of his T-shirt. “You started it first”.
Which was true. Still, Marco had an urge to come up with something to snap back with, but then – just in time – realized that if he would, the bickering would go on for hours, and they had a whole match to watch. So instead he just scoffed, “People usually get undressed in the bathroom, you know,” and walked directly into the kitchen to prepare some snacks.
Pecco didn’t really rush with the shower; when he came back, his curls a wet mess and skin slightly flushed, Marco had already finished dividing the treats into bowls. Gluten free crackers with sea salt and rosemary, truffle flavoured “San Carlo” crisps, and even pistachios – all lovingly slipped into his suitcase by his mum while he was having breakfast before heading to the Rimini airport, as usual. Once Pecco saw these, pure childlike happiness lit up his face and he instantly reached out his hand.
“God bless signora Daniela,” he said before stuffing his mouth, and then, still chewing, flopped onto the sofa with a satisfied moan. Because no matter how civil and nice a grown man might appear, next to his friends he always becomes an ill-mannered boy.
“Would you please hush?” Marco hissed, sitting down beside him with two beers in hands. “The neighbours might get ideas”.
“Sounds like a you problem. And if anything, they’ll think it was Marc making noises, not me”.
“Just shut up,” Bezzecchi blushed, slamming the bottles on the shaky coffee table, and wiped his cold, condensation-damp fingertips on Pecco’s jeans. “Your bums will lose to a goddamn Monza today, are you ready?”
“Yeah, come on. Have your laugh,” Bagnaia snorted and tucked his legs under himself. “But keep it in mind that in professional sport the success is cyclical”.
“Just as corruption scandals, huh?”
“Fuck you and your interista ass, dude”.
“Love you, too”.
And just as Marco said those words, a dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor in the hallway pulled his attention from both the dialogue and the screen.
“What the hell?” he cursed quietly, grabbing the remote control to lower the volume, but before he even touched the button, the sound repeated itself, and that time Pecco heard it, too.
“Is it–”
“I don’t know,” Marco interrupted the question and got up abruptly. “He told me he would be back on Monday morning”.
“Then it’s either the landlord or your bad memory”.
Not even responding to that, Marco hurried out of the living room, suddenly sick in the stomach from awkwardness and anxiety. Which was ridiculous, because, as a matter of fact, he had every right to invite people over in his flatmate’s absence, a condition they’d discussed back in the first days of living together, and moreover, he couldn’t have misheard the day of the week, so–
“Hi,” he greeted shyly, stepping into the hallway, and crossed his arms on his chest. “I thought you’d be back tomorrow”.
“Hey,” Marc glanced up briefly, nodded, and continued untying his shoelaces. “They cancelled my Monday flight, so I had to find an earlier one”.
“You should’ve texted me then, at least,” Marco mumbled, following the movements of those long thin fingers with no idea where else to look. “I already have a guest. We’re watching football. So I hope you don’t mind if he stays for a couple of hours”.
“Of course,” Marc answered, and then, as he rose up and straightened his back, Bezzecchi saw, with a jolt of envy, how fresh and well rested the guy looked. His own Easter holidays lasted for just four days, since he had a normal job, and the Romagna sun, apparently, was not yet as hot as in whatever part of Spain his flatmate was from. “And I’m sorry, I really should’ve let you know”.
“It’s alright,” Marco lied, not even trying to seem sincere. “We won’t be loud”.
And what a perfect moment it was for one of Juventus players to score a goal.
“Speak for yourself, Bez!” Pecco exclaimed in English, his voice piercing even through a roar of the stands and shouts of the commentator, and Marco just sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned around, desperate to hide his embarrassment.
“If you do anything stupid, your beautiful wife will become a widow,” he switched back to Italian as soon as he returned to his usually very rational and polite friend. “And I’m serious”.
“Can I at least say hello? Having manners is not a crime”.
“You can,” Marco agreed unwillingly. “But nothing more”.
“And what exactly could ‘more’ be?” Bagnaia chuckled, but thankfully – or not really – the object of those subtle hints appeared in the doorway frame.
“Hi,” Marc smiled charmingly with not even an ounce of uneasiness in his demeanour, and rested his shoulder against the wall. “Sorry for bothering you”.
“Hi!” Pecco greeted back with exaggerated enthusiasm, so utterly sweet that it was almost painful to hear. “No worries,” and then, ignoring Marco’s perfectly evident discomfort, added, “I’m Pecco, by the way”.
“Nice to meet you,” Márquez’s smile grew a little wider. “I’m Marc”.
“Yeah, I know”.
“Oh?”
“Bez told me about you”.
“I see. Good things, I hope?”
“Mostly, yes”.
“I’m glad,” Marc chuckled, still looking at Pecco attentively, without even blinking. “Right then, I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy the evening–” he hesitated slightly, but far too calmly for anyone in the room to buy it. “Excuse me, what’s your name again?”
“Pecco. Well, actually, it’s Francesco, but this one’s a childhood nickname”.
“I see,” Marc said, and before going on, threw a quick glance at Bagnaia’s T-shirt, still lying on the hallway floor, just a few centimetres away from where he was standing. “Childhood friends, then. How cute”.
Tense as a wire, teeth clenched and nails digging into his thighs, Marco felt the thread that his patience was hanging by getting thinner with each word these two exchanged. But that was the moment it finally broke.
“Too much information, Pecco,” he spoke just as his friend was about to open his mouth again. “Stop being annoying and let the man rest”.
“That’s okay,” Marc answered, yet finally moved and took his suitcase. “But a rest would be really nice. So good luck to your team… If it’s not Inter, though”.
“Amen!” Pecco side-eyed Marco, grinning from ear to ear, and Bezzecchi’s hand instinctively reached for a sofa pillow to throw it into that happy face as soon as he heard the door of Marc’s bedroom close. “Ouch!”
He didn’t want to know how pathetic he looked; the heat in his cheeks resembled a sunburn, and blood thundered in his temples.
Desperate for some calm, he snatched his beer bottle and took a few big, greedy swigs, then licked his lips and stood up, feeling a little dizzy from the cold sparkles.
“I need a cig,” he explained, not even turning to Pecco, who was still giggling into the pillow. “And preferably, some peace and quiet”.
“Bez, I didn’t mean to–”
“I know you didn’t. But it was a little too much, don’t you think?”
Marco didn’t care if he was overreacting – both bitterness and shame made him deaf to the voice of reason. Didn’t he ask his best friend to behave normally? Didn’t he warn him?
“I’m sorry,” Bagnaia sighed, and although the apology seemed quite genuine, it didn’t help much. “I just wanted to see something”.
“Whatever it was, I won’t ask,” Marco shook his head. “But fine, I forgive you. Yet only this once”.
“Oh, aren’t you so kind?” Pecco snorted sarcastically, all seriousness gone in a moment; perhaps he wasn’t even that sorry to begin with. “But what if I do it again?”
“Do what? Intervene in my private life?”
“There, you said it! It’s not just some annoying flatmate we’re talking about, it’s private life”.
Sensing his ears get scorching red again, Marco groaned something incomprehensible and hurried towards the balcony door.
“I’ll be back in five,” he muttered then, yanking furiously at the handle. “Try not to scream your lungs out if these cheaters manage to score one more”.
It took him more than just five minutes, of course, and not just one, but two cigarettes.
Thankfully, at least he had left his lighter and half-empty pack on the windowsill and didn’t need to go back inside and look for his jacket in the hallway that, probably, still smelled of expensive citrusy cologne.
Slowly sucking in the smoke, staring at the cherry tree that had begun losing its blossom, for a minute or two he tried to battle the thoughts about what had happened and why, but suffered a painful defeat. Because no matter how hard he sought to convince both himself and Pecco that he couldn’t care less about Marc Márquez, his reaction proved the exact opposite.
Perhaps he was really, well, not indifferent to that guy. After all, if he weren’t, why did just being in his presence feel like being held at a gunpoint? And why did all English words disappear from his memory each time he opened his mouth in their short conversations?
That could not be just causeless dislike – when you dislike someone, they irritate you, not make you damn anxious. Nor was it a crush – what a stupid word – because he was never attracted to not just men, but people like that in general. And besides, he was perfectly aware that he stood no chance at all; even if Marc wasn’t straight, his type would certainly not include socially awkward nerds in late twenties.
So what the fuck was that?
Two Marlboro red cigarettes, smoked down right to the filter, failed to help him find out.
So he came back with nothing.
And three minutes later Yildiz was shown a red card for a violent foul.