The way we look like animals - matador rosquez au pt 1 of ??? 2700 words, ao3
Text under cut but quick note: First: assume that this is set in a mysterious and ambiguous period around the late 80s and early 90s because I miss corded phones and no social media, and also bullfighting is banned in some places in this fic in 2025 (also please assume that Italian bullfighters are a thing in this mysterious time and space). Second: this fic is in no way to promote bullfighting, it’s animal torture and I disagree with it, I just thought it was an interesting and intense setting for rosquez. List of some bullfighting terms at the bottom
When Marc got gored, the first thing he asked for was to let the bull live. From what Vale had heard, he’d jolted up from the hospital bed screaming like a man possessed, nearly scaring the life out of the priest watching over him. The poor man had been on-site to give Marc the last rites, just in case. Marc had never personally asked to spare a bull before.
He’d once told Vale he had wanted a bull, the one who had concussed him, flayed alive. Marc had only been a novillero then, without such power. Not even on the dusty floor of Las Ventas, in front of the spectators. He said that he’d just wanted the bull dead, painfully, no need for the show.
Marc had cried after telling Vale and he’d comforted Marc, stroked his damp cheek, the way he would’ve to soothe a child. The regret did not erase the nausea Vale had felt bubbling up in his throat even then, when things were mostly good between them. Marc used to tell him everything, and Vale used to believe him. Back then, Vale knew that in Marc’s eyes nothing Valentino Rossi did could be shameful or malicious or wrong. Marc’s mistake was in assuming Vale felt the same way. Vale didn’t have 15 years of hero worship on his neck.
Maybe Marc loved the bulls. Vale thought he did, in his strange and twisted way. Especially the nasty ones, the ones who only he could kill, the only ones who could kill him.
Marc getting injured was as predictable as the corrida; the bulls can defend themselves as best as they can, but the ending is predetermined, and they’ll never know why their end had to be prolonged, painful. It was only a surprise that the beginning of Marc’s painful end didn’t come earlier than it did.
Vale heard about Marc’s injury through the grapevine, just about every gritty detail included. He was happy that he wasn’t there that day. Apparently even the spectators in the highest seats heard Marc’s screams as he was carried away. In a TV-interview a couple of days later, still from the hospital bed, Marc said he’s happy to be alive, regardless of the condition of his arm. Vale didn’t believe him, still doesn’t. To Marc, losing his ability to be in a corrida was worse than what losing any limb would’ve been.
The cruelest thing is that Marc hadn’t lost his ability to be in corridas either. It just wasn't the same anymore. He was still better than most. But the golden glow was gone.
-
From the bathtub, Vale can see his own warped reflection in the fogged up mirror. He put it there to be adventurous, and it’s high time to move it. He doesn’t need another reminder of how long it’s been since he last had sex, not while looking at his retreating hairline and softening muscles. Vale stretches his legs along the bottom of the tub, fixes his eyes on how the small hairs on them are swaying in the water.
The phone starts ringing, the one on the rickety stool next to the tub so he can have conversations in the bathtub.The sound carries oddly in the tiled room, amplified. Vale lifts the receiver.
“Pronto.” It’s his personal line, so better not to say his name if someone happens to call the wrong number.
On the other side of the line there’s only heavy breathing. For a long time. He knows that heavy breathing. Vale should just hang up.
“Marc.”
“Valentino.” Not Vale. It shouldn’t sting.
Marc doesn’t say anything more.
“Do you have anything to say?” Vale asks when the repetitive sound of Marc’s exhales start pissing him off. There must be a reason as to why Marc would call him.
“How did you know when to-“ Marc’s voice dies at the end. Only the sound of a thick sob, even though Marc tries to muffle it. Vale gets it anyway. When to retire.
He still wants to hang up but there’s something in Marc’s voice stopping him.
“I wasn’t enjoying it.” It’s not a lie. It’s not the entire truth either.
Marc is quiet.
“Why aren’t you?” Vale asks. He leaves the “retiring” unsaid.
Marc’s arm must hurt. Vale saw pictures of the bulging scars in the newspaper. Read about how some surgeon knitted the shattered bone together in some impossible way. A cornada, a surgeon specialized in treating horn-wounds. He had to leave most of his lunch unfinished.
“It’s kill or be killed.”
“Ah.” Vale chooses his words carefully. “And which one would you prefer at the moment Marc?”
Marc takes a long time to answer. Presumably he prefers being killed then. Metaphorically or whatever that means.
“I don’t know.” Marc’s voice is thick, wet-sounding. Maybe that’s why he’s been in corridas this season, even though he’s a shadow of his former self.
Vale winds the curly cord around his damp finger.
“At least the bull has a chance now.”
That startles a laugh out of Marc. Maybe he’s drunk. He doesn’t laugh like that anymore, or at least he wouldn’t with Vale.
“Maybe he has.” Vale can hear the smile in Marc's voice, feels the corners of his own mouth pull upwards involuntarily.
“Do you want to know what I named him?” Marc asks, referring to the bull that gored him.
Vale nods, realizes that Marc can’t hear him. Maybe he is in bed. Or he’s calling from Dovizioso’s ranch since they’ve been getting so cozy or something, not that Vale cares of course. It feels like he’s in the room with Vale.
“Tell me.” Maybe it’s something ridiculous, like Buttercup or Baby. Marc always did try his hardest to make Vale laugh. Basked in it all the countless times Vale did indulge him.
“Valentino.” There’s a desperate edge to Marc’s voice.
It takes Vale a moment to understand, then he feels his spine go leaden.The water sloshes a bit as all his muscles clench. There’s something molten in his stomach at the praise, it’s a great bull. It’s playing tug of war with the fact that Marc did conspire against him to beat him, tried to make Vale’s legacy his.
“Don’t call me again Marc.”
Marc was about to say something, but he’s cut off as Vale slams the receiver down with more force than needed.
The motion makes the water slosh. It’s cold now, and his fingertips look like raisins. Vale heard that a scientist theorized it was an adaptation to be able to grip things in the wet. He thinks about gripping Marc as hard as he can, pulling him here and never letting go. Thinks about gripping him so hard he’d shatter, so he wouldn’t haunt Vale anymore. Maybe he should name a bull Marc and eat him for dinner tomorrow. Maybe Marc is planning to eat Valentino for dinner some day.
-
The week after, the newspaper says Marc got rammed by a bull. God's will, it says, that he didn’t get gored. Marc must’ve called him from the hospital bed. He should stop getting the Madrid newspaper delivered.
Vale has started watching Grand Prix racing in his retirement. Maybe Vale’s father should’ve placed him in a single seater, so he wouldn’t have had to meet Marc. Maybe Marc would’ve visited a race, taken after Vale to torment him in every alternate version of reality too. He could probably make some calls and try racing out if he wanted to.
Bez is tormenting him with his inane comments, and Vale is doing his best to tune him out and focus on the race he’s currently watching on the TV. He’s injured, so instead of learning something productive he’s taken up following Vale around everywhere on the ranch. One more “He’s very fast.” or “Who is that again?” And Vale will lock him in the yearling bull pen overnight.
“What color is our guy?” Bez asks.
“Boh,” Vale slaps his knees. They’re creaky as he rises from the sofa, to grab the remote and turn the TV off. It’s a shame. Vale really wanted to see the finish of the race.
Bez grabs his arm.
“Did you see this?”
He hands Vale the newspaper he’d been reading simultaneously, probably the reason why he was unable to comprehend a single thing about the race. It’s the one Vale finished this morning, the one with the news about Marc.
“Serves him right.” Bez says. Vale knows that he doesn’t really mean it, he just wants to impress Vale.
Bez is still so young. They’re different nowadays, they don’t wish injuries on the others like they used to. With the new criticism they all have to be united. Or, well, put up a front that looks more united at the very least. When Vale was a novillero he’d held a party when Max Biaggi broke his leg, since it meant Vale got to fight the headliner bull in his stead.
He, all of Vale's students, they’re all made from softer stuff than Vale (and Marc). He used to have hope for Pecco, but then Vale saw him murmuring prayers; hunched over in the darkest corner of the stable before a fight. No dice.
They will be very good, that’s why they’re his students. They will never be great, that’s why they’ll never come close to eclipsing Vale. At least he could’ve been magnanimous in that, they know who made them. He used to help Marc too. Whispered about how one bull would turn slower to the right than to the left. Not that Marc had needed it, only as a tip to make the show more spectacular, to keep it turning left. He’d smiled sweetly and then kept the bull turning faster and faster and faster all the more spectacular. There was a thrill in being the only one knowing what Marc was going to do.
You can’t fault Bez’s loyalty at least.
Vale hums in response to Bez’s comment about Marc. Finds Bez still looking towards him for approval and adds, “He should just retire.”
With that, Vale turns away, takes the newspaper with him even though he’s already read it.
Marc got injured. He got back up and finished the corrida, even with the broken ribs.
Afterwards Marc thanked the spectators and God for giving him the stamina to power through. Lying through his teeth. Marc isn’t even religious in that way.
It gnaws inside Vale, as the rest of his students come thundering in from training, joking and drinking through dinner and then following him on unsteady legs to check on the animals for the night.
The house is filled with them, rowdy and alive, keeping Vale young. There’s only one year separating Marc and Franco in age.
-
Eventually his students settle down, the ranch goes quiet. The silence grows unbearable. And alone in the quiet darkness the gnawing grows unbearable. Vale tosses and turns in his bed.
Sleep isn’t coming, but he tries until there is nothing left to do. Vale flips the light switch on, lifts the receiver on his nightstand, dials the number to Dovi. The tone rings out, and then a click.
“Andrea.” Vale skips the greeting, no need for pleasantries between them.
“Who am I speaking to?” No doubt Dovi still recognizes his voice.
“It’s Valentino, but you knew that.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever called me Andrea before.”
“Maybe something has changed.”
“Ah, is everything well at the ranch?” Dovi’s voice is infuriatingly neutral.
“We both know it’s your ranch we should be concerned about,” Vale shoots back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know, it must be very costly to draw pentagrams every time you make a certain visitor come and go.” Vale pauses, then continues when Dovi doesn’t catch on. “A lot of bulls wasted on ritual sacrifice.”
Vale is shooting in the dark, he has no idea if Marc has visited recently, but he heard through the grapevine (Uccio) that they still fuck occasionally.
Dovi chuckles.
“Ah, so that’s where the shoe pinches.”
For all that Vale has liked Dovi, still likes him, he sometimes forgets just how annoying he can be.
“You are a dear colleague, and so is Marc.” Dovi continues.
“Oh, I’m sure Marc is very dear to you.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so vitriolic.
Dovi just chuckles.
“What do you want, Vale.”
“When is his next corrida?”
“Why?” Dovi asks.
“It would be a shame if anyone found out you’ve been having visitors from Spain.” Even though Vale is retired, he still has the Italian media wrapped around his finger.
“I do not want any involvement in your-” Dovi pauses. “Spat.” And with that, like most of the times Vale can remember, he finds a way to make Dovi fold.
Vale jots the date down. He has to ask Dovi to repeat it twice to get it right. He’ll forget about this, Vale and Dovi have known each other since Marc was making mud castles somewhere in Catalonia.
“You should come by the ranch soon. I recently started growing wine grapes.”
“Goodbye Vale.” Dovi hangs up before vale has the chance to answer.
Vale folds the note, and gets up to tuck it into the pocket of his most boring and beige suit jacket.
-
Vale drives for a long time, the roof cabbed down. The areas around Madrid are so devoid of life, like how nature looked in the spaghetti westerns he grew up watching. The sun is probably burning his scalp, there's been an unfamiliar sparseness slowly setting in lately.
When he pulls over to piss he briefly considers what he’s doing. Which is a mistake, so he pushes it out of his mind again.
After some time, the empty Mars-like landscape grows dotted with civilization, then the cityscape starts to form.
He parks in a handicap parking lot, because it's closer to Las Ventas. The weather is still pleasant, maybe a bit too warm for what he’s wearing. He’s dressed to blend in. Usually he would wear his fancier clothes, in the same shades of yellow and blue of his suit of lights, if he really wanted attention. But today he’s as inconspicuous as a legend of bullfighting can be in Madrid.
The corrida won't start in hours, but there’s still a guard by the entrance of Las Ventas. Not very good at his job, since he’s reading a newspaper and doesn’t look up to see Vale approaching. Vale walks closer, until he’s almost face to face with the guy.
“Ciao.”
The security guard looks up, and does a double take when he recognizes Vale.
“Mr Rossi, what an honor.” His voice is shaking, way too eager to please. “How can I help you?”
“I'd like to see the bulls.” Vale tacks on a wink at the end.
The security guard babbles "You're in luck today, I didn't see them myself but I heard that they're Miuras, and even bigger than the usual ones. Miuras I mean”.
“Perfect.” Vale steps past the guy and ducks under the rope blocking the entrance. It makes his back crack.
The security guard follows him, blabbering on.
“You know, I heard that the two Marc Marquez has been allotted have the same mother as the dreadful bull your friend Bagnaia met a few months ago. But I hope it can be a better show this time.”
Vale feels his eyelid twitch involuntarily. What a nuisance. He stops and half turns to look the security guard in the face.
“I think I can find my way myself.” He says.
Then he pulls out his wallet and hands the guy a few euro notes. Probably too much money, Vale only carries the higher notes.
“Grazie mille, signor Rossi." The security guard says, butchering the pronunciation, and scuttles away.
Finally some quiet. Vale continues further into the guts of Las Ventas.
The dust is cloying, burning every inhale. Maybe the insides of all of their lungs are colored terra cotta, coated in it from the inside out. His suede moccasins are stained. It’s a shame, they’re very comfortable.
The corridors are so familiar, Vale could find his way around even in pitch black.
Vale’s body stops before his mind even registers it. This wasn’t the plan.
Marc is sitting on a pallet to the side of the corridor. He’s lifting his arm up and down in a motion best described as gingerly. Vale had only wanted to see the bulls, to kill some time before the corrida. He hadn’t planned to speak to Marc, only to watch him. Scope him out, decipher his intentions.
Vale clears his throat.
Marc doesn’t raise his head. He does drop his arm though.
“Come to watch your student?” Marc asks.
Vale is taken aback for a moment. He’d forgotten that- Celestino? was in Madrid for the closing stages of the temporada. It’s a good front though, he’ll take it.
“Something like that.” Vale walks a few steps closer to Marc.
A couple of months ago Celestino had sent the boys a postcard of Las Ventas, even though they all have been, have performed, here. Maybe Vale should pay more attention to him.
“But I was planning to watch the big boys too.” Vale turns the charm up. It almost makes him shudder a little bit, but you catch more flies with honey.
This makes Marc lift his face to meet Vale's eyes, but his expression gives away nothing. A steely mask, except for his right eyebrow twitching once. He used to show his guts to anyone who wanted to see.
“You hate watching me.” Marc says.
Vale does, and he’s told journalists as much before. But there’s also nothing else like it.
“I haven’t seen it, since the injury.”
It’s not true, Vale did watch some of Marc’s corridas since the injury on the television, it left a sour taste in his mouth. It’s not the same as in person. The grainy pixels can’t convey Marc.
“Well. It’s still the same.”
It’s not, Vale saw how he’s changed his style on the TV. Flickers of fear that were never there before. But the essence of it is the same.
Too dangerous, too brutal. The Marc factor. But now it’s more like Marc being brutalized by the bull instead of the other way around. It can’t be enjoyable.
The thought of Marc retiring, of never seeing it again, makes him want to throw up. Every corrida could be Marc’s last. As he said, the bull has a chance now.
He’ll watch Celestino, congratulate him after the fight. He does know how to put on a spectacle, even as a novillero.
Vale studies Marc for a moment. He’d forgotten the vividness of Marc’s suit in person. It doesn't suit him anymore. He used to look like a vengeful flame cutting across the plaza, a frenzy of orange, red, black in the crescendo of the corrida, man and bull blending into one.
“I hope you’ll be entertained.”
Vale flinches, dragged out of his memory. He misses it so bad.
Marc rises from the crate and starts walking towards the exit of the dark corridor.
“Wait.” Vale calls out.
Marc looks back at Vale. He seems annoyed.
“His brother stuck to his querencia.”
Vale doesn’t know why he says it. He remembers the bull that the security guard was talking about, the one Francesco was allotted a few months back. Pecco had barely managed to land the last strike, the estocada, cleanly. The bull had stuck to his querencia, the place he was the most dangerous. It hadn’t even made a good show, needless peril only for a static bull. And the bulls get their temperament, their fierceness from their mother. He doesn’t want Marc to die, at least not like this.
Marc scowls. “I don’t need your help.”
“I know you don’t.”
Marc’s features split open into something akin to surprise before he schools them into neutrality again.
“Enjoy the show, Vale.” This time he turns, and doesn’t look back.
Maybe the plaza is Marc’s querencia in life. The place he’s drawn to, the one where his true nature comes out.
Later, while attending Celestino’s novillada he wonders why Marc was in his suit, in the dark guts of the arena, hours before the corrida was meant to start.
-
List of bullfighting terms -
Corrida - Bullfight, traditionally consists of 3 fights with each torero fighting 2 bulls each, can also be a single torero and 6 bulls etc. Each bullfight is divided into 3 stages.
Torero/matador - Torero is bullfighter (there are different kinds), matador is specifically the bullfighter who kills the bull, if not mentioned otherwise, assume that all toreros in this are matadors.
Temporada - bullfighting season
Novillero - Basically being a moto2 rider in bullfighting
Alternativa - Getting your alternativa is when a novillero becomes a full torero/matador
Suit of lights/ Traje de Luces - Matador uniform/suit
Miura/s - Breeder of Spanish fighting bulls that are extra aggressive and fierce.
Querencia - a place the bull naturally wants to go to in the ring
Estocada - The thrust of the sword by the matador into the bull in the final stage of a bullfight, designed to kill the bull.
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