shit i mean- i have a paragraph from sabaism done... and that's it. i'm not a wip typa writer, i'm a chug the coffee and 1am wonder type.
but, here's a corporate rosquez au that will be uploaded in a few weeks after i'm done with 9D chess and sabaism.
it's not beta read, it's not a final draft, hell, i hate it, but i'm feeding the beast
my tag list: @oldfashionedlvrboi @42bakery @callmeikar
"I don't know what to do from here! I think I've exhuasted every receptionist job in Rimini."
"And you've fucked up all of them?" Dani traced the salted rim of his glass with his index finger, licking it off.
"Hey!" Marc shot him a glare. "This last one wasn't my fault. That was a very angry dog and- what do you do in the sitution someone is threatening you and they have something big barking loudly at their feet?!"
"Not hit them with a keyboard!" Dani laughed.
"Not funny. I don't have a job!" Marc huffed, leaning back in his chair and squeezing his eyes shut.
"And whose fault is that?"
"I just don't have anywhere else to go."
"You could try sex work. Pretty guy like you." He shrugged.
Marc sat up, hissing. "Dani! I'm not going to be a prostitute." He pulled an olive out of the skewer sitting atop his drink and chewed on it. "I hate interacting with the public."
"Then why the fuck are you a receptionist again?"
"You remember what I was like at school."
"Shit? Yeah, your Mama would complain to me about you frequently."
"And I'm not as talented as Alex."
"Mhm." Dani leaned back, chewing some ice, deep in thought. "What about... what about a PA?"
"Personal Assistant. Like a private helper."
"Awesome, but no one's hiring around here."
"But-!" Dani slammed his hands on the table. Three tables around him jumped out of their skin and stared. "The company I work at is hiring. Academy East."
"The financial advisor place? They have a PA opening? That hasn't already been snatched up?"
"No... normally it's an internally filled role- someone lower down gets their PA stolen by the boss, but he's gotten bored of that now. But you have to be reccommended by an existing member. I can reccomend you!"
"As in.. I'd be the PA for the head of the company?" Marc raised his eyebrows at him.
"But don't fuck up." He watched Marc, staring at his drink.
"'Cause it's on my head."
Marc nods and drains the rest of his glass.
He goes home to the same apartment he has since he said goodbye to his parents and brother when he moved to Italy with his boyfriend in 2013. Now that he thought about it, 19 was freakishly and foolishly young to move cross-continetally to live with your international motorbike racer boyfriend. However, hindsight is 20/20, and Andrea Dovizioso was (and still is) worth tearing your life apart for.
He just wished they were still together. Talking even. But no. Alex, his brother, talked to the guy more than he did. Quite probably because they were teammates, both Ducati racers in MotoGP.
He could only think how fun team meetings must be.
So, same routine for Marc. Same bathroom, same bedroom, same window looking out across the relatively empty skyline. It had been just him for just over a year now, well, him and Dani.
Not- romantically, no. Neither of them dared to broach that subject with one another, just content with being possibly the only two Spanish people in Rimini.
occasionally. It's hard when your ex-boyfriend's face is plastered all over your TV screen every weekend, hailed as the future of a steadily growing sport.
A couple times he'd selfishly willed Alex to take the bastard out, before remembering that their breakup was 'amicable' and 'two-sided'. If two sided is one side deciding they don't want to be 'tied down' anymore.
Early Thursday morning, Dani had texted him with the information for the interviews. He'd just told Marc to get there at 9 and expect to be a while. He wasn't sure what an open interview was, but from what he got from Dani, it was rock up and we'll point at you when we want you.
So he rocked up. And waited.
He was starting to give up slightly. The lobby was clinical white, LED lighting displaying Academy East Financial Services above an equally boring reception desk. The whole room was way too big for the entrance to a simple 5-story building, and the darkened windows just gave the room an ugly contrast.
"Marc Marquez?" He half jumped, and locked eyes with a very tired looking man clutching a clipboard. Marc stands, following him into the elevator.
It's wood panelled, almost like an old hotel. Completely unlike the hospital reception of an entrance lobby.
"You're lucky, one of the last ones they'll interview." The guy mutters, heavy italian. He had a thick Sicillian accent, the kind you come to expect from Mafia movies. But judging by the fact that halfway through the ride, Marc noticed the Candy Crush background music streaming from his back pocket, he was not exactly a hardened killer. The guy nearly went red, and turned it off immediately.
"You're Spanish, huh?" He narrowed his eyes and stared at him. Not unfriendly. Just.. searching.
"Hmm, not hard. Good luck dealing with Mr Salucci if you are." He laughed, mostly to himself, and gestured Marc through the doors to a grandiose hallway. "On your left. Labelled A. Salucci. Be polite. And make sure your Italian is flawless."
He leaves him with one last dull smile before the doors pinged closed behind him.
Everything around him screamed 'your grandfather's house'. From the the stringy-leaved miniature palm trees in terracotta pots to the polished oak floor, only covered by a thick white rug.
Here, A. Salucci. Head Advisor. The window was frosted over, and his name was engraved on a gold plaque below it.
Before he could even raise his hand to knock, a figure appeared beyond the glass and opened it for him.
"Well, don't hang around." He muttered and gestured him in.
Marc very cautiously took a seat, half sinking into the leather.
"Sit up," the man cleared his throat, not even looking at him yet.
He scrambled to sit up and cleared his throat.
The man looked up at him, barely bothering to move his head.
"Marquez- Marc Marquez." Marc shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing that it would swallow him.
"Right, I'm going to be transparent..." He paused. "Marquez... This job is spoken for." He smiled. "I've seen who I want to see and I've decided. This is just a formality."
Well, what the fuck am I here for then.
"We certainly don't need any more spaniards round here." He muttered, lining up his papers on the desk.
Marc stared down at his hands and decided that he should just piss off.
He was halfway through forming a leaving speech when the door burst open behind
He didn't catch the man's face before his back was to Marc, rattling off slurred Italian.
"If I see that intern's face one more time, I'm going to start using him as an ashtray. He doesn't know what a fax machine is, he won't get off his phone and he's never on time. Uccio. I want him gone."
Salucci jumped in his seat, and had been drumming his fingers on the table throughout the speech. "Vale, I'm working on it, I just need to finalise-"
"No. Next candidate I see, we're hiring him. No one can be as bad as the current one."
Salucci squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.
The man spun on his heel, and for a second, Marc thought he was going to walk straight past him. He kind of hoped he would.
Marc had never felt quite so small under a gaze. His face was softened, all but his eyes were harsh. Some brightened blue, pushed into thin slats by his calculating watch. They sparkled, as a smile climbed over his lips. Marc felt the man watching him, almost scanning him. Eyes up and down his body, figuring something out.
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