Crab Blossom
On ao3 here
Prompt: Crab blossom – ill nature – stop, you need to rest
A little pre-snippet/prelude of my planned multichapter Santimarc fic - thanks @certainstarfishllama for the inspo - enjoy guys (i will say this is a bit of a messy on but done is better than perfect)
“Marc”
The head of curly hair doesn’t move. Awkwardly bent over a desk, Marc is engrossed in the sheets of data in front of him, one hand spinning a pen as the other drums on the table. There’s a half-empty mug of coffee next to him, still steaming.
Marc shifts the papers, scans the next sheet, and murmurs numbers under his breath. He’s the last one here, and only the dim lights from desk lamps illuminate the space. The engineers had left a little while ago, but only Santi stayed, keeping an eye on Marc as he worked himself into the ground.
The low lighting catches on the nasty scar bisecting his right arm, still horribly puckered around the edges despite the crash being two years ago. Santi knows that it’s the reason Marc is still here, desperately seeking answers for a bike that won’t perform, trying to work out whether it’s him or the machine.
Secretly, Santi thinks that Marc is far too hard on himself. He knows that Marc is committed, willing to do anything for success, including ripping his body apart, much to Santi’s horror. But it’s become unhealthy, Marc is spending more time in the garage than anyone else on the team, he’s seen the man pouring over reams of data at every available moment, he also knows that Marc spends a lot of his time at home looking over the iPad full of times and racing lines. When he’s not analysing data, he’s on the track or in the gym, or at the physio.
His arm isn’t better, certainly not fully; they all know it. Maybe it will never be. There’s talk about retirement and chronic pain now, too, but he isn’t sure how true it is. Marc is closed off about it, denying it to the media, but Santi knows him better than most. He’s had two surgeries already because, despite Honda’s vocal concerns, Marc came back too soon. He raced before he was ready, and now he is paying the price. These days, Santi can see the way Marc’s face pinches when he leans on the arm. The range of motion is limited, and his shoulder is clearly stiff. It’s affecting his riding and has to be painful. And yet, Marc doesn’t say a word, he leans into the pain and continues as if he hasn’t got what should be a career-ending injury. Santi sometimes wonders is he likes the pain, if he revels in it.
Santi gets it. He does. This is Marc’s life, everything he loves and knows. He has made insurmountable sacrifices to get to where he is today. Now he’s having to work like crazy because the bike just isn’t there anymore.
They made mistakes as a team when Marc crashed and subsequently had to sit out half a season. Losing their main rider had rocked their plans and put a stopper in their bike progression. Without him in the rider’s seat, they were nowhere.
Now he’s back, the bike is wild and unpredictable. No one can ride it well, not even Marc. Their results have gone down the drain, and Ducati has taken off. It’s a miracle that Marc is somehow still dragging race points out of it.
It pains Santi, seeing Marc like this. It’s becoming unmanageable, he knows they have to put a stop to it. Marc is pushing himself too hard.
Earlier this weekend, he spent so much time on the track that they actually had to stop him to force some fluids down his throat. He didn’t think he would be babysitting a 29-year-old to eat and drink, but here they were.
(Santi pretends that it bothers him, but a small part of him likes it)
Race weekends aren’t much better, with Marc deciding he needs to push the bike until he finds the limit and then ride on the limit as much as he can until he’s inevitably flung off like some twisted game of buckaroo. Again, Santi questions what it is with Marc and pain.
In the office, Santi clears his throat. Marc still doesn’t shift, seemingly unaware of his presence. A sigh lodges in the back of his throat. It’s officially summer break, Marc should be going home and preparing for a holiday somewhere hot with a bunch of his friends or whatever it is he’s doing during his time off this year. Not sitting in an empty meeting room, completely alone.
When it becomes clear that Marc will not respond to his voice alone, Santi approaches. He goes carefully and slowly, scared to make Marc jump if he sneaks up too quickly on the younger man. When he’s close enough, he lays a hand on the back of Marc’s chair. Marc shifts slightly in his seat, distractedly flipping the page, sector times scrawled across it in his messy handwriting. If Santi squints, he thinks he can decipher a listed comparison of pre-crash and post-crash times in the corner.
He sighs.
“Marc” Santi tries again.
No response.
He lays a hand over the paper, tries to block it from Marc’s view, anything to get his attention.
“Marc, come on, it’s time to go.”
Marc finally, finally looks up from the sheets, confusion on his face as he recognises Santi.
“Huh?”
“You’re done for the night. For the break in fact.” He orders, but Marc doesn’t want to hear it.
“What, no, I need to figure this out”, he argues, scrambling to move Santi’s hand, which remains firm on the table, obstructing his access to the paper and subsequently the data
“Nope, it’s late. Go back to your motorhome, go to sleep and enjoy your holiday. The bike will be here when you get back, so will the data” Santi redirects, his voice firm, a hint of dominance slipping in, giving no room for arguments.
Marc goes wide-eyed, finally looking up from his desk to stare and Santi. It is then that he acknowledges the room at large. It’s dark and empty, Marc doesn’t know when everyone else left, nor when it got so late.
He swears under his breath, looking back at Santi, who still looms over him.
“Five more minutes,” he begs, purposefully widening his eyes at the older man.
It makes Santi shift uncomfortably, an unknown feeling welling within him; there’s something about Marc, below him, looking up at him with doe eyes and parted lips that is making him feel. He clears his throat, quietly, cautious about breaking the weird tension buzzing between them. He knows he can’t let Marc stay, even though it feels like he’s toeing a line here.
“Nope. Up, come on,” he demands.
Marc scowls, mumbling under his breath and looking much like a disgruntled toddler.
“Don’t be a brat, come,” Santi retorts, running on autopilot. He doesn’t notice Marc’s stuttered inhale, nor his frozen body and clenched eyes.
When Marc doesn’t move, Santi lays one large hand on the back of Marc’s neck, spanning the space there. He can’t help but think how good it looks, his hand across the small frame of the rider.
Marc makes a choked-off noise in the back of his throat. They both freeze, and time is suspended for a second before Santi tears his hand away and Marc exhales deeply. If the room were lighter, a flush would be identifiable on Marc’s cheeks, painted across his face and down his neck.
“Fuck, Marc, did I hurt you? Are you in pain?” Santi rambles, panic threatening to engulf him. A million thoughts bombard his mind - Marc hiding his pain, actually being in agony all this time, the possibility of there being another injury, or another operation. The worst, though, is the thought that he had hurt Marc.
He doesn’t get to investigate, though, because Marc is out of his seat like a shot, his pen hitting the ground and his papers abandoned. Santi watches on in confusion as Marc flits around the room, seemingly torn between fleeing and staying to sort out the mess he’s made.
The former wins out, and Marc finally decides to bolt. Santi frantically calls out to him, confused and concerned.
“Marc”, he shouts. Marc is almost at the door now.
“Stop”
It’s too loud in the silent room. But it’s a command, a last resort. Marc pauses, his fingers wrapped around the door handle, panting harshly. A small whine breaks from his lips; he clamps his mouth shut.
Santi is quite concerned now, wondering what caused Marc to react like this, with weird behaviour which is so unlike what Santi normally sees from someone so confident. Nothing comes to mind. His disbelieving mind assumes the whine was something else: pain or annoyance, maybe even tiredness – it has been a long weekend for them all. He resolutely doesn’t let his thoughts wander elsewhere – he refuses.
No matter how often Santi’s brain wants to go there, he doesn’t let it. He will not push his unwanted and one-sided attraction onto the younger man. Santi does not let himself think about how well Marc follows commands, and how pretty he looks as he does it.
He doesn’t.
If he really took the time to think about it, Santi would recognise the signs: heavy breathing, a hot blush, spacing out. It is a strong indicator that Marc is turned on, as affected by Santi’s commands as the older man is. In any other scenario, Santi would recognise Marc’s desperate urge to follow the orders. In different circumstances, Santi would give in and take Marc to his bed.
This isn’t a normal situation.
Instead, Santi focuses on what he knows. He strides up to Marc, swallowing the distance between them in a few mere steps. Once he’s close enough, he grips the younger’s chin in his fingers and forces eye contact. He purposely avoids thinking about the headspace he’s slipping into, the same way he is ignoring the audible gasp from Marc and the bob of his throat as he swallows thickly.
“Marc, tell me the truth. Are you hurt?” he asks.
Marc gulps, “No, no, I’m not hurt-”
He breaks off at the end, as if he were about to say something else. Santi stops, waits, but the words are not forthcoming from Marc’s lips.
“You promise?” Santi inquires.
Marc nods, quick and jerky and Santi cocks an eyebrow.
“Word. Use your words.”
Marc’s jaw is slack, and in any other situation, Santi would laugh. But this is Marc, the most gorgeous person he’s ever seen, looking at him like that. Santi knows he is in dangerous territory; the tension is so thick that it chokes him.
“Yes”, Marc stutters. “Yes, I promise – Santi.”
Santi let go of Marc’s chin as if burned, tearing his gaze away from Marc’s mouth. He needs to put some distance between them.
“Okay. You go and sleep, I’ll clean up. Enjoy your holiday, Marc,” he murmurs, shooing the younger away and out of the building. For a moment, it looks like Marc is going to argue, but then he’s going.
“Yeah, okay, Um- You too. Have a good break, Santi,” he calls behind him.
Santi almost cries, torn between laughing manically and slamming his head into the wall. As he tidies the abandoned desk in silence, he wonders how he got here and how the hell he’s going to get over this stupid attraction – a crush, if he’s being honest, before the season starts up again.