🎃 halloween fic game - 10/43 🎃
a fire in a flask to keep us warm : rosquez [2.1k words]
trick + 🌪️ for @astirian
The other shoe had dropped in Misano, inside the blood red bowels of the Ducati garage. Marc’s crash in practice, a hasty medical clearance and a shitty qualifying, and then Valentino taking it upon himself to corner him in a backroom. Saying, “you shouldn’t race, you are hurt,” to Marc’s suit-of-armour expression.
Whatever. It had faded fast. They’d been standing too close to begin with, and though Marc had accused Valentino of wanting him out of the weekend for Pecco's sake, he’d heard the fine edge of care to the words.
Marc had raced. Valentino had kissed him in the dark gap between his and Pecco’s motorhome after, hand curled around Marc’s bruised rib cage, muttering, “you never listen,” into his mouth.
Going back to the ranch the next day had felt like leaping out of the frying pan and into the fire — and Marc had almost declined, only held back by the fear that this would shatter fairytale style: he’d say no and the carriage would turn back into a pumpkin, white horses to rats, Valentino to a distant, vengeful figure.
The weather becomes despicable on the drive over, and Marc finds himself immensely grateful he’s not flying in it as the storm closes in around Valentino’s property.
“It looks just like I remember it,” he says, voice lifted above the thunder. Valentino dumps his things on the floor by the couch, shucks his jacket off atop the pile.
“Allora, old men do not change past a certain point.”
Marc hums.
“You are not that old.”
Valentino turns a smile on him.
“No need to flatter me — you have made it this far. And you will see, maybe — when I can’t keep up with you the way I used to.”
A thrill rockets up Marc’s spine at the promise behind that. Valentino’s stare goes sharp, meaningful. He tips his head.
“Wine?”
Marc indulges. Valentino pulls out the same glasses he’d used in 2014, when the two of them had crept from their rooms after everyone else had gone to bed and shared a bottle of red on the couch. Vale had kissed the taste of it from his mouth, trailed his lips from Marc’s jaw all the way down. Marc had ended up with Vale’s shirt caught between his teeth, fingernails biting through the leather as he tried and failed to keep quiet beneath Valentino’s tongue and hands.
He swallows, face heating at the memory. It used to feel like aeons ago. Now, back on the same couch with the same heavy glass tucked into his palm, it feels like yesterday.
The plan isn’t to stay. In fact — there is no real plan, but Marc had told himself no — had firmly placed sleeping over in the ‘not allowed, too much too soon,’ basket the second Valentino suggested the visit.
A bolt of lightning turns the room stunningly white, and the pair of them drop the thread of their conversation to gaze out the window at it. He figures Valentino probably won’t let him leave, now. Might feign some sort of care — a ploy to get Marc between his sheets.
Except Marc had thought it fake in the garage, too. Almost wholly, until Valentino had pressed him carefully against the wall of a Ducati motorhome and breathed, “don’t let me hurt you, tell me if it’s bad.”
Valentino was talking about his ribs. Marc had read deeper. It’s not bad. It hasn’t been bad, yet, and Marc is stunned to find himself unsurprised. They’d been a razing fire for ten years now. How unlike them to cinder out right when things turn up.
“You do not want to drive back in that,” Valentino says, like he’s reading Marc’s mind. Marc can’t help the exasperated smile that pulls at his lips. The other man is terribly predictable.
“I suppose not.”
Valentino brightens at the absence of protest.
“We will see, then,” he shrugs, playing at casual. Marc knows that means I won’t offer you the couch, because we’ll end up in the bed. He rolls his eyes.
By the second bottle — something Valentino brought up triumphantly from his cellar, brandishing it like a trophy: “this is a $13,000 red,” said as they take first sips, to which Marc tipped his eyebrows up, feeling only slightly guilty for not even really enjoying it — the storm has whipped into something otherworldly. Every window rattles in its frame, and the conversation lulls with each nightmarish growl of thunder.
Valentino keeps them chained to the couch with a dim orange lamp that flickers threateningly every few minutes.
It sets Marc’s teeth on edge, raises the hair on the back of his neck — the storm, the heady swirl of alcohol in his head, how Valentino’s managed to inch a full thirty centimetres closer without him even noticing. He drifts his eyes down to where their knees are pressed together. Valentino waves a hand in front of his face and Marc huffs, peers up at him through his lashes.
“Do you like the storm?” he asks. Marc wants to say what a stupid question. He blinks his attention to the window, where he can’t even make out the moon for the clouds and the rain.
“No. I hate the noise.”
Valentino says, “ah. The walls are thicker in my bedroom, if you want.”
Marc laughs — head tipped back, uproarious. What a transparent attempt. When he can breathe again, Valentino’s smiling awkwardly, like he knows he’s been seen through. Except Marc shrugs his shoulders and peels clumsily off the couch, tongue heavy around, “you are funny, come on, then.”
He leads the way because he can, because he remembers the path — probably from walking it in his head a thousand times since the first, tracing the steps in some self-flagellating re-run.
Valentino catches up after a moment, hand coming to rest on the small of Marc’s back. It fits like it belongs there, warms right through the other side of him like a flame. They were going to end up here eventually, Marc figures. If it’s born from his own laughter, rather than a gored sense of need, maybe it can finish that way, too. Maybe Valentino will say goodbye to him with some sleazy line, rather than hot, festering Italian that will keep in his stomach like rotten fruit all the way back home.
He spies the bike, first, Vale’s M1 from 2004 — and curse him for knowing that. A giggle bubbles from his chest, because how ridiculous, and Valentino catches him, slinging over his back.
“Don’t laugh at her, Marc,” he admonishes, breath hot across the sensitive shell of Marc’s ear. He can’t help it — that starts him again, and then Valentino’s huffing against the side of his face and manhandling him onto the mattress. Marc helps only a little, slides himself up by his heels till Valentino’s got enough room to loom over him on all fours. All pretence immediately dropped; they aren't here because of the noise.
“I don’t feel like the most desired thing in this room,” Marc says, voice cut by his grin. Vale pulls a face, stifling a show of teeth. He leans to press an open-mouthed kiss to Marc’s neck, and then breathes, “no? Well, I will just have to prove it to you.”
Marc’s hard, he realises absently. Didn’t take much.
“Marc?”
He blinks. Valentino’s staring down at him, face still like he’s waiting.
“What?”
“Is that —?”
It takes him a moment to realise that Valentino is actually asking. God. They’ve gotten out of rhythm, and it’s been years, so it — it makes sense, but. Something pangs deep in his gut. Turns him soft and bittersweet. He relaxes his shoulders, brings his arms around till his wrists are pressed to the side of Vale’s planted palms.
“Yes. Please,” he adds, because he wants Vale to know he’s sure. No room for uncertainty in the parachute, not with a drop like this. Valentino’s lips part, and his eyebrows twitch together, such a minute motion that Marc only sees it because he’s looking.
Lightning sets them aglow — for a second, Marc mistakes the thunder for the growl of the bike, engine right by his ear. A shiver runs through him, and Vale presses forward, grinds them together, finally, and kisses him again.
“What do you want?” Vale whispers into his mouth, hand already working at his jeans.
Marc knows Vale knows, because they know this, and each other, and even though it’s been a decade and change, nothing is really different.
“You know, Vale,” he echoes, “like always.” Always, despite hundreds and hundreds of days between now and then. Vale makes a noise, and says, “yes, yes, I know — I have you,” and he does. Of course he does.
After what feels like an age — seconds at most, but Marc wants it too bad for sense or accuracy, Vale’s fingers brush against his dick. He doesn’t waste time, shoves his jeans down and pushes at Marc’s thighs till his legs drop open, till Vale can press a finger against the wanting heat of him. He pauses for only a moment, stretching for the nightstand and returning to his place, a bottle of lube already dribbling over Marc’s cock as he twists his wrist down.
Valentino pushes in with a long, slick finger, and Marc feels the breath punch out of him.
“Did you think about this, Marc?” Valentino whispers. His voice isn’t teasing, isn’t mean — he sounds like he genuinely wants to know; like he’s thought about it, and needs Marc to be on the same teetering point as him. A second finger strangles the reply in his throat, so he waits, blinks past the stars until the feeling settles like an iron rod in his stomach.
“Yeah, ‘course,” is all he manages, voice already so ripped with want. Valentino groans and folds over him, kissing the whine out of his mouth, fingers spreading him open. Marc knows it’s too soon, that he needs more but fuck, sue him, it’s been too many years and he needs Vale.
“Now, Vale, come on. Please.”
Valentino shushes him sweetly, peppering kisses along his sweating hairline.
“Almost, almost, baby. Wait, one more.”
Marc digs his heels into the mattress at the third finger, hands twisting in the sheets. That has to be enough — it must be.
“Vale,” he demands, trying to force something commanding into his tone. “Come on.”
Valentino laughs by his neck, pulling his fingers out and swatting at the inside of his thigh. Marc gasps at the loss, but the emptiness doesn’t keep, because Vale rolls into him in the next breath, filthy and big and fucking everything — Marc thinks he’s on the ceiling, through it, even, out in the rain and the thunder, somewhere a hundred metres above the ground.
“Fuck, Vale,” he gets out before his words melt into a long, shuddering noise. Valentino shifts his hips once he’s all the way in, breath coming out ragged.
“Got you, you are — fuck, Marc, like I remember. God, ten years, what were we doing.”
Marc blinks past Valentino’s angel-fine curls. He can’t — can’t decide if Vale means that right now, or if it’s the feeling talking, but he’s — God, God. What were they doing — what were they doing? Nothing’s ever felt better than this. His eyes roll back into his head. Absently, he thinks about making sure to thank Gigi for the contract. Look where it’s got him.
Valentino, breath caught, sets a brutal rhythm. The jokes about not keeping up; what bullshit, Marc thinks. He’s already close, tripping over the edge because this is them, again, and finally. Valentino must feel it, curling his hands around Marc’s wrists, pinning them above his head and rearing back to stare down at him as he fucks him. Marc turns his face into the bedding, heat searing across his cheeks.
“No, Marc,” Valentino rushes, “let me see you — look, look at me.” Marc does, breathless, stars exploding at the base of his spine. Valentino sounds so wanting. Marc didn’t think he’d ever hear that again, not outside of his head.
“Close,” he warns, because he can only get one word out at a time. Valentino falls against him, grinds his hips deep, and says, “yeah, yes,” like he already knew.
Marc reaches for his back, gets his nails into the sweat-slick skin and inhales a lungful of Valentino. Valentino moans his name and fire consumes him, tips him over the edge — lightning blinds them for a moment, thunder rolls above and Valentino comes shaking on top of him, hot inside and he’s all Marc can feel, all he can see.
Valentino’s hand finds Marc’s jaw and he kisses him through the aftershocks, slow and liquid smooth even though Marc is trembling, heart hammering like a racehorse. All Marc can say is his name. All Vale can say is, “yes, sorry, here.”