kiss with a fist | pecco bagnaia/marc marquez, angst, divorced!au, forced marriage!au, pwp, emotional hurt/comfort [2.1k]
The click of the front door is what finally pulls Marc out of his daze. It's probably a little after ten; Croatia is still playing Panama on the television. He must have dozed off not long after kickoff, one arm flung over the back of the couch and his neck bent at an angle that's going to hurt tomorrow.
When he blinks the sleep from his eyes, Pecco is standing by the doorway, crouched on one knee to scratch under one of Turbo's ears. A buttery-white folder is tucked beneath his arm.
“Hey,” Marc croaks.
“Hey yourself,” Pecco replies. He takes his time coming in. He toes off his shoes, and then shrugs off his light jacket to hang it over the back of the chair by the door.
Marc follows every little gesture without really meaning to; Pecco’s shoulders are a little sagged, and his hair is completely ruffled from the habit he has of running his hands through it over and over whenever he's anxious. Overall, he just looks tired.
“Made some pasta, if you want,” Marc offers, even if it's probably overcooked and over-salted. He'd stopped paying attention halfway through and left it simmering while he stared blankly at the television. Pecco has always been the better cook between the two of them anyway.
“Ah, no. I ate at Gigi’s place.”
Pecco rubs a hand over his eyes as he says it, fingers lingering there for a second longer than necessary.
Marc should have guessed. He's been gone all afternoon.
Without a word, Pecco gently sets the folder on the coffee table, lowering himself onto the chaise-longue, much too far from Marc’s side of the couch.
“They said you need to sign them too,” he then says. “You know, as a formality.”
Marc should have guessed that too.
“Sure. Domani mattina,” he replies, the Italian rolling off his tongue more naturally than the English now. After all this time in Pesaro, hearing Pecco's voice more often than anyone else's, he sometimes catches himself sounding almost local, his vowels stretching a little differently than they did two years before.
Pecco still isn't looking at him; he's staring somewhere along the floor, while Turbo lazily weaves figure eights around his legs and occasionally nudges his hand with his nose in search of attention; when he sees that his owner is not up to it, he scrams away.
Marc decides to draw closer.
"Hey. Long day?” He lets his hand settle on Pecco's forearm, his thumb absently rubbing over the Assen tattoo. It feels strangely ironic, given they'll be there in less than a week, under the cameras and the floodlights and the endless scrutiny of the people and journalists, not— married anymore. Still. Still married. Somewhere in between. Marc doesn't know when Ducati plans to release the news. He should probably ask, just to be prepared.
“Mh," Pecco just mutters, and leaves it at that. His eyes slips close when Marc’s palm slides under the hem of his sleeve, the muscle contracting instinctively before slowly giving way under the pressure of fingers.
Pecco is perpetually tense. That might be the first thing Marc ever learned about him. He moves through his days as though something terrible is forever about to happen, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, always braced for impact. Marc even tried getting him to do yoga with him once, but it had lasted less than ten minutes, before Pecco became frustrated with himself, complained that breathing exercises only made him think more about breathing.
The only things that seem to work—which Marc has learned slowly and almost by accident—are swimming and sex. Particularly the one where Marc is all teeth and anger about it, that leaves Pecco’s body blooming with bruises for days, but at least someway relaxed, content and pliant in between Marc’s arms.
And Marc is pondering every option now. Because Pecco still isn't looking at him, his gaze stubbornly lowered to the carpet. He doesn’t want to fuss or prod—he reserves that only for Álex—but he can't quite smooth away the worry gathering along his brows. Despite all his best efforts to keep his distance in the beginning, their arrangement has spent the better part of two years putting down roots, threading itself through the fabric of their lives until Marc can no longer remember when it stopped feeling like an obligation and started feeling —dangerously and undeniably— like love.
He is old enough now, and perhaps brave enough, to call it for what it is.
“Querido,” he whispers, going for Pecco’s jaw with his hand.
He allows Marc to gently turn his face until they are finally looking at each other. Exhaustion, anger and anguish. They flicker across Pecco’s eyes so quickly that Marc doesn't know which one wounds him most. He instinctively drags his thumb through the roughness of Pecco's beard, hoping it will have its usual calming effect. He has done this a hundred times before, absentmindedly while watching television, lying in bed half-asleep before their alarm.
Neither of them says anything for a long time and Pecco seems to relinquish himself to the touch by degrees. It's been a minute since they've had a moment like this, just the two of them with nowhere else to go. The last few months have been a succession of absence, between Marc's surgeries, Pecco's habitual disappearances to the ranch, and now— this.
Marc's fingers wanders upward into his hair. Pecco’s curls are soft where they've grown out, warm from the heat of his scalp, and they slip easily through his fingers; his head falls back against the couch when Marc begins carding through them.
Under his hand, Pecco breaths out.
“I know it was you.”
Pecco speaks so low that the words blend with the commentary from the television. It takes a second for them to reach Marc’s brain, another for them to arrange themselves into meaning.
“I know you talked to Massimo,” Pecco continues, his eyes still closed. When he opens them again, the dark irises are shining beneath the tv glow. “You made him promise he was going to choose me over Jorge. Or you would tell the press about him and Aleix. And that video with Pedro.”
Marc’s fingers continue their slow path between Pecco’s hair, separating the strands and smoothing them back.
If there’s one thing they promised each other —after the thing with Marco and the photographs and the press frenzy that followed—it was that there would be no more secrets between them.
But it is common knowledge, at least to everyone who knows him well, that Marc has never been particularly good at following the rules. And what’s omission anyway, in the grand scheme of things, if not another kind of kindness, a way to cushion an abrupt fall. Besides, he knows that Pecco has lied to him too. Not in the same manner, perhaps, but this entire thing, this evening and those papers lying on their coffee table, are proof enough that they have both spent these last two years assuming things instead of saying them aloud. So yes, he had spoken to Massimo. He had started thinking about it from the moment Fermin had informed him of the video at least two months ago; same old recklessness, none of them ever learning from their mistakes. And so Marc had thought; that if he could make one thing easier, one thing that could steer the events toward a future he was so convinced Pecco wanted while causing the least amount of collateral damage, then perhaps they could both leave this Ducati marriage with their pride mostly unscathed. Eventually, life would move on. Pecco would have Marco, and Marc would have—well, maybe a tenth title.
He loosens his fingers against Pecco’s curls and instead takes the other’s face between his hands, gently drawing him closer. Marc can't deny though, that it has become increasingly difficult to hide from him. Sometimes it feels like a miracle that Pecco didn't discover this whole thing a long time ago, simply by looking into his eyes.
“I thought you wanted to be with Marco,” Marc says quietly. “I did this for both of us.”
The frustration suddenly paints all over Pecco’s face. His brows draw together, something incredulous appearing in his expression.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, his voice breaking around the words. “I love you.”
The sentence falls between them and seems to ricochet around the room.
“Pecco,” Marc says, and it comes out a little patronising.
Pecco has never said those word outside of their bedroom. They had slipped out, once or twice, mumbled against Marc's mouth in the hazy aftermath of an orgasm, but Marc always assumed it was one of those things that simply happened in the heat of the moment, words untethered from consequence, made softer and larger by sex. For his part, he never said them back, mostly because he feared he couldn’t deny the earnestness behind it, especially after 2025, so in love with life once again that he felt invincible, almost foolish enough to believe he deserved happiness.
Whatever picture Pecco has built inside his head, it cannot possibly be this. The sex is good, sure. More than good, if Marc is being honest with himself. The intimacy, too, has been unexpectedly easy, finally giving a shape of normalcy to his life. But Marc had learned to live with the understanding that none of this was real, just like any previous marriages he had since starting this career. He adapts; that’s what he does on the bike and in life. Allows himself only so much hope, only so much longing, knowing that wanting something too much is a dangerous habit, and he shouldn’t get ahead of himself too quickly.
Underneath Marc’s palms Pecco has grown hot, the frustration finally finding its way to the surface, blotching his cheeks the way the sun does after long afternoons at the track.
“Why don't you understand?” he whispers, tone surprisingly calm.
In the next moment, there are lips smashing against Marc’s, a hand reaching beneath his ear and along his neck. Pecco kisses him hard, their teeth knocking together until they find the shape of their respective mouths. It feels a little unpracticed, uncoordinated, but Marc can’t hide the fact that he has missed this, the long familiar heat, the scratching of beard against his clean-shaven skin. He holds his breath, one two and three seconds.
When they finally break apart, Pecco’s face has gone ashen. He looks like he has aged ten years, all his usual composure stripped away.
“Please, don’t sign the papers,” he croaks.
Marc doesn't know if he has the courage to answer that. Instead, he lets his hand slide to the back of Pecco’s neck, his fingers slipping into the soft hair and holding him closer. Pecco makes a small, broken sound against his mouth, and Marc takes the hint to kiss him again. By the simple force of gravity, he ends up half in Pecco's lap, his weight sinking toward him until there is no space left between them. His mind has become a room full of noise, which he tries to drone out by licking firmer into Pecco’s palate, awarding him a groan.
It feels miserable. Marc feels miserable.
“Marc,” Pecco pleads, but his name dies in his mouth before Pecco can continue. He doesn’t want to hear it, wants none of it. He just wants silence, another hour before tomorrow arrives.
“Just you and me, like always, yes?” he says, a little unhinged. He rolls his hips into Pecco’s thigh until he can feel the growing ache between his own legs.
It takes time before something even remotely erotic happens; Pecco is still caught between yielding away and submitting, his hand so tentative around Marc’s hips, that Marc almost wants to thrash out, to rattle him from the balls of his feet. They never fucked like this; this— desperately, and Marc feels his skin grow ten sizes, unbearable to keep the pressure.
“Marc,” Pecco tries again, sounding close to a sob. Marc doesn’t relent; he bears down, mashing the softness of his boxers into the hard fabric of Pecco’s jeans, until he’s finally, truly hard, his cock aching and jutting, a hot line between them. He wants Pecco to feel it, to have no choice but to acknowledge it, and so he reaches down, grabs for Pecco’s hip, tries to drag him closer. Pecco is slow to return the gesture, but eventually he bends his knee and shifts his weight so Marc can slot in tight against him, cock to cock, belly to belly. He fumbles for a rhythm that borders on pathetic, just an ugly, graceless grind of his pelvis into Pecco’s thigh, each motion a fraction more desperate than the last.
“I love you. I love you,” Pecco mouths around his collarbone. He sounds so far away, coming from just another dimension entirely. Marc cannot bear the weight of it. Because this doesn’t change anything, it doesn’t—
“Pecco,” it’s all he can manage. His voice comes out rough, almost unrecognisable. And pressure builds and builds and builds, a slow, merciless ache that seems to expand with every breath, threatening to split him open from the inside. He can feel Pecco's cock pressed against his inner thigh, the damp heat of his breath where his face remains buried against his neck.
I love you, he wants to say. I love you. I love you. I love you.
There’s a final tilt, a messy grind of their cocks together that makes Marc finally burst, a groan ripped from the center of his chest that tears the silence. Pecco holds him close while he rides out the final wave of his orgasm, the muscles in his thighs loosen, unclenching. Marc just stays there for what feels like an eternity, cocooned in between Pecco’s neck and shoulder.
A hand gently presses against his back, sliding up and down his spine, just it always does after moments like this, drawing him back to earth, rooting him into place.
Marc is so caught into the haze of it that he doesn’t even notice the sob that suddenly breaking out of him, uncontrollable and unexpected. His chest hitches helplessly against Pecco's, his fingers bunching in the back of his shirt as if he is falling. He makes a small, strangled sound and clamps his mouth shut, horrified by it.
“Hey,” Pecco murmurs, his hand still continuing its sinuous path.
Another shudder runs through Marc, and then another, grief mounting inside him with terrifying speed. He cannot seem to gather himself back together; every attempt at a steady breath only splinters into another tremor.
He is tired. God, he is so tired of pretending he doesn't feel heartbroken.
“Amore mio,” Pecco calls, pressing a kiss into his temple. He is crying too; Marc can feel it now, the damp heat of his skin against his face.
When he finally lifts his head, Pecco’s eyes are red-rimmed and shining, his lips swollen from their kisses. He smiles, tried and watery, with that same unadulterated gentleness Marc saw on the day of their wedding. The memory is so impossibly far away now, vivid and yet utterly unreal, its edges softened and greyed by time. Marc stares back at him, unable to reconcile the two images overlapping in his head.
“I’m sorry,” is the only appropriate thing he finds himself saying.
He knows it doesn’t cover half of the things he’s done over the past two years, but he wants Pecco to know it. That beneath all the play-pretend and the stubbornness, there has never been a moment in which he wanted to hurt him. Even at his angriest, even in those early months when the scandal broke, and he felt miserable and out of his depth; he had never wished him pain.
Pecco's expression softens, the fight completely drained from his body. There is no triumph in it, no relief, only a profound and weary tenderness, the utter certainty that they can’t go back anymore.
“I know, amore. I know,” he says, tucking a stray curl behind his ear.
Marc hides again in the crook of his neck. He suddenly feels very young. Young and tired and terribly undeserving.
