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As Fermín limped around his motorhome on the warm Saturday evening, his mind was on Marc.
It was on other things as well, of course. His Q1 crash and resulting terrible grid position. His decent recovery in the sprint to finish p9, about the best he could have managed with the aforementioned qualifying disaster.
But mostly the last lap of that sprint, riding past the smudge of red in the gravel, still glistening like a ruby under the bright sunlight. Shattered and broken.
The pain of his own leg, the way he still had to lean on any nearby surface to keep the weight off it, seemed to ache even sharper in sympathy with the older Ducati rider.
He had seen the clips of Marc after he had left the track, no weight on his right leg at all.
It was a bitter kind of irony, some cosmic joke that the universe hadn’t quite understood wasn’t funny yet.
Fate needed her punching bags, and what more entertaining than one that kept getting back up.
Fermín hadn’t spoken to Marc personally yet, he’d been whisked off into whatever myriad of medical checks and clearances to discuss his next moves. Whether he’d be able to race tomorrow or not. Whether he’d be able to do anything at all.
Even after watching a replay of the crash, it was hard for Fermín to really process how serious it might be. After all, everyone had seen Marc crash before, a million different times.
High sides, low sides, too much lean, not enough brake, any way he could push a bike to the point of being thrown off, Marc had done it.
And still, every time, he was back far sooner than any human should be, and still making his body do things that would be impossible for anyone to conceive.
So Fermín watched the violent red shape fly through the air, landing and rolling and crushing every soft, fragile part of its form, and still couldn’t imagine it slowing the man.
It was only as he finally collapsed down onto his bed, reaching for his phone to catch up on any more news from the day, that he read the most recent updates.
Not racing on Sunday.
Not racing next week.
Surgery tonight…
Fermín looked over the words blankly. What could he even say?
He wasn’t that close with Marc, sure they trained together sometimes, and being teammates with one Márquez meant a constant proximity to the other, but they weren’t the kind of friends where Fermín could pick up the phone and just call him.
A text would be considerate, but maybe come across impersonal or tacky. A gift and well wishes after the surgery would be nice, but could seem too late, only offering compassion in retrospect, when Marc surely needed comfort now.
Fingers halfway to typing out a draft message were interrupted by a quiet knock on the door of his motorhome.
It took a while for Fermín to get up on his bad leg and shuffle through the small room, crutches out of reach. He almost expected whoever the visitor was to have given up and left by the time he got the door unlocked and cracked open, but no.
Marc Márquez, standing propped on the shitty crutches that every track medical team had to give out, one foot bound in a temporary brace, and shoulders slumped at an awkward angle, one clearly less comfortable with the weight.
He blinked up at Fermín, head cocked slightly, eyes unnervingly dark and piercing in the still bright sun, despite the dwindling hour.
“Marc.” Fermín stated, somehow unsurprised by the man’s presence. Like his endless thoughts had summoned Marc to him, tugging insistantly on one of the many cobweb strings extending from Marc.
No doubt there were many people with Marc on their minds tonight, many people hopefully tugging on their mental threads, drawing the man out in every direction.
And for some reason, it was Fermín’s door he had landed at, looking up at the younger man like he was expected.
Fermín stepped aside, letting Marc enter, thinking belatedly to offer an arm, to help stabilise Marc’s awkward hops.
Marc laughed indulgently, allowing him to take some of Marc’s weight like the honour it was.
Of course, when he tried to take a step with him, Fermín dropped too much weight onto his own bad leg, and stumbled with a muttered curse.
Marc said nothing. He surely knew better than anyone how much worse it was to be pointed out. He simply let Fermín’s arm in his act as a brief anchor, and stood with him in an understanding silence as they both caught their breaths, bodies trying to settle themselves into some position that wasn’t agony to exist.
Marc led them both to Fermín’s bed without a word and they sank down to sit in unison, the weight off Fermín’s leg and Marc’s foot a relief like a dousing of ice water.
“What are you doing here, Marc? You are going for surgery today, no?” Fermín finally asked, keeping his eyes ahead, staring at the blank wall.
Marc stared straight at Fermín, pitch eyes burning through the side of his face, making his cheek flare with heat.
“Later,” Marc admitted with a fractional nod. “But before that, I want something good out of this weekend.”
Fermín frowned slightly. “And you’ve come to… me?”
“I’ve heard word that you’re the one to ‘come to’, yes.” There was a note of amusement in Marc’s tone, a joke, but not one to poke fun at Fermín’s expense.
This, Fermín hadn’t expected. He wondered who had told Marc.
Álex was definitely possible, he had gotten fond of using Fermín’s mouth on a Thursday or Friday, getting him in a good, relaxed mood for the weekend.
Jorge perhaps. He didn’t know if Jorge and Marc were close, but all the Spaniards talked a little, and Jorge did like to run his mouth, especially when it came to what he wanted from Fermín.
An Espargaro was even more likely. They were both fond of Fermín, and delighted even more in sharing him around. Either would be the kind of guy to mention in passing just how willing Fermín would be, if only Marc was interested.
Then again, it seemed most of the grid had learned somehow that showing up at Fermín’s motorhome was fair game. It was naive to think Marc wouldn’t have heard of his free availability, his open, willing arms and hands and mouth.
Fermín had just never thought Marc himself would come asking.
Surely the older man had a whole list of other options, hell, there probably wasn't a person alive who would turn down Marc Márquez, but here he was at Fermín’s door, sitting on his bed, when later that same evening he was due to fly for multiple surgeries.
“Oh.” Fermín wasn’t sure what to say, glancing over to meet Marc’s eyes finally, and almost flinching at the intensity in them.
“With my leg, and your…uh… I won’t be able to do as much.”
Marc just shook his head. “No, no, I don’t need you to do a lot, just lay with me for a bit?”
“...sure.” A touch of uncertainty coloured Fermín’s voice, still not certain what was expected of him.
This was usually a very simple transaction, someone would come to him, ask for whatever ‘favour’ they were in the mood for, and Fermín was always very happy to provide.
Marc was an anomaly in every equation, still a little too much of a legend, and much too little of a human to be understood like any other man’s wants.
But Fermín was also very good at doing as he was asked, so he obligingly followed Marc’s lead, letting the older man arrange them as he pleased. Fermín laid back with Marc half on top of him, legs either side of Fermín’s good thigh, head tucked into Fermín’s shoulder.
It was comfortable, practically cuddling, and Fermín was completely lost. Despite himself, he could feel his cock filling out in his boxers, and wanted to cringe away, shift his hips back lest Marc feel his erection.
That was what Marc was here for though…Fermín thought. The embarrassment shouldn’t be necessary, especially with his brazen boldness with every other rider that had found their way into Fermín’s bed.
And yet, this was Marc.
“Easy,” Marc murmured, resting his hands on Fermín’s chest, feeling the rising tension in him. “Relax for me.”
Relaxing was easier said than done, as Marc’s warm breath puffed over the sensitive skin of Fermín’s neck, and the younger man trembled.
Then the thigh between Fermín’s legs pressed a little more insistently, sliding up to grind in a slow, deliberate movement against the unignorable hardness straining against his sweatpants.
Fermín whined, long and low, head dropping back against the pillows. He didn’t try to hold back the noise, he knew his bed partners liked the pretty sounds he made, and Marc was the one sliding against his clothed dick with the cocky assuredness that only Marc could make as sexy as it was.
When Marc did it again, he braced himself slightly against Fermín’s chest, using the leverage to press his thigh harder against Fermín. The muscle was thick and solid, with only three thin layers of fabric separating hot skin, and Fermín’s entire body jerked, eyes slamming closed and plush lips falling apart.
He didn’t miss the way Marc’s body momentarily stiffened though, and the right arm that had braced against his chest shook and failed.
Marc, to his credit, was very good at hiding it. He lowered himself back to lay his full weight on top of Fermín, carefully settling his arm safely on the bed without drawing attention to it.
Fermín noticed. He didn’t know what to say.
“C’mon Fermín, get yourself off, pretty.” Marc spoke for him, licking a hot streak up the side of Fermín’s neck, and the younger man’s brain was wiped blissfully blank.
Jerking his hips unsteadily against Marc felt like a sin. It felt like he was desecrating some great shrine, a monument to the greatest legacy in motorsport history. Just to touch Marc’s skin, feel his sweat drip, feel his saliva dry against Fermín’s neck, it was like a holy blessing and the deepest blasphemy.
Who was Fermín to see him like this? To get to feel this closeness? To settle trembling hands around Marc’s back, while aware that this body was flesh and blood and bones and metal screws and plates and horror after horror stacked upon each other.
And yet it was Marc who lay atop of him, pressing gentle kisses against Fermín’s skin like this was allowed.
Like this wasn’t stolen time from someone else more…what? More deserving?
Fermín really doubted there was anyone who could truly deserve Marc.
And he was so hot, so close, so dizzyingly intense to even be around, that Fermín was already feeling lightheaded, hips jerking in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm.
“Marc-” Fermín panted, fingertips trying to dig in for purchase, as he fought to consciously not scratch. He would not allow himself to mark such a precious body, could not forgive himself if he defiled the consecrated monument in the form of a man, so fragile, even in his sanctity.
Fermín was never like this, this isn’t how this was meant to go. He was good for serving, for giving, and for being used.
This felt selfish, moving for his own pleasure with no regard for Marc’s. Marc was asking nothing of him, laying as a solid weight to be thrust against like a toy, no reciprocating jerks of his own hips, just more gentle kisses up and down Fermín’s neck, like he was being sampled for tasting.
“Are you close, Fermín?” Marc finally asked, as the sudden sound of his voice, so soft and raspy in the quiet of the room, was what pushed Fermín over the limit with a cry.
His hips continued their rough thrusting, grinding himself through the orgasm even as the feeling became too sensitive, and he shuddered under the heavy weight on his chest.
“Marc…” Fermín murmured again, trying to press his own thigh up higher, let Marc grind down against it, do anything to help the older man.
Marc had come to him, sought Fermín out for his use, and Fermín had humped against him like an animal with no care for Marc’s needs. He felt ashamed.
Marc made no attempt to grind against Fermín though, simply laying comfortable and heavy on top of him like a weighted blanket.
“Uhh - Marc? Let me-” Fermín tried sliding his hand down to cup Marc through his trousers, and found the man completely soft.
The embarrassment washed over Fermín again in a thicker wave. Was he that bad? So unappealing that Marc hadn’t even got a little hard as Fermín clumsily groped at him.
Marc read the devastation on his face, the sick guilt and humiliation, and gently kissed it away.
“No, it’s not you. The pain meds they’ve got me on, I don’t like them much, but they kind of make all that useless.”
Fermín blinked. Pain meds, right. The broken bone, the broken screw, his broken body, broken, broken -
“Why come to me then?” He asked quietly. “That’s what I’m for, why people come to see me.”
The sweet kisses along Fermín’s jawline stopped instantly, and Marc looked down at him with a frown.
“That’s not what I heard. And not why I’m here.”
Fermín frowned right back, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.
“Uh…why are you here then? I - You know people just come to me to get off, right?”
“No.” Marc shook his head. “No, I heard that you would be there if someone needed physical comfort, touch. That’s what I needed. And this is perfect.”
With that, he settled back down heavily on top of Fermín again, head tucked back into his neck, and his good arm resting along the length of Fermín’s, lacing their fingers loosely together.
“But I - uh -” Fermín shifted a little uncomfortably, horribly aware of the cooling wet stain in his boxers. “You didn’t want that, fuck, Marc - I’m -”
Marc sighed, nipping Fermín’s skin to silence him.
“I wanted you to. I did want that, seeing you like that, hearing you, that was good. It felt nice. I just don’t want anything ‘in return’ as you could say. Just this.”
“Oh.” Finally Fermín let the silence settle more comfortably over them, the weight of the peaceful quiet, like the weight of the inhuman man pressing down on his chest.
It was a long time before either of them moved again, Marc suddenly twitching as his phone chirped.
“I have to go,” He mumbled softly, and suddenly every event of the day seemed to heavy his voice, the crash, the injuries, the looming surgery. He sounded small. Not like Marc at all.
Fermín flinched at the sound of it, curling himself tighter around the smaller body.
“Be safe, Marc.”
There was no point wishing him luck, or strength, or any prayer that could have risen to Fermín’s lips.
Even wishing safety was an empty word when it came to a creature like Marc, but he had to say something.
Maybe it meant something, because Marc’s mouth tilted in a smile, before pressing another sweet kiss to the corner of Fermín’s lips.
“Have a good race, Fermín. Don’t let them slack without me.”
And then he was gone, just as soon as he had appeared, leaving Fermín with a head full of clouds and sticky underwear, wondering just who had told Marc, and how to properly thank them.
He couldn’t wait to race him again.