Chapter Text
It's a nice cold breeze that's moving against the back of Marc's neck, stars above his head shining and unaware of the deep sadness right infront of them. The moon is looking, but maybe closing it's eyes so it doesn't see the razor in the man's hand.
A diary lies beside, open on the last page that was touched by a pen, marked by blue ink in the words "Maybe this is my last day too."
The pen guilty for the ink is thrown beside it, nearly rolling off the small balcony.
The railing is cold. Pure metal only hugged by emotionless air and the hits of rain drops, touched by the warmth of the sun. But nothing feels nice.
Marc's breathing is shaking, his throat burns from the cold air he forces himself to inhale. The middle of winter, cold, dark night.
And he's doing what?
Sitting shirtless on his balcony, feeling sorry for himself and the man he grew up to be.
His eyes move to the razor, still clean, resting in his left palm. It's untouched. He promised himself it'll always stay like that.
Maybe he could ignore the existence of today.
Just one slip up, one razor pressing into his bare forearm.
He makes a shaky exhale, looking at the red line and distorted skin the metal is leaving behind. He stops for a second, watching the first drop of blood before moving his hand up.
Another cut and another and another and another and another-
He woke up in the morning, passed out on the cold concrete ground before checking his phone.
He's still alive, breathing, his heart still forcing his blood to move around his body.
He needs someone, he desperately needs someone but how can he ask when noone pays attention.
Sitting up hurts, his arm hurts, lying hurts, everything hurts but it's normal when it happens your whole life, no?
The hours that passed felt like seconds to the man as he traveled and got ready. Another day, another race. He's not winning today. He never will again, he just can't.
"Marc! Congrats on third, mate."
The voice stings more than the blood soaking up into his leathers. More than wounds reopening after pushing himself for hours without break.
Can at least someone notice the yelling for help?
"Thank you."
He nods quietly, but doesn't look. He feels distant, like this whole reality is fake and he doesn't exist. He doesn't, no he doesn't. It feels like floating instead of walking, there's no noise entering his ears but his eyes see the noise being spoken.
Spring starts and everyone would assume it's going to get better.
It doesn't.
It's so bad. Marc can't feel his right arm, the only feel was the one of pain if he pressed hard enough.
His bathroom became his best friend. The cold walls and floor making everything ten times worse.
That's what he deserves. Nothing but pain and agony for ruining the sport for everyone.
He's expecting anyone to burst into his apartment at any moment. He's ignoring his family, his team and his dear friends too. He would never do that before. He would try to cover up before.
But he's too lost in watching his forearm getting ruined by his own mind. He, himself, is ruining his body he got loved for before.
His phone is lying beside him and he can faintly see someone calling him again.
He knows Alex tried, Pecco tried, Jorge tried, everyone who has his number tried at this point but there was no answer.
He knows one other person has his number too. The one who never uses it tho.
Until now.
Marc's head lifts a bit as he takes his phone and picks up the call, moving the phone to his ear as his head collapses back against the cold tiles of his bathroom.
"Rossi?"
"Morning."
The voice on the other side was harsh, irritated by something Marc couldn't even realise he should think about.
"What."
Marc's voice is dead, it's sore and hurts.
"What the hell is going on with you, Marquez? The whole goddamn journalists organisation is calling me because you're doing some shit again."
While complaining, Valentino's walking around his living room, angry at everyone reaching out to him as if he magically knows what's wrong with the idiot.
"Your team too."
"I'm fine."
Marc frowns, taking a deep breath before yawning.
He can't sleep, he physically can't. Maybe it's self harm by drinking energy drinks everyday to stay awake every night, but he's too deep in it to realise that maybe he does not deserve this pain he does to himself at every chance he gets.
"Stop lying."
Valentino raises his voice slightly. He isn't getting annoyed and basically forced to call him just to hear this dumb sentence again.
"I could use an ambulance."
And now he's just an attention seeker in his own eyes. In his own eyes he should be dead already.
"What?"
"I can't..breathe.."
Marc mumbles, his breathing suddenly getting heavy. He doesn't even realise until he's fully hyperventilating, rubbing his neck and wincing as his forearm hurts and burns.
"Hey- wait, Marquez, hold on."
Valentino froze in the middle of his pacing, frowning. He never heard him like this. He was always so annoying and sarcastic, playful and everything else but never so broken.
"Deep breaths."
Marc shakes his head, coughing a bit. He can hear Valentino talking and the slight amount of worry in his tone is making his puffy eyes get full of tears in a matter of a second.
"Stay on the line with me."
"I'm tired."
So pathetic. He wants to die already and spare the world of his embarrassing attention seeking. He curls up more on the floor, feeling his shirt soaking up some of the blood that dripped down from his forearm to the floor.
"Okay.. Okay, you're fine, Marquez."
Valentino talks as he grabs his car keys, covering all the noise by his voice.
As he sits into his car he continues.
"I'm in the city today."
"What city?"
He speaks so slowly, each word causing him to loose so much energy even breathing is hard to do.
"Yours."