Work Text:
“I knew he’d never change, he’s too stubborn, too similar to me.”
Marc stared at the number 46 painted on the wall. The ugly, loud fluo yellow jumping out on a backsplash of quiet, modest blue, the colors blurring together. His ears started ringing with the Italian’s words, the bite of them registering a bit too late.
The lights in the veteran riders garage flickered, almost tauntingly. Except this time, he didn’t react. No, not like the many other times he had. The fluorescence cast a glow against the Spaniard’s tan, scarred skin.
He was older now, more experienced. Knowing. Not old, not yet, but weathered. The boyish charm had faded into something sharper, quieter. Calculating. An apex predator on the track. A vast difference between now and his rookie years, still his drive never seemed to disappear.
Marc scoffed under his breath. He shook his head.
"You never really left, did you?"
Directing his attention toward the massive commemoration mural on the side wall, he grimaced. Every wrinkle of age and years of relentless determination indented into his face. He had grown up worshipping Valentino. Posters, video tapes, imitations of his knee-drag on his childhood minibike. He had wanted nothing more than to race him — and beat him. And here he was. Immortalized. His arms outstretched like the patron saint everyone knew him to be. A facade. A fraud, his signature yellow burning around him like a halo, yet he fell from grace years ago.
There was no one else to answer him but the wind and his own wretched memories.
Marc looked down at his hands.
Still calloused. Still strong. But not invincible.
No, not anymore.