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"He's a cocky little shit," Jorge said, apropos of nothing.
Fernando turned and gave his countryman an arch look. "Most people said the same about you, but you're not so bad."
There was a slight pause. Jorge cleared his throat with a delicate cough and admitted, "Anymore. Besides, they smiled when they said that about me."
This, Fernando had to give the Majorcan. Three Spaniards had now said the same thing to him about Marc, and none of them had looked remotely happy about the statement. Pedrosa, he was willing to pass off as jealousy- nobody liked being beaten by their team mate on a race-ly basis. Espargaro the younger, he thought said it begrudgingly, with reluctant respect but still no happiness. This amused Fernando but he quickly moved on. Coming from Jorge Lorenzo, the statement was pure hypocrisy, and he started to worry. (And/or plan. But mostly worry.)
-*-
On his motorbike, Marquez was sleek speed and deceptive power- nobody could believe the way he made his bike move on the track. Off his bike, Marquez was a skinny, mid-sized youth who probably still got ID'd at the supermarket. He had no grace, volume control, or fear. Fernando was beginning to suspect that nobody had exaggerated their opinions of this particular rider.
The bar was crowded, but Fernando eventually got his two beers. He sat down with them next to the MotoGP World Champion and was struck, all of a sudden, by how young he looked. I know he's twenty one, but I'm still not sure I should give him the drink. He shook away the asinine thought and introduced himself politely, then congratualted Marc for his continuing form in the current season.
The little shit, as promised, ignored all manners and laughed over his introduction. "You think I don't know who you are? I grew up watching you race. There were often fights in our family when the F1 clashed with the motorbikes." He took the proffered beer and smiled in thanks, for it and the compliment.
Fernando took a sip of his own, curious. "Who won?"
"My mother," Marc grinned. "She'd unplug the television."
That startled a laugh out of the older man. As his chuckles subsided, he noticed Marc looking smug, like he was proud to have caused such merriment. "Everyone tells me you're a cocky little shit," he said bluntly. Rehearsed words were for reporters.
Marc shrugged, not self-conscious in the least. "I'm breaking records every week. I'm the constant benchmark for the others to push against. I'm proud of my achievements and don't demur when people congratulate me." He took a long pull of beer and looked the driver straight in the eye. "Humility is a false notion for people like us."
"World champions?" Fernando asked idly, wondering who the 'us' referred to.
Marc smirked. "Cocky arseholes," he corrected.
Fernando had to laugh again. "Now you're just playing for a reaction," he accused the younger man.
"People will always talk," Marc said, unconcerned. "At least by talking up, I know what they'll be talking about." And Fernando's plans began to take shape with such a golden line. He finished his beer and stood up. Marc actually looked worried for a moment, until Fernando held out his hand.
"Want to give them something to really talk about?"
Marc caught on with a dark grin. "Lead on," he put his hand in Fernando's, grasping the long fingers. "But-" and for the first time in their conversation, Marc seemed unsure. "Er, what are you planning? Because my team will kill me if I'm out too late."
He's a cocky little shit, but he's still twenty one. Fernando winked. "Only if you get caught."
Marc bit his lip, and seemed to remember that fact himself as he came to a decision. "Lead on, teacher," he snarked to cover his nervousness.
Fernando grinned wickedly back at him, and Marc was not reassured.
-*-
Marc wakes up, and yelps to find three other people in bed with him. His bed is a single. It doesn’t fit four people. Not to mention the fact that there are three other people in bed with him, and he thinks he has adequate cause to panic.
Panicking is then put on hold because mother of God and all his angels, but Marc’s head hurts.
Right. He can only have one crisis at a time. He extricates himself from the tangle of body parts and gets up to search (naked, he is half horrified and wholly impressed to realise) for a bathroom. As expected after the awakening, this is a hotel suite, so there are no painkillers to be found in the cabinet, but he does find a glass and drinks a healthy amount of water.
He also finds a bra, two pairs of socks and jeans he recognises as his own. A slow round of applause makes him jump and spin back to the door.
Fernando is leaning against the doorframe, casually naked, and grinning like a madman. “The girls are seeing themselves out,” he explained. His eyes catch the lingerie Marc is holding, and the grin widens. “You should go out and say goodbye; ask Lauren if she wants that back.”
And this, Marc realises, is it. This is the moment. He can blush and hide out in the bathroom like a little boy, or he can man up, saunter back outside in nothing but yesterday’s jeans, and request Lauren’s bra as a souvenir.
Marc swallows, then does what any sane man would do (if he was dreaming).
He steps into his jeans, loosely fastens them, and steps out into the suite with what Fernando later tells him was a shit-eating grin on his face.
(He gets to keep the bra. Lauren’s fun like that. They keep in touch for a couple of months after the initial night.)
(He and Fernando keep in semi-regular touch over the following months and even years.)
(Nobody in either paddock ever understands why. Including themselves.)