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Diggia knocked lightly on Pedro’s motorhome door, taking a respectful pace backwards as he waited.
He knew Pedro had returned after his long, long team debrief. KTM had, understandably, taken a lot longer than the other teams, with so many technical issues to analyse and address. Diggia did not envy anyone in those meetings.
Finally though, he had seen Pedro make his slow, slumped walk back through the paddock, looking utterly defeated in the slope of his shoulders and sag of his head.
He hadn’t been watching creepily, no binoculars through the window, just keeping an eye out for a figure in orange, the last involved rider he hadn’t visited yet that evening.
Unsurprisingly, as soon as the door opened to reveal an exhausted looking Pedro, it was immediately slammed again in his face.
Diggia sighed, hands sliding comfortably into his pockets, and waited.
Only a few seconds passed before it cracked open again, Pedro’s eyes narrowed in a needling glare.
“The fuck do you want?” He snapped, voice harsh, if a little scratchy.
“I’m here to check up on you.” Diggia said simply. “You doing okay?”
“What the fuck.” Pedro’s reply was less than eloquent, but his murderous glare shifted to brief confusion before returning to poison.
Diggia resisted the urge to roll his eyes, only settling his face into a pleasant smile.
“You were involved in the incident with Álex, and then were hit yourself. Are you okay?”
Pedro scoffed loudly. “You’re here to make sure I know you won, huh? Piss off.”
This time Diggia did look a little exasperated. “Pedro, there were a lot of incidents today that were fucking scary, and we were offered no support from the organisers, and from everyone I’ve spoken to, no support from our teams. I have been to every person involved to talk and see if they are doing okay, or need anything. You are not special, I am here because you rightfully should be shaken to hell after that, and I doubt anyone has actually asked you how you are. So I ask again, are you feeling okay? Do you need anything?”
Silence for a few long seconds.
Pedro stared intently at Diggia as if trying to read his mind, trying to detect the sincerity in his words, and apparently seeing truth in them.
Then, to Diggia’s horror, Pedro’s face crumpled, lips quivering and fat tears springing instantly to his eyes.
“No,” He mumbled wetly. “I’m really not okay right now.”
“Woah - okay uh - can I come in?” Diggia’s hands reached and faltered automatically, not really sure where to go with this.
Everyone else he had visited had appreciated his sentiment, agreed with his disapproval over the lack of support, and let him go with a brief hug and some agreement to try taking the issue higher up.
He had expected animosity from Pedro, insults, some bitterness over the race result. He had not prepared himself for the prospect that the rider would burst into tears.
Pedro stepped back, enough of an invitation for Diggia, who slipped inside, letting the door swing closed behind them.
Pedro was a miserable sight, the picture of a man defeated, no energy left in his body for anything, just swaying slightly in place as hot tears poured silently down his cheeks.
Diggia knew he had taken it badly, knew Pedro was shaken. He had seen the article saying the boy had been physically shaking in the garage before the team sent him back out without even asking if he felt well enough to. This was without a doubt the worst crash Pedro had seen in his career in MotoGP, and it was his bike that had caused the incident to happen at all.
While unquestionably not Pedro’s fault, anyone would be struggling to process that, let alone someone still so young.
Without saying another word, Diggia swept Pedro tightly into his arms. He wasn’t much taller, but the perfect height to tuck Pedro’s head under his chin, face pressed against Diggia’s shoulder, trying to ineffectually hide the tears. It didn’t do much good when his shoulders shook with his wracking sobs, only increasing with force the longer he was held.
“Pedro, Pedro, come on, you should sit, or lie down.” Diggia murmured, keeping his arms tight and grounding around his back.
Pedro just made a broken, choking noise, and Diggia felt his heart break a little. How had no one else checked up properly on him? Surely anyone who had seen the crash would have known that he would be taking this badly, especially with his own end to the race.
Diggia wasn’t objecting to being the one to comfort him, but he shouldn’t be the first after such a difficult day.
He doubted now that the team had checked in with him at all besides asking about how the bike felt, and that would only make Pedro think more about the incident.
Anger swelled in Diggia’s chest, and he squeezed Pedro a little tighter, ducking his head to press a kiss into the boy’s hair.
“Let’s lie down, okay, I’ve got you.” He kept his voice level, trying not to betray his disgust at the lack of care from anyone for Pedro. Where was his support system? Where was someone to hold him like he clearly needed?
It wasn’t hard to manoeuvre them both into Pedro’s bedroom, and settle the younger man onto his bed. Pedro’s grabbing hands made it very clear that Diggia was not allowed to move any further away just yet, so he laid down too, letting Pedro get himself comfortably nuzzled into Diggia’s side.
A long few minutes passed where the silence in the room was filled only with Diggia’s steady, deep breaths, and the more stuttered sniffles between Pedro’s weak cries, finally petering out.
“It wasn’t my fault.” Pedro finally whispered, the words barely audible against Diggia’s shoulder, the fabric of his shirt soaked with tears.
“Of course it wasn’t your fault,” Diggia replied quickly, the arm around Pedro’s shoulders tightening, thumb brushing over his skin in a rhythmic, soothing motion.
“They said - the data - I know it wasn’t my fault.” Pedro repeated, as if he was trying to convince Diggia, or himself.
The ripples of anger suddenly flared into a blaze, and Diggia fought not to immediately sit upright.
“Pedro - Your team didn’t try to tell you it was your fault? Did they?”
Pedro sniffed miserably again, fresh tears rising, as if now that the floodgates had opened he couldn’t stop crying.
“Not, not completely, but -” He broke off weakly. “The lap data, I should have noticed earlier, I could have avoided-”
“No.” Diggia cut him off with a tone that allowed no negotiation. “Absolutely not, what the fuck? Pedro it was not your fault in any way, no one could have known. How dare they even imply-”
Diggia had to bite his own tongue to stop from going into a full rant. That would not be helpful right now. Tomorrow, maybe, but at this moment he had a distraught Pedro in his arms, who just needed comfort.
The sound of Pedro’s muffled whimpers had only increased, face pressed harder into Diggia’s shoulder to hide. The Italian frowned miserably, every part of his heart screaming out for him to do more, to ease the pain wracking through Pedro’s beaten body.
He pulled the younger man closer, until Pedro lay half on top of him, face tucked more comfortably into the crook of his neck, heavy on Diggia’s chest like an oddly shaped weighted blanket.
“Can I get anything for you, Pedro?” Diggia asked softly, keeping his voice gentle, rumbling through his chest.
Pedro just hummed, the vibration of it reflecting back against Diggia’s skin.
“Some water? Something to eat?” He prompted, but didn’t get any more response from Pedro than an incoherent mumble.
It was only when Diggia attempted to sit up a little, to readjust their positions and look for a water bottle within reach, that Pedro made a horrible cry of distress. His hands scrabbled to seize onto Diggia, wrapping around him in a vice grip, staring up at him with panic in his watery eyes.
“No - no - don’t go yet,” Pedro gasped wetly, and Diggia felt a cruising wave of guilt.
“I’m not leaving, not going anywhere - shh - I’m sorry.” He settled them both back down, pressing kisses into Pedro’s hair, arms tight and secure around his back.
Cursing himself, Diggia attempted to look around without jostling the young man currently attached to his front like a limpet.
There was a water bottle next to the bed, which Diggia vowed to get Pedro to drink when he wasn’t going to burst into more floods of tears the moment they lost skin contact.
He had never imagined Pedro to be the clingy type, but then again, he hadn’t really imagined Pedro as anything before this, and now he had the Spaniard wrapped so tightly around him, it felt rather like being strangled by an octopus.
A wet, sniffly, trembling octopus, that Diggia felt more protective over than anyone he could remember holding in his life.
Pedro stopped crying eventually, wearing himself out, and resigned to just lay on Diggia like that, legs tangled and arms tight around each other. He nuzzled his face closer into Diggia’s neck, nose nudging the scruff of stubble on the underside of his chin.
“You feeling alright now?” Diggia tried asking again, and Pedro groaned weakly.
“Head hurts. A lot. And my chest. And leg a bit. I feel…better.”
Diggia released a sigh of relief he hadn’t even realised he was still holding, running his hand up and down Pedro’s back in a soothing motion.
“Could you drink some water? It’ll help your head after that.”
He could feel Pedro’s nod against his neck, but the Spaniard made no move to get up until Diggia sat them both more upright, reaching out for the bottle he had spied earlier, uncapping it before offering it to Pedro. The younger man drank quickly, deep gulps of the cool liquid, until Diggia rested a hand on the bottle to slow him.
“Not too fast, you’ll make yourself sick, just take it easy for a moment.”
Pedro shot him a reproachful look, one that betrayed the instinct to snarl or snap back, but restrained and muzzled.
He did seem to listen though, slowing to small sips until the bottle was empty, and Pedro felt rather lightheaded, but less cotton-mouthed.
“Alright,” Diggia nodded, already feeling calmer himself now that Pedro seemed a little more stable. “Is there any food you want?”
A firm shake of Pedro’s head. “Not hungry.”
Understandable, Diggia let that one slide. He had lost all appetite for the day too.
“So - uh - If you’re feeling better now, I guess I can get out of your hair. I hope you’re able to get some sleep-”
Diggia trailed off when he saw the look of raw pain and upset return to Pedro’s face.
“Or - I could stay?”
Pedro softened immediately, his face looking more youthful than its years. His lips parted like he was going to answer, before his voice failed and he could only nod pathetically.
A part of Diggia hated how vulnerable Pedro was being. This kid was one of the most stubborn, headstrong, fiery and proud young riders to ever enter the paddock.
He wasn’t meant to crumple completely in the arms of a man he had barely spoken to. He wasn’t meant to bare his underbelly, show his soft weaknesses so easily just because he was offered a moment of compassion.
It filled Diggia with a lot of sick suspicions about the personal support, or lack of, that Pedro may be getting, but this was certainly not the time or place to start asking questions about that now.
“Okay, I’m staying. I just need to get a drink myself and use the bathroom, I promise I’m not going anywhere, yeah?”
When Diggia returned to the bedroom, Pedro was still sitting frozen in exactly the same place, blinking up at him with an unreadable expression.
Diggia wondered if the few minutes alone had shaken Pedro back to his usual temperament, and he was about to be kicked out with a litany of curses, but Pedro’s face suddenly broke into a smile, and he shuffled over to let Diggia lay back down with him.
With a relieved grin in response, Diggia flicked off the light, leaving the room basked in a dimmer, orange glow from the small lamp by the bed. It felt more comfortable, inviting, and Pedro lifting up the covers for Diggia to slide underneath was like finally releasing a breath that had been held for hours, choking and stagnating.
As soon as Diggia was settled down, Pedro was back on him, bodies pressed as closely together as two people can be, legs tangled, arms around his back, chest to chest and face nuzzled happily back under Diggia’s chin.
It seemed that Pedro had apparently embarrassed himself enough crying all over the Italian, and now held no restraint or composure about smothering him completely with a satisfied hum.
Diggia huffed a soft laugh at his clinginess, letting his own body sink boneless into the mattress, weighed down with the weight of two men and a day’s worth of exhaustion and devastation.
For a long few minutes, there was silence, neither of them moving, neither speaking.
Each soft rise and fall of Diggia’s chest shifted Pedro, but he was more comforted by the reminder of his breath to ever want to move.
The Spaniard’s nose pressed against Diggia’s neck, a grounding mix of neutral shower gel, a hint of a cologne, and the lingering scent of leather, sweat and oil that never shifted after a race weekend.
When he nudged a little closer, Pedro could feel the steady thump of Diggia’s heartbeat, thrumming just below the surface on his skin. Fragile, real, and so human it made him want to cry.
Diggia let his eyes slide shut, trying to let the physical weight hold him down from the events of the day trying to burst free from his chest. Every time the room dissolved into blackness, the replays flashed once again in dazzling technicolour, bright coloured bikes tumbling and shattering and bright coloured men crumpled and broken in ways that human bodies shouldn’t be.
A shudder ran through Diggia’s body, and his eyes snapped wide open again.
He knew they were fine. He knew everyone was fine.
They had been taken to hospital and were getting the best possible treatment, everyone would leave this day and awaken again tomorrow.
Even so, he couldn’t close his eyes.
But then Pedro made a soft noise, tightening his arms briefly, stroking his fingers in a rhythmic pattern over Diggia’s skin. Warm fingertips traced invisible patterns, and Diggia followed the lines, letting his focus drift and resettle, safe.
Ducking his head again to press into Pedro’s hair, still cut short on the sides, but long enough on top to hide Diggia’s face, he breathed a long, shaky exhale.
This was safe, everyone was fine, and he wasn’t alone.
As much as Diggia intended to go around the paddock to make sure his fellow riders were all feeling alright after the race, and see if they wanted any support or help with the aftermath, he couldn’t deny that it was selfishly motivated.
He just needed to see with his own eyes that everyone was still there, hear their words and watch them breathe, meet their eyes and see someone looking back.
Diggia struggled sometimes, with the isolation that can come at a race weekend. Surrounded all day by countless people, but people there to work. A bustling team, all there with a smile and greeting, but equally quick to vanish the moment the hour struck.
Motorhomes that were always too surgically clean and prepared, dizzyingly lonely in their smallness and lack of personality.
Functional, but Diggia found them sickening.
He could not stomach returning to his own motorhome that night, staring at the blank, white walls, listening to the squeal of brakes and stomach turning crashes echo in his ears.
Really, he had fully intended on making the rounds of the paddock, seeing as many people as he could to ease a little of his frantic mind, then walking around the circuit and its surroundings until daybreak.
Hopefully, the exhaustion would then be enough for him to pass out the following evening without too many flashbacks, and he could force his mind to start preparing for the next outing.
Pedro was a deviation from this plan, but one that was so welcome, Diggia felt himself become the one tearing up.
Suddenly a long, long lonely night had become one in warmth, comfort, and most importantly, no longer solitude.
Every time his mind tried to slip back into the replays of the race, Diggia squeezed Pedro a little tighter, pressed a light kiss into his hair, Pedro would mumble something half-asleep and unintelligible, and Diggia could smile softly.
He didn’t even notice when he finally drifted into sleep, a mercifully dreamless rest, the man laying protectively across his chest keeping the mare at bay from her visit that night.
It was Pedro who awoke first the following morning, squinting against the cracks of light bleeding into the room, and briefly disorientated at his whereabouts entirely.
A few seconds passed before he slowly became aware of the features slotting into place, and the warm chest rising and falling beneath him.
More time still before Pedro could properly recall the proceedings that ended him up there, asleep in his bed, but comfortably sprawled atop of Fabio Di Giannantonio, a man that prior to now had been at best an acquaintance, and at worst, someone that he couldn’t help but run his mouth about in the media.
The memories of yesterday tumbled back to the forefront of his mind, piling on top of each other, too fast to process.
Breaking, braking, crashing, shouting, crying, fear, fear, fear, then somehow, something like peace.
Pedro sat up a little, leaning up to look down curiously at Diggia.
He looked peaceful too like this, face smoothed with sleep, delicate eyelids lightly closed, pretty mouth naturally settled in a neutral smile. His eyelashes fanned out over his cheeks, stray curls falling over his forehead.
Just a man, asleep and at rest, with his chest expanding slowly as he breathed, and his heart beating a steady drumbeat when Pedro lay his head back down to rest directly over Diggia’s chest.
He didn’t know why Diggia had come knocking, didn’t know why he seemed to take it on himself to be there when Pedro fell apart, but a part of Pedro wondered now if Diggia had needed that company just as much as he had.
A stroke of luck then, perhaps.
There was no rush this morning, no need to get up and be anywhere. A Monday in beautiful hot Spain, and Pedro lay in a cool, dimly lit room, in perfect comfort.
More memories tried to pile themselves up in his head, horror scenes and flashing sirens, but the thud of Diggia’s heart overwrote them each time, every new image of tumbling scarlet or sickeningly still blue wiped clean away by the repetitive drum.
Pedro rather liked the idea of never moving again from this exact place, wrapped up in such a deep feeling of safety from the skin contact.
It was true that he’d never been much of a touchy person, or at least, not let himself be touchy around the majority of people. For some reason though, every point of connection that his body could make with Diggia felt like a soothing balm, a cool compress and a warm blanket at the same time.
He was glad that Diggia wasn’t yet awake, didn’t want to have to get up, didn’t want to experience the inevitable awkwardness that would come.
Would they have to talk about this? Was that worse than Diggia leaving in silence?
This couldn’t change anything, they would still arrive at the next race weekend with a sole focus on winning, and nothing else.
Pedro couldn’t afford to be distracted by anything else, could not allow himself to be distracted by another rider
Not with his history.
Pedro’s eyes squeezed shut against his past, knocking his head on Diggia’s chest with a soft groan of regret. His body suddenly froze when a large hand settled on the back of his head, fingers brushing through his hair.
“Good morning,” Diggia mumbled, his voice hoarse from sleep and a couple octaves deeper than its usual trill, and Pedro felt his heart flip over.
Pedro was so, so fucked.