Chapter Text
Langa's not sure that he's ever eaten more dust before in his life than he is right now.
He never imagined that signing up to be a participant in the local fair's all-discipline charity event would land him front row seats to the western show ring, either, yet here he is – coating not only the roof of his mouth with a tidy layer of dust every time he so much as breathes, but also his nice black tailcoat, foolishly worn before he's even had his shot in the arena. He should have left it in his trailer, and realistically he too should have stayed behind as well to avoid the mess of dust and dirt that reckless western games bring with them, but given that he's been treated to what more adventurous people would consider to be the 'best seats in the house' for free, he's really in no position to complain.
Remember, you're doing this for charity. Think of the children, Langa.
He has to admit that the smiles on the faces of all the children that dot the seats to his sides and in behind him are definitely worth something at least, and he can't help but smile himself as he takes a moment to look around at his surroundings a little. He remembers when he was that age too, in awe of the riders that took to the stage before him – though the stages in which he was much more willingly sat in front of were a lot tidier and easier to breathe near – but he can hardly fault these kids for getting so excited when what they're seeing now truly is breathtaking, in every sense of the word.
The rodeo portion of the event nears its end though, and Langa relaxes a little more, knowing that the dust might yet settle for a while, at least. The last of the saddle bronc riders clears out of the arena, leaving the crowd with a wave as the announcer gives his name one last time for applause before the music turns up a notch, giving staff the time they need to rework the ground. If he's being honest with himself, Langa has to say that he really did genuinely enjoy watching the rodeo riders, even if they've left him needing to do a bit more work on himself before his own run later on, but for a sport that he's never paid any attention to before, he's admittedly impressed. He's starting to wonder if there might actually be a bit more merit to western games than he first thought.
He draws his elbows in behind himself, stretching out the kinks in his back from sitting too long, and after giving his forehead a wipe with the back of one hand – his white gloves thoughtfully removed beforehand – he reaches down between his feet, rifling through a small stack of pamphlets and brochures that he collected on the way in this morning. With nothing to do now but wait for a few minutes, he figures he may as well see what's coming next, what he suspects to be the last of the western-style events for the day, but before he has a chance to sit upright with one of the pamphlets in hand he feels a nudge against his shoulder – a familiar, playful shove that he has no trouble discerning.
“Thought you might want something with a lid,” says a soft voice to his left.
He knows who it is long before he even turns his head to look, based on her voice alone. He's been waiting for what feels like an eternity for her to come back and make him feel a little less awkward for sitting here all alone, dressed in his full dressage uniform that sticks out like a sore thumb among the western fans in all their cowboy hats and boots, and with a smile he sits upright, turning to greet her.
With a cheeky smile of her own, his mother stands there at his side, finally having found her way back after a trip to one of the food trucks, and she delivers to him a welcome relief – a water bottle, ice cold, a few sizes too big to hold with one hand, and most importantly it's got a lid, which means he won't be drinking dust, at least. Langa takes it from her with both hands, his gratitude clearly written all over his face, and he takes a few swigs to clear his throat, dry and sore from all the heat and dust of the arena.
It's an indoor venue, supposedly air-conditioned, but with as many people as there are packed inside now, it gets hard to breathe sometimes, and of course Langa's decision to get in uniform ahead of time certainly hasn't helped either. His own event isn't for another hour or so, and while he isn't necessarily dying underneath his weighty layers, he's still not as comfortable as he could be for such a long wait. But he can't be bothered to make the trek outside to the trailer and back, a good long walk that would probably end up leaving him more exhausted instead, so he settles for a miserable sigh, using one of the booklets in his hand as a makeshift fan.
“You are wearing something sleeveless under that, right?” his mother asks, looking over at him with gentle concern as she settles into the seat beside him.
“Yeah, but... I'm alright,” he assures, smiling softly. “I'll go cool off outside when this is done.”
He's not exactly sure what 'this' is just yet, as he's chosen to use the little information package in his hand to cool off with instead of reading it, but judging by the way that some of the crowd mingling nearest the end of the building seem to be gathering, the next event can't be too far off. He's curious now, wondering what the commotion is down at the gates, and so he sacrifices the small breeze he's provided himself with to crack open the brochure, flipping through to the timetable and skimming the page until he finds the last entry listed under the morning's events.
Barrel racing, spearheaded by the county's favourite – one 'Kyan Reki'.
Being that he's relatively new to the area and not at all interested in western riding, Langa can't say that he recognizes the name, but after poking around in the leaflet a little more, he learns within a few short minutes that this Reki guy has made quite a name for himself on this side of the fence, with reining and cutting also numbering among his most commendable events. The pamphlet paints him as a regional champion, who's not only capable of pulling impressive times and scores in his chosen sports, but apparently his showmanship and ability to really please the crowd have easily ranked him among the best there is.
There aren't any pictures, but Langa has to assume that this guy's been around a while if he's managed to accumulate this kind of experience and notoriety. He takes another swig of water after carefully tossing the page back down into the small stack at his feet, offering his mom a sip shortly after to which she politely declines, and when he's finally feeling a little cooler after downing a good quarter of the bottle he leans back into his seat, waiting patiently for the event to get underway.
He watches as riders start coming in through the gates to walk their horses around the ring, loosening them up and getting a feel for the space they'll ride in today, and among them Langa can't quite say that he sees anyone who stands out in fancy gear or anything that would give them away as the 'star' of the show. But his attention remains fixed upon them all anyway, curious now to see how it'll all pan out, and who knows – maybe by the end of it, he might just learn a thing or two.
“Did you check on Snow at all when you were out there?” Langa asks, turning to glance at his mother.
“Mm,” she nods, sounding cheerful. “He was making friends with the boys on either side of his stall.”
Of course he was. Social butterfly, that horse – and a polar opposite to his rider.
He smiles, thinking to himself that when this is all said and done he'll go and give his boy a good pep talk before their ride this afternoon, and maybe even a treat or two for good measure. Langa can't spoil him too much, though, as his food-driven friend tends to get lazy when he's sated, and while today's events aren't necessarily competitions, he'd still like to look nice out there and score well, if only to maintain his image as someone who wants to go pro one day. He may have made quite a name for himself back home where he lived previously, but around here, there's probably not a soul who knows who he is.
He's looking to change that, of course – and what better way to do that than to participate in a huge charity event such as this?
He listens as the music comes back down and the announcer takes his place behind the microphone once more, introducing the final event of the morning – the one that seems to have everybody riled up the most, probably on account of the man who holds the best time being here. Personally, Langa can't see the appeal in racing around barrels in the dirt and nearly knocking not only your horse over but also yourself in the process, but to each their own, he supposes. If anything, it'll make for some pretty good entertainment.
Cheering escalates as the riders pick up speed, making faster laps and waving proudly to their families and fans alike in the stands, and Langa finds himself smiling again, genuinely enjoying the uplifting atmosphere that seems to follow these western riders around everywhere they go. It all comes across as one big party, and he has to wonder if even the real high-stakes competitions carry with them that same sort of lightheartedness, something that he's not terribly familiar with inside of his own chosen discipline. That's not to say that dressage isn't fun by any means, but it certainly has its limitations.
Finally, one more rider joins them, one who seems to stand out among the rest by virtue of the crowd he pulls alone, dropping his pace to walk slow circles at the far end of the arena on horseback, with a handful of spectators gathered around the barriers near him – some with cameras, some with the brightest smiles that Langa's seen yet on their faces, and some who seem to chat with him rather animatedly – presumably his family. It's a sign as plain as day that marks him as the fan favourite, or at least Langa has to assume as much at this point, given the way that more and more spectators seem to gravitate toward him with each passing second. But from where Langa sits, his face is obscured, either by his hat or by passing riders that block the line of sight at every opportune moment, and eventually he gives up on trying to discern what this Kyan Reki guy looks like for the time being.
An official down by the starting line calls for them all to head back into the waiting pens outside, and along with them runs the star of the show, cutting through the pack with only a flash of red to be seen. Langa's not sure if it was his hair or what it was exactly, but it was bright, and definitely eye-catching, and he finds himself wanting to catch at least one more glimpse before the day is done. It's not all that often that he comes across someone who stands out quite so radiantly, after all.
There's a bit more chatter over the speakers before the rest of the officials take their places, and the roar of the crowd settles just long enough for the first rider's name to be called – and just like that, he's off racing toward the first barrel, whipping up a storm behind him as he goes. Langa nearly flinches on the first turn, the barrel closest to where he sits, and he's blown away by the sheer speed of the rider and the split-second it seems to take for him to round it completely. It's just as wild as he imagined it would be and then some, and not even the dust in the air is enough to make him take his eyes off it all.
Eighteen point four one seconds. Nineteen point four six seconds. One after another they finish with similar times, save for the ones that knock the barrels down on their sides, earning themselves time penalties as they do, and Langa has to say that overall he's honestly intrigued. To whip around a course that fast must take guts, and judging by the looks on all the riders' faces, he can only assume that each and every one of them absolutely lives for this. It's a far cry from the serious stoic faces that his own fellow competitors tend to wear, that's for sure.
But it isn't long before the main attraction makes his appearance, taking up the rear for a striking finish after the rest of the riders have made their mark – and oh, does Langa ever see why he pulls a crowd.
He's out from the gate like a gunshot, his flaxen horse carrying him like the wind, and from beneath the brim of his hat as he rounds that first corner all that Langa can see are eyes that burn like fire and a wolfish grin. He's young, bright-faced, and in perfect sync with his horse, effortlessly guiding him around the tightest turn that Langa's seen yet without so much as nudging the barrel, and that flash of red that Langa caught earlier is unmistakably revealed to be his hair, every bit as untamed and unforgettable as the rest of him seems to be.
It's breathtaking in a way that Langa can't quite explain, and it has him perching on the edge of his seat, with fingers curled tight around the edge while his eyes fix firmly upon one very captivating smile. That redheaded rider commands his full attention without even knowing it, and it's there that Langa realizes he's just one face alone in a crowd of so many others who have been swayed in much the same way he has.
The other riders were entertaining, sure, but this one – he makes it all look so easy.
“I didn't think you were into this kind of thing,” comes a laugh from his mother, and he manages to peel his eyes away long enough to nervously side-eye her, realizing he's been caught staring fiercely.
“I'm... I'm not, it's just... he's really good,” he mumbles.
By the time he looks back over at the arena, the final gap's been closed, and this Reki fellow blows past the finish, the announcer signalling his time soon after in spectacular fashion that gets the crowd going in an uproar. At first, Langa's not sure he heard the call-out properly, sitting there pensively as he stares at the trail of dust left behind in Reki's wake, but the glare of red numbers on a screen off to one end of the arena catches his eye, and he turns his head just enough to mumble them aloud to himself.
“Sixteen point twelve...?”
Sixteen seconds? Did he really clear that in just sixteen seconds?
Langa's no expert by any means, but given the time that all the other competitors made, he has to assume that even a gap as small as two or three seconds must mean the world in this sport. It almost seems inhuman compared to the other riders, and it's left him thirsty for more, wondering what the top times typically tend to be across the board, especially if Reki's is that impressive. His phone isn't on him though, and that's probably a good thing, too – he can't afford to get sucked into an endless trail of internet searches on a topic that as of ten minutes ago he really didn't want anything to do with.
“That was worth it, I'd say,” his mother says, smiling knowingly at him.
“Ah... y-yeah,” he nods, returning the same smile despite the faint warmth in his cheeks. “Not bad.”
He's not sure what it was about Reki in particular that stood out to him, but realistically, it was probably a little bit of everything, from his wild looks to his even wilder riding style, all rolled into one messy package that was admittedly a little too hard to look away from. But he's gone again as quick as he came, disappearing back into the holding pens just outside the entrance to the arena, and Langa's left to piece together the last of the redhead's mysteries with his imagination alone, making a note to himself to look this guy up later on when he's got some more free time.
Nobody who's that good gets away without having at least a few articles written about them online.
“Are you off to get ready, then?” his mother asks, finally wrangling his attention away from Reki.
“Mm. I should go,” Langa mumbles, stretching his arms out straight ahead of him one last time for good measure. “Snow needs a warm-up, and I... I need to clean up,” he adds, looking miserably at his state of dress, his coat more brown now than it is black.
“Alright,” she nods, reaching out to kindly dust off one of his shoulders for him. “If I don't see you before your run, good luck!”
“Thanks,” he murmurs, smiling back at her before he rises to his feet, trusting her to look after his things as he leaves them behind.
There's a lot to do before he competes, and he knows he's better off getting to it rather than blowing all his time on thinking about a total stranger.
As soon as the fresh air of the outdoors hits him he feels immediate relief, and were he not trying to conduct himself in a way that an aspiring professional would, he might be inclined to lay down in the grass for a while and soak in the breeze a little bit. But he has too much to do, his focus centred on both making sure that his horse is still functional and not looking to keep napping for any longer than he's been allowed to thus far, as well as getting himself back in presentable condition for his turn in the ring.
He dusts himself off as much as he can on the way back to the stables, making a pit stop at his trailer first to grab his tack and finish off the last of his self-grooming, before heading out to greet his horse for the first time in a few hours. With the better part of his morning spent on watching the western games, Langa's been entirely unaware of what Snow's been up to save for the little visit his mother gave him, but given that he's generally a respectable, laid-back, and carefree kind of horse, he has no trouble trusting that he can be left alone to entertain himself.
Upon entering one of the barns he hears the soft snorts of horses who stretch their heads out from their stalls, getting to know one another as well as curiously looking in his direction, ears forward and nostrils flaring at the sight of someone who might yet be willing to give them something to snack on. He smiles softly to himself, outstretching a gentle hand to a few of the other competitors' noses to let them sniff, before heading straight toward the silly dappled grey face at the other end of the barn that reaches out as far past the confines of the stall door as he possibly can, nodding his head eagerly at Langa's familiar approach.
He could pick that face out of a crowd of grey horses any day.
“Hey, Snowy,” he murmurs through a smile, scratching along the sides of his horse's face with both hands, taking a half-step back when his horse playfully shoves his muzzle against his chest. “Nice to see you too,” he laughs.
He leads the warmblood into the aisle, tethering him in place for a quick grooming before their warm-up ride, picking out bits of straw from his tail and ensuring that the braids he and his mother tackled together earlier on are still tidy and woven tight. Overall, his horse seems to have behaved and kept himself in good shape, neglecting to lay down or toss straw, or – god forbid – step in something that's never fun to pick out of hooves, and Langa manages to get him ready for a quick ride with only minimal grooming, leaving the finer details aside for the prep that comes before the actual performance itself.
When he's tacked and ready, Langa walks him out to the outdoor arena, already busy with a few other riders in his class, making last minute adjustments to the timing of their routines as well as checking that their horses are attentive and ready to listen, and he joins them quietly, keeping to the side of the ring while he mounts. After fitting the length of his reins nicely where they belong, leaving them slack enough to give Snow some time to adjust the carriage of his head on his own, Langa settles down comfortably into the seat of his saddle, taking one last deep breath to focus himself.
Snow responds to him eagerly at that first cue to walk, ready to listen well and show the crowd what he's got when it's time to do just that, and for the first few minutes Langa simply lets him stretch his legs and loosen up around the perimeter, keeping a close eye on the others as they practise so as not to get in their way. He doesn't recognize anyone – one of those downsides to being a new resident of the area – but they all appear confident in themselves as well as their horses, executing each and every one of their movements as precisely as they can, and Langa feels the faintest of smiles slowly grace his face, the competitive flame within him burning just a little bit hotter.
If this were a real competition, he might actually have some worthy opponents on his hands.
He picks up the pace a little, asking Snow into an extended trot as he crosses the length of the arena, feeling a bit smug when he notices a few of the other riders starting to turn their heads toward him, but he remains focused, knowing better than to give in to the pressure of those around him. His horse smoothly demonstrates the fruits of their hard work and years of training together, continuing to maneuver around the ring with practised ease, but something eventually catches Langa's eye rather than Snow's – unusual, given that horses tend to pick up on outside distractions a lot more easily – and he slows them both to a comfortable walk again, giving him time to get his priorities back in order. Or not.
It's that redheaded rider again – Reki – leading his own horse along the path back to the barn.
Langa's not the only one whose neck cranes to get a better look, the other riders having clearly taken note of the commotion as well, a small entourage following along behind the main attraction as he casually saunters down the road that lines the outdoor ring. Langa himself is on the opposite side of the arena, moving in tandem now with Reki's pace, his horse matching the speed of the redhead's own to give him free reign to look as much as he needs to, and without the high-speed intensity of the race he saw earlier to hinder him from getting a clear shot, he can now make out Reki's features much easier.
He determines that Reki looks to be about the same age as he is, which comes as a surprise given his level of skill and the command he seems to hold over his horse if his scores across the board are anything to go by. But he supposes that if Reki's horse grew up with him, then his situation is likely to be the same as his own, as he's fairly talented in his own right with a horse that listens well and trusts him to a great degree, a product of years' worth of hard work. Reki's sturdy quarter horse seems elegant despite his stocky frame, sporting a saddlepad that's as red as his rider's hair, and the whole picture pulls a gentle smile from Langa as he realizes that his soft flaxen coat also pays a compliment to his rider's fiery hair as well.
There's a young girl at his side who follows him closely, her hair not terribly far off from the same shade as his, and Langa has to wonder if that's a younger sister, given the way that Reki turns to give her a snarky look, laughing when she sticks a foot out to knock his ankle in return. It's kind of cute in a way, how he's not only able to charm his spectators in the show ring but outside of it as well, and to top it all off he's proving himself to be a family-man, something that's always hard not to smile at.
His face is undeniably kind, the sort of face that easily gives someone away as readily approachable and a pleasure to talk to, but it also holds behind it a quiet passion, ready and waiting to be let loose the way it had during the barrel races earlier on. The more Langa looks at him, the more he wants to see that ferocity unleashed once more, to see him tear up a competition for real, putting his all into whatever sport he happens to set his heart on at the time.
Langa won't lie – he's starting to find Reki to be extremely intriguing.
But it's only when he notices that Snow's been stopped at the edge of the arena for a solid few minutes – forcibly halted by the fence that borders it – that he realizes he's been unable to take his eyes off of Reki for far longer than what should ever be considered acceptable. The other riders are undoubtedly looking at him now as though he's lost the plot, and he slowly hangs his head for a deeply dissatisfied sigh, Snow loosing a long one of his own through his nostrils in return, and with a gentle pat to reassure his horse that he's not completely out of his mind just yet, Langa circles him back around to face the inside of the arena, ready for another attempt at being a little more productive.
Annoyed and flustered, he walks on – hoping to regain at least some of his composure by the time the hour's up.