Work Text:
Here's a quick question. A fairly easy one to start with, get the engine running, the gas charging, the oil up and up. Grab a pen, grab a paper because once the question's out, repetition is just an affair that has no fruitful bearings.
Listen carefully: dirt-track races are still nameless to the general public where you are. You can't obtain a suit that feeds you pride as people realize what you do for a living. Why do you still do it?
It's a fucking bore to do anything else, yeah, sounds like you. A suit? There's more than one way to tell people that you're in the clouds and they're on the pavement.
Easy, right? Got the answer rolling as soon as the question's popped? Of course it is, it's about you. The next one's bordering on tricky so stitch your heart on your sleeve and swallow down your own name in your mouth.
When you hear the name 'Ju Haknyeon', what pops into your head?
See a face, hear a voice. Sunwoo sees it as it is.
#09: Renault's persistent jewel, the Grand Prix's front-runner (again, and again for four consecutive seasons)—pristine life and a million-dollar smile to go with the enamored people behind cameras and microphones.
Someone clears their throat, that same someone whistles by the garage's back entrance. "Renault's boy's back in town looking for you. Should I tell him you don't wanna be found?"
It's a split-second decision between the crew chief saying 'Renault' and him rolling out a brand-new Hoosier's Dirt Oval out of the tire shelf. "He's alright."
The crew chief leaves, muttering over his breath about how 'kids these days' and their 'lack of respect', and Sunwoo's pretty sure the man is shots-at-a-bar and piling-up-tabs away from making everybody else uncomfortable. He doesn't really give a shit, not his shit to figure out. The Late Model hoisted up by a portable lift in the middle of the room is pretty much the reason why he can't afford to be distrait, especially the night before the main race. Someone being a chatty, catty, broken sink that won't stop running would just pull him out of his zone.
It's a nuisance, he needs nuance, the logical step would be to change his mind and tell Haknyeon's rhythmic knock on the door to turn around. There's no reason for a world-class driver to spend a weekend's night coming to his dirt-track workshop when ultimate fun and leisures are at their hands and knees somewhere out there.
But he's not one to turn away an amicable company. So he leans the tire against a post-wall nearby, and gives himself some time to appreciate the very familiar air that settles over the room. A lot of time has passed but never do they miss a beat. Haknyeon and his tendency to invite himself back into the corner of Sunwoo's mind, and the untucked long-sleeved shirt over shorts with slippers that he wears checks out two things.
One, Haknyeon stopped by Sunwoo's place before coming here; that’s a one-hour drive by car, congestion not taken into consideration.
Two, he rummaged through Sunwoo's side of the wardrobe instead of his own; liar, fucking pants on fire, he very much cozies up to oversized clothes when they're already the best of friends with the plateau of Sunwoo's curled back.
"You should really come in your suit next time," Sunwoo says, heaving a pseudo-disappointed sigh. "Sometime. You'll never know, that overall could make our enjoyment last longer."
Haknyeon delightfully laughs, dismissing him. "We're not having sex in my work attire."
Time's up, Sunwoo repurposes. He gets back to his car, one knee on the floor, another propped-up. "Hold that thought." And faces an effortlessly debauched excuse for racing wheels and tires, still attached.
"Thrown out the window," Haknyeon counters, a sly smile stretching when Sunwoo raises his brows at him. He follows it up by asking, "Already brought her out for some warm-ups?"
"She did good then." Sunwoo grunts and coaxes the tool-cabinet to roll closer to his side, an impact wrench for a fixer-upper. "Not so much during the heat race. I'm thinking of taking her out for a test-drive again once I'm done."
The lug nuts are slowly being loosened, one by one. It doesn't have to be a nuisance, he can and will hold a conversation while getting back to work. It's not even a multitask, he can double-task.
"You still passed, didn't you? Got to the A feature?" There's a right answer to the lilt of Haknyeon's question, it's one that Sunwoo can provide.
"Fourth place, yeah. Fucking neck-to-neck, almost didn't make it," he tries not to bite but it's hard. He almost didn't make it and it was the preliminary's child's toy.
"Her fault or yours?" Haknyeon crouches beside him, feathery fingertips running on once-smooth surface, vibrant blue and streaks of oranges, roughed-up by continuous use and a five-year-old wrapping.
"Neither. Over-the-wall crew members screwed up her tire on the last few laps." Sunwoo's lips curl up at the professional driver's empathetic 'yikes’. "Shouldn't be surprised anymore. Nobody knows her like I do. Certainly not a bunch tool-bags whose names should be Useless 1 to Useless 5."
"You don't trust them," Haknyeon simply says, sounding light. "That's why people don't want to trust you."
Sunwoo pulls back to look at him: so engrossed by the chipping paint and scrapes that Sunwoo's car has been enduring. He's fascinated by Haknyeon's fascination. "But they do."
"No shit," Haknyeon drawls. "'Cause you're fucking great at what you do."
He's fucking infatuated by how easy it always has been for things like that to roll off Haknyeon's tongue. And he's not even trying to put Sunwoo on a pedestal, he just—does what Sunwoo wants to do. Sees facts as they are.
Fact: he's more mixed-bags-interspersed-emotions than he'd prefer, still peeved by a mistakenly picked-out tire that happened five hours ago. But his cheek is starting to feel numb from being bitten because the biggest grin would break out because a compliment from Haknyeon is like every other people getting a compliment from himself, and that's not him being theatrical.
Another fact: fuck it, no can do, he has to keep it cool. He can't bend to the will of a three-year-old relationship and a whole lot more years of pining.
"This seems like a good moment where you lean in and give me a little," Sunwoo puckers his lips, smooching noises purposely bold, "kiss and make up for disappearing on me."
Haknyeon laughs again but this time, he plays along; a little tease, nothing out of the blue. He turns his attention to Sunwoo, turns his body, too. Takes advantage of the small gap and slots his knee between Sunwoo's legs. "Bahrain was a two-day vacation and a week of hell, thanks for asking. A bit too on the nose for me in the end. You saw the news?"
The news, a live motorsports commentary that has Sunwoo edging on a Freudian slip whenever the practiced cadence of commentators Kim Younghoon and Ji Changmin alike would say things like, Fox has said it, the official announcers for F1 TV have said it: it's worth noting that Renault truly has seen the light of day ever since they stepped on everyone's tongue by sponsoring a South Korean boy with esteemed talent.
– But the day never seems to move, does it, Younghoon-ssi? #09 Ju Haknyeon has once again kicked off the season in beautiful Bahrain with a promising lead in pole position and ended in a devastating loss.
– Still gnaws at my soul. So close, wasn't it, Changmin-ssi?
– So, very close! Alas, the nickname 'Grand Prix's Front-runner' prevails; always such a good start, then downhill he goes. This time, the third place platform stood by Red Bull's Sergio Pérez will surely shield the Renault driver from basking in the sun and/or glory.
– Twenty Grands Prix left in this season, I believe he'll make a remarkable turnaround. He's currently ranked fourth on the F1 Driver Standings of 2022, the highest for Renault drivers with thirteen points. That top three seems a lot closer in such a short time than it was last year.
"Heard it." He has to get a grip. Haknyeon's fingers that blindly follows the tracks of his jaw consciously pulls him closer. "Must suck so bad, huh? Being that close to winning every time?"
"Well," Haknyeon shifts, knee brushing against the inside of Sunwoo's thigh, voice getting quieter at their narrowing distance, "at the very least, I actually took my time to learn the names of NASCAR's pit crew members and they never let me down."
Sunwoo sighs, satisfied when he's close enough to just tip forward and close their distance to a minus-zero degree. "Low blow," he murmurs, their lips touch, nothing more.
He lightly pulls on Haknyeon's lower lip with his teeth, savoring the plush of it, and when the professional driver gets all in—lifting his weight up and toppling over Sunwoo's—and they fall, the impact wrench falls from his grip to wind around Haknyeon, and oh, such a bull-dipped-in-shit, he can't double-task like this.
It has been a-fucking-while, fifty-two days since Haknyeon had to leave and start his training for the season but who's counting?
The floor is not the best, the humid air in the garage is absolute garbage, Haknyeon's slippers uncomfortably scraping up his legs are bad but who cares?
They're getting familiar with each other all over again, impassioned by overlapping senses and flattered by the short amount of time to achieve a steady rhythm. Slow enough for Sunwoo, deep enough for Haknyeon, sharp inhales through noses. It seems corny, unnecessary to outright say that he misses Haknyeon, he might as well relay it some other way.
"Self-awareness can never hurt anybody, we all need it," Haknyeon breathily says, repurposed enough to resume their conversation in close quarters. "I'm aware that I keep falling behind, I know where I lack." He pulls back, the gloss of his lips is shamelessly teetering Sunwoo's gaze. Haknyeon tips his chin up to look at him in the eye. "Speed is...tricky. You know that."
"I know it's tricky because you sub out speed for more precision," he pointedly says. "So you let your adrenaline response get bulldozed when you try to accelerate because your head's somewhere else."
Haknyeon sits up and he pulls Sunwoo with him in a fluid motion. "Yeah, fuck you and your analyses." There's no bite, no derision. Instead, he gently beckons Sunwoo forward again, flying in for a lighter kiss. "It fucking sucks to lose, sure. But I intend to change that in the next circuit."
Ready to amp it up? Here's a harder question. Now, don't go gripping on your correction tape just yet, is that how little of confidence that you have in yourself, really?
Really?
Ju Haknyeon, a worldwide phenomenon in the motorsports sphere; Ju Haknyeon, the twenty-one-year-old guy that bought you your first throat-burning whiskey six years ago. Are they still one of the same?
#09: screen-printed on apparels, spray-painted on the side of an R.S. 01. If you snatch that number and that very hefty opulence away, what do you get?
Sunwoo sees it as he always does. They both have nothing to lose in each other and everything to lose outside of the bubble. It's not really true. He has something to lose in them.
(You can't answer this one, can you? Of course you can't, it's not about your price on pride. It's about your value in his life.)
Sunwoo holds their proximity, the harsh lights looming shadows over Haknyeon's face that dance to the tune of their colliding noses. Dust collecting, moths hanging.
Don't think about it, don't even think—"Where to?"
"Next stop," a peck, "Italy," another, "and you, win or lose this time, you're coming with me."
"Win or lose? Have more faith in me, Ju Haknyeon, I beat you in an o-point-two gap twice. On asphalt." He breaks out into a grin at Haknyeon's grimace and flushed cheeks. "No sex in the race suit, A-Okay, contribute to giving me some much-needed moral support then."
"Your inflated ego doesn't need moral support, it needs me to stroke it real good about how good you are."
Ah. That's right. He said it before when the mud and dirt were his as much as it is yours for the taking. And again, over the phone, limelight in his bustling end, a screwdriver held in your mouth and a busted car to lean on.
He knows that you're far better than he is if only you're willing enough to give the world a tease of it.
"When I win this entire race and go to Italy, you better take Ferrari's #82 out. Fastest lap, make it yours," Sunwoo challenges—pushes. Haknyeon needs it more than to beat himself up. It brings an exciting glint in his alight eyes.
"And to bibbidi-bobbidi-boo that shit," he huffs a breath at Sunwoo's neglected car, "you need to Cinderella her fuck-up."
"Oh, she'll get Cinderella'd, come on." Sunwoo whistles, scampering through the tool-cabinet, and lightly throws a tire iron at an expecting Haknyeon. "I trust you."
"That could only end in one way and it's with you dubbing me as 'Useless 6', I'll sit and watch."
"That's a lot of words for 'I've never fixed a tire in my life.' I won't love you any less."
Haknyeon laughs and replies, "Fucker."
—
Here's another one, give a couple of answers, won't you? None of that 'I don't fucking know', 'none of your business' bullshit. Get up first, get your Late Model off the track, stop your one-man show, no one wants to see a race car gyrating like a manic Transformer. You're making a fool of yourself. Nobody likes an insufferable winner.
His adoring smile that meets you at the pit stop doesn't count.
Hey.
Hey.
Hypocrite, calling the press and the mass enamored by his million-dollar smile and here you are, doing what they're doing but ten times worse.
When you get to Italy—tourist attractions, evening boat rides, the football league and an international car-racing event aside—the obvious aside, what are you planning on doing?
Sunwoo grabs a pen, grabs a paper and asks his head to shut up: I don't fucking know, none of your business.
Except, it is. It's his head, he's allowed to think about it without the voice inside making snide comments. Maybe they'll hit the beach, if not, the pool's alright. Maybe learn the language and get to know more past 'ciao' and 'stronzo' and the appreciative gelato.
Forget about the local cuisine, Haknyeon will be pleased to eat his own words later, all the way across the world, Milan's sun spectate their tightly-entwined fingers on white sheets and an overall's snaps popped open.
Or just inside the professional driver's—his boyfriend's vanity van as an instant, spontaneous, congratulatory gift.
—
(Fucking disgusting.)