Work Text:
Jay Jo doesn’t write, but if he did, he figures it would look something like this.
Ugly things. The kind of ugly that isn’t just on the surface—the kind that festers underneath, warping, pulsing, turning into something unrecognizable. The kind you can’t scrub off no matter how many times you shower after a race, no matter how fast you ride, no matter how many times you hit the pavement and pretend the pain is something you earned, rather than something you were given.
That’s what it’s like, isn’t it?
Pain. Given, not earned.
The ache of every crash, every stolen dream, every wound that never really healed. Jay carries it all with him, like a talisman of failure, like something precious he never asked for but refuses to let go of. If he lets go, then what’s left? A kid with a stolen face and a body that never really belonged to him?
He doesn’t like thinking about it.
Instead, he rides.
Faster. Faster. Faster.
Wind screaming in his ears, the world nothing but a blur of neon and exhaust fumes, a violent symphony of movement that makes his heart hammer against his ribs. Because if he stops, if he slows down—he’ll have to hear it.
The voice in his head.
You didn’t earn any of this.
You don’t deserve any of this.
You’re just pretending.
There’s something disgusting about being fake.
Jay’s seen it in the mirror, every morning, that reflection that looks like him but doesn’t feel like him. The face of someone who should be stronger, meaner, someone who doesn’t flinch at the weight of expectation pressing down on his shoulders.
But that’s not him.
He’s the kid who got lucky. The kid who got picked up, dusted off, and put on a goddamn pedestal. The kid with fast legs and nothing else to back it up. The kid who doesn’t have the scars to prove he should be here.
He rides to prove it.
To himself. To others. To the ghost of the person he could’ve been if things were different.
Because suffering brings validity, right?
If you don’t suffer, you don’t deserve to win.
And Jay? Jay’s starting to think he hasn’t suffered enough.
The first time he crashes, it’s on purpose.
A controlled fall, a calculated hit, skin scraping against asphalt as his bike skids out from under him. A beat of silence, and then the pain comes flooding in—sharp, burning, raw.
He stares at the blood smeared across his palms.
It’s real.
He laughs.
He doesn’t tell anyone.
People like to watch others in pain.
That’s the real ugly thing. The thing no one likes to admit.
They love it.
They eat it up, the broken bones, the wrecked bodies, the triumphant comebacks. The story isn’t worth telling unless there’s a tragedy behind it.
So Jay gives them what they want.
He rides harder. Crashes more. Pushes himself past exhaustion until his body screams in protest.
The bruises become badges. The injuries become proof.
He hurts, therefore he is.
Maybe if he collects enough pain, they’ll finally stop looking at him like a kid who doesn’t belong here.
Maybe if he destroys himself enough times, he’ll finally feel like something real.
It doesn’t take long for people to notice.
“Hey, man, you good?” Shelly asks one day, eyes flicking to the bruises on his arms.
Jay just shrugs. “Yeah.”
Shelly watches him, in that quiet way of hers, like she sees too much, like she knows exactly what Jay’s doing but won’t call him out on it.
Jay wonders if she’s disappointed.
He hopes so.
The problem with chasing pain is that it’s never enough.
It starts small. A scraped knee. A bruised rib. A cut deep enough to sting but not deep enough to leave a scar.
Then it grows.
Bigger crashes. Riskier moves. Riding faster, pushing limits that weren’t meant to be pushed.
It’s not enough.
It’ll never be enough.
Because suffering is just currency, and no matter how much he pays, Jay can’t seem to buy the thing he wants.
Validation.
A real goddamn identity.
It happens on a night when the sky is clear and the wind is sharp, slicing through the streets like a knife.
Jay is riding, reckless, dangerous, half-daring the universe to finally call his bluff.
He takes a turn too sharp.
The world tilts.
The impact is brutal.
For a second, everything is still.
Then—pain.
Real, consuming, absolute.
He gasps, struggling to breathe, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. His bike is wrecked. His body is wrecked. His mind is nothing but static.
You wanted this, didn’t you?
Someone is calling his name.
Jay blinks up at the night sky, the edges of his vision blurring.
He thinks about Bukowski. Hemingway. All those writers who turned their suffering into something meaningful.
Did they feel like this? Like something was rotting inside them, something they couldn’t carve out no matter how much they bled?
A hand grabs his shoulder. “Jay!”
Shelly.
Of course it’s Shelly.
Jay laughs, and it hurts like hell.
Recovery is slow.
Too slow.
Jay hates it. The waiting, the healing, the forced stillness.
The worst part is the silence.
Without the speed, without the pain, there’s nothing to drown out the thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind.
Who are you without this?
What’s left when you take away the suffering?
He doesn’t know.
And that terrifies him.
One day, Shelly visits. She doesn’t say much—just sits there, watching Jay like she’s trying to figure something out.
“You don’t have to prove anything, you know,” she finally says.
Jay stiffens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Shelly just sighs. “Yeah, you do.”
And the thing is, Jay does.
He really does.
But if he stops—if he lets go of the pain—then what’s left of him?
He writes it down, one night.
Ugly things.
All the thoughts, all the hurt, all the things he never says out loud.
It doesn’t fix anything.
But for the first time in a long time, Jay feels like maybe, just maybe—he doesn’t have to break himself to feel real.
Maybe suffering isn’t the only thing that makes a person.
Maybe he can find another way.
Maybe.