Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The autumn wind carried the scent of dirt and fading flowers across the empty track as dusk fell. The grandstands loomed in the distance, silent now, their cheers nothing more than echoes of a past Cyan couldn’t seem to reach.

She stood at the edge of the racecourse, her azure hair tied loosely with a ribbon that fluttered behind her, matching the faint tremble in her breath. Her horse ears, sleek and silvery-blue, twitched as the results screen blinked off one last time. She hadn't even placed. Again.

Last again. Even after all that training…

Her tail drooped, brushing against the hem of her training jacket. The other racers were already headed to the baths or the canteen, chatting and laughing like it didn’t matter who crossed the finish line first. But it did matter. For Cyan, it was everything.

“Excuse me,” came a silky voice, poised and cool like the surface of a still lake.

Cyan turned—and her breath hitched. There she was: Superstitional Realism, the elite racer who had just claimed her third consecutive win. With her white mane cascading in waves and a horseshoe pendant resting just above her collarbone, she was the picture of grace and unapproachable confidence. Her hooves hardly seemed to touch the ground when she walked, and her deep amethyst eyes looked down on Cyan with the sharp weight of nobility.

“You’re in the way,” Superstitional said, her tone flat but refined. She gestured ever so slightly toward the bench Cyan had slumped against, where her duffel bag spilled halfway onto the walking path.

Cyan scrambled to lift it. “S-sorry!”

Superstitional didn’t move. She stood there, arms loosely folded, gaze lingering for just a moment too long on Cyan’s dirt-streaked knees and frayed ribbons.

“I saw your race.” She said it like one might note the weather—curious, but trivial. “You don’t pace well. And your gait changes under pressure.”

Cyan flushed. “I—I know. I’ve been trying to work on it. I just can’t—”

“Trying isn’t enough,” Superstitional cut in, tilting her chin. “Some horses just don’t have it.”

And then she walked away, heels clicking faintly against the pavement as her tail swayed with maddening poise.

Cyan stood frozen, wounded pride clenching tight in her chest. Of course she would say that. Girls like Superstitional didn’t understand what it felt like to always come last, to fight just for the right to be noticed.

———

The sky had long since darkened when Superstitional returned to the track. She didn’t really know why she came—her training had ended hours ago, and she certainly had nothing to prove. But something about the way Cyan looked, eyes glassy and lip trembling, had stayed with her.

And now, under the silver gaze of the moon, she saw her again.

Cyan ran laps alone, breathless and determined. Her legs, though unrefined, had strength. Her form wobbled near turns, but she pushed through them with grit. Her ribbon had come loose, her hair streaming behind like a comet’s tail. The wind caught her laughter—soft, surprised laughter—as she beat her own time by a sliver of a second.

Superstitional’s heart gave a strange thump.

She stepped forward. “Your back leg still drags.”

Cyan stopped, panting, her cheeks glowing pink in the cold night air. “O-oh. You’re here.”

Superstitional folded her arms again, posture impeccable. “You’re lucky I came. If you continue that form, you’ll ruin your joints by next spring.”

Cyan smiled—bright and genuine. “Still sounds like you’re watching me.”

Superstitional blinked, then looked away sharply. “It’s hard not to notice something so loud on a quiet track.”

There was a silence. Cyan looked up at the stars, then back to her.

“Do you ever train alone?” she asked.

Superstitional didn’t answer right away. Her eyes glinted with something unreadable.

“Sometimes. When there’s something I want to fix. Or…when I don’t want to be seen fixing it.”

She stepped closer and knelt slightly, brushing a finger over the dirt on Cyan’s knee. Cyan froze.

“You push too hard off your left side,” Superstitional murmured. “That’s why your turns fall apart. You’re overcompensating for a weak pivot.”

“You’re really good at this,” Cyan whispered.

Superstitional straightened. “Of course I am.”

Cyan smiled again—gently this time, with something like admiration. “You weren’t always perfect, right? Someone must’ve taught you.”

“…I learned alone.” A pause. “There was no one worth learning from.”

Cyan tilted her head. “Ouch.”

Superstitional’s gaze flicked away, her ears twitching in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Cyan said, rubbing the back of her neck. “I kinda figured you didn’t mean it… earlier, either.”

Superstitional hesitated. Then, quietly: “I did. But not in the way you think.”

She stepped closer again, brushing past Cyan as she began to pace the outer ring of the track.

“You want my advice?” she called over her shoulder.

Cyan’s ears perked. “Yes!”

“Then keep up.”

———

The next hour passed in a blur of wind and motion. Superstitional led Cyan through pacing drills, subtle weight shifts, posture corrections. Each instruction was paired with faint, imperceptible praise—an approving nod here, a brief smile when Cyan nailed a stretch of the lap. Cyan began to laugh more easily. Superstitional did not—but her eyes softened.

Eventually, they collapsed onto the grass beside the track, both panting and damp with sweat.

“Your stride’s still flawed,” Superstitional said, her breath less steady than usual.

Cyan groaned and rolled onto her back. “Well, you’re still kinda mean.”

Superstitional looked down at her—and then smiled. A real smile. Small and hesitant, but real.

“Mean, am I?”

“Well, you say nice things like they’re insults,” Cyan teased, brushing her bangs from her eyes.

“You’re the one who keeps asking for my help,” Superstitional said, trying to keep her voice haughty. But it came out softer than she intended.

Cyan looked up at her—really looked—and something about that gaze made Superstitional's heart stutter.

“You… have very striking eyes,” Cyan murmured.

The blush that raced across Superstitional’s cheeks was instant and damning.

She stood abruptly, turning her face away. “Your observation skills are… shockingly primitive.”

Cyan laughed. “That bad, huh?”

“…Tolerable,” Superstitional muttered, still not meeting her gaze.

Cyan stood too, brushing off her shorts, then reached out—tentatively—and tucked a strand of Superstitional’s violet hair behind her ear.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

“You can be a little snooty,” Cyan said gently, “but I think you’re also kind. Maybe more than you want to admit.”

Superstitional swallowed. Her ears flicked again, betraying emotion she couldn’t voice.

“…Don’t read too much into it,” she finally said. “I just hate watching someone with potential waste it.”

Cyan stepped closer. “And if I wanted to see you again?”

A pause. A flicker of hope. Then—

“Come back tomorrow night,” Superstitional said, voice barely above a whisper. “Same time.”

Cyan grinned. “I’ll be here.”

As Cyan walked away, Superstitional watched her—watched the sway of her tail, the way moonlight caught in her hair, and the soft hum she carried like an afterthought.

Beautiful, she thought, then scoffed at herself.

She crossed her arms and muttered to the empty air, “Don’t misunderstand. I simply refuse to train with someone inelegant.”

But even the wind could hear her heartbeat.

Chapter Text

The sun clung lovingly to the earth that morning, spilling soft warmth across the racecourse where tension shimmered in the air like heat. The track gleamed—freshly groomed, lightly damp, full of promise.

Cyan adjusted the hem of her uniform, fingers trembling just slightly. Her breath came quiet, controlled. Her tall silver-blue ears twitched. Today was big.

It wasn’t the stakes of the race that made her heart flutter—it was who was in it.

“Your posture,” came the unmistakable voice. “Fix it.”

Cyan turned, eyes wide, lips parting before forming a timid smile. “O-oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to slouch.”

Superstitional Realism stood beside her, arms folded gracefully, violet ribbons fluttering like whispers on the breeze. She looked, as always, pristine—like she belonged on a podium, or painted into marble.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Superstitional said, softer now. “Just… you run better when you’re not trying to disappear.”

Cyan ducked her head, cheeks blooming pink. “Right… Thank you.”

They stood there a moment in shared stillness, only the murmurs of the crowd around them. Cyan’s eyes lingered on Superstitional—on the way the light kissed the side of her face, on the way her lashes curled like calligraphy.

“I—I hope you run well today,” Cyan said finally. “Not that you wouldn’t. You always do.”

Superstitional’s lips curled faintly. “You too.”

Her voice held something quieter than her usual elegance. Almost shy. But Cyan didn’t notice—too lost in calming the nerves in her chest.

Then the announcer’s voice rang out, and the spell was broken.

———

The racers gathered at the starting line, a bouquet of colors and muscle.

Jovial Merriment, the spirited girl in vibrant orange, bounced on her heels with chaotic glee. Her twin braids spun with every motion. She winked at the crowd, blew kisses, twirled in place. Exactly what you’d expect from the fan favorite.

Beside her, Lightning Strikes Thrice adjusted her yellow visor with practiced calm. Her athletic build and wild smirk gave her the look of someone who’d punch through a thunderstorm if it dared to race her.

Resolute Mind Afternoon, a quiet red blur of intensity, was calm as ever. Her scarlet uniform clung like a second skin, her eyes distant and calculating. She nodded to Cyan as she approached.

“Haven’t seen you start from the front row in a while,” Resolute said.

Cyan smiled, flustered. “Y-yeah. I guess I’ve been doing better lately.”

“You’re humble. That’s rare.”

Cyan let out a nervous laugh, tucking hair behind one ear. “Th-thank you, I—uh… I like your form. I mean, your stride.”

Resolute tilted her head slightly, amused. “Careful, Blue. I might take that as flirting.”

Cyan’s eyes widened. “Oh! N-no, I didn’t mean—um—”

A sharp turn of violet eyes from across the lineup interrupted them.

Superstitional stood still, but her jaw was set, her gaze fixed like a spotlight. She didn’t move toward them. Didn’t speak.

But her ears flicked. Her tail lashed once.

———

The starter’s pistol cracked like lightning, and the world erupted.

Cyan surged forward, legs pumping with practiced grace. The air tore past her ears. The turf vanished beneath her like memory. She was in third by the first turn, the wind kissing her cheeks, her heart pounding with rhythm.

Lightning blazed ahead. Afternoon clung close beside Cyan, her red silhouette a constant reminder of their earlier exchange.

But Cyan didn’t think of that now.

She thought of her.

Superstitional Realism. The ache in her chest every time their hands brushed. The way her name felt like a secret poem on Cyan’s tongue.

She risked a glance—

And saw it.

A slip.

Superstitional’s left leg buckled mid-stride, subtle—but unmistakable. Her pristine form wavered, her speed halved.

Cyan’s instincts screamed: Keep going. You’re about to win. Don’t look back.

But her heart whispered louder: She’s hurt.

In one breathless decision, Cyan slowed. Runners passed her—orange, yellow, red, violet streaks of glory rushing past. But she veered left, her shy, shaking hands reaching out just as Superstitional faltered again.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, steadying her before the fall.

Superstitional clung to her, breath ragged.

“You—idiot,” she hissed, blinking rapidly. “You were winning.”

“You matter more,” Cyan replied softly.

They crossed the line together—dead last.

———

The medical tent was quiet, a gentle hum of monitors and soft murmurs.

Superstitional sat with her ankle wrapped, leg propped up. She stared at the floor, hands wringing the edge of her skirt.

“You’re reckless,” she muttered. “You could’ve had your first podium. Maybe even gold.”

Cyan sat beside her, fingers picking nervously at her wristband. “It wouldn’t have mattered if you weren’t okay.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” Cyan said quietly. “I always mean it. I… I think about you all the time.”

Superstitional froze.

“I—when I’m running, when I train, when I eat breakfast alone… I keep wondering what it’d be like if you sat beside me. I get scared around you, but I want to be around you more than anyone.”

Cyan’s voice was trembling. “And I didn’t mean to flirt with Afternoon. I—I didn’t even realize. I just panic. And she’s good at talking. But… she’s not you.”

A tear slipped down Superstitional’s cheek.

“I hated it,” she said. “Seeing you smile like that with her. I felt jealous and ugly. I didn’t want to admit how much I—”

She stopped. Her fingers curled. Her throat tightened.

Cyan leaned closer, gently touching her hand.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

“I like you,” Superstitional blurted. “I’ve liked you for so long, and I didn’t know how to say it without sounding condescending or cold or… wrong. But I do. I like you so much it makes my chest hurt.”

Cyan blinked, stunned still. Then smiled—small, shy, eyes brimming.

“I like you too,” she whispered.

Superstitional looked up.

“I think I fell for you the night you wouldn’t stop training,” she added. “Even when no one else believed in you. We could all learn something from you.”

They sat in silence a moment, the tension gone, the air soft and full of truth.

Their hands found each other again, and this time, didn’t let go.