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Alex scrunched his nose at the scent of burnt rubber and gasoline permeating through the thick air of the garage–bikes from rival teams revved, the low thrum cutting through the tension that had built up in the pitlane. His helmet was still drenched in sweat long after the race had ended, the bright blue of his bike contrasting against the muted tones of the four walls that made up his cramped garage.
His race had been fine, if not underwhelming. He managed to scrape by the other riders and embedded himself stubbornly amongst the top ten. Ninth place wasn’t too bad, considering his less-than-ideal bike condition.
But he couldn’t say the same for Luca.
The younger rider had crashed–turn 18, lap 20–and Alex had watched as he slid against the track, straight into gravel. Luckily, he wasn’t injured too badly. Or at least, that’s what Alex thought. Luca didn’t seem to have any visible wounds or bruises from what Alex saw, and the crash didn’t look too gnarly.
But the unease refused to leave him, clinging onto his skin and engraving itself into his bones. There was that nagging feeling–a phantom grip that clung to his heart and wouldn’t stop squeezing. It built up; trying to ignore it only seemed to make the unease worsen.
So, he mustered up the courage to go and check up on Luca. They weren’t friends, by any means. Racing was too cutthroat for that. Alex tolerated him. That’s all. And what kind of rider would he be if he didn’t go and make sure Luca was okay after a crash? At least, that’s what he told himself.
The walk to Luca’s garage felt like each step was taking him closer to his doom; akin to a sacrificial lamb walking up to the altar. He told himself that he was probably just being dramatic, but the harsh lighting of the garage didn’t help. Fluorescent lights hung above his head, casting a looming shadow ahead of him as his shoe made contact with the smooth floor of Luca’s garage.
It was eerily quiet, aside from the sound of someone breathing–loudly, too loud and laborious for it to be normal. Alex immediately shut off the part of his brain that flared up with worry as he inched ever so closely to the door of Luca’s room.
There were no oil spills on the floor or dirty rags hanging off of hooks. The room was too neat. Tools aligned with surgical precision, no oil stains, no clutter.
Luca had always been obsessive like that, even back in their Moto2 days—controlling what little he could.
Clack. Clack. Clack. The sound of his shoes thumping against the floor seemed to alert Luca of his presence, the younger man opening the door of his room.
Creak. The sound of the door opening was stark against the silence of the garage, even the wind seemed to quiet down as Luca poked his head out of the small gap in the door. His heart sank as he looked–really looked– at Luca’s form.
His usually neat blonde hair had been askew, the bandages not fully covering the large gash on his arm from where he was grated against the tarmac like a human chalk. And that didn’t even seem to cover all of his injuries, if the slight limp Luca walked with seemed to signify anything.
“You didn’t tell anyone it was this bad,” Alex hissed at him, although concern seeped through his tone.
“I don’t need more people thinking I’m weak. I’m fine, Alex.”
“You don’t look fine. I thought you only sustained minor injuries?”
“These are minor,” Luca argued, only to wince as his tone came off too sharp. But Alex didn’t seem to mind, gently pushing the door open to step in. Luca didn’t stop him.
Luca felt like a bug under a microscope as Alex silently inspected him; his dark eyes trailing over Luca’s exposed injuries and softening with barely concealed concern. Luca took it as pity.
“I don’t need your help, Marquez, I told you I’m fine,” Luca bites out, intent on getting Alex to leave. He even called Alex by his last name just to be petty. But it didn’t seem to work as the taller brunette silently reached for his bruised arm.
Luca let him take it.
Alex quietly unwrapped the messy gauze. It hadn’t been wrapped properly. He was in too much pain to really bother wrapping it neatly.
He didn’t bother to hide the winces as Alex poured iodine solution on the wound, content to sit and stare at the floor–shame and contentment warring for a spot in his mind. No wonder his rivals thought he was weak.
But they seemed to be isolated in one little bubble, the racetrack far away from them as they just… existed. Two childhood friends that had been torn apart by the pressures of winning, only to come together again over the one passion they both shared. At the end of the day, they were just two boys who dreamed of sharing the top step of the podium–only to fight tooth and nail trying to push each other off of it and win alone.
The crushing burden of winning seemed to be lifted off of their shoulders—even for just a few minutes–as Alex bandaged the tender flesh, just like how Luca used to do it for him when they were children.
Just two boys with scraped-up dreams and matching scars.
Alex finished bandaging the arm and leaned back. “Next time, don’t play hero. Tell someone.”
Luca smirked faintly. “Next time, don’t come storming in like a worried mom.”
“Shut up,” Alex muttered, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He stood to leave, then paused. “Luca?”
“Yeah?”
Alex lingered by the doorway, the hallway light casting half his face in gold. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said quietly, voice stripped of its usual edge. Luca met his gaze—tired, bruised, but soft—and for a moment, it was enough. No podiums, no glory. Just them, in the quiet.
“Me too,” Luca whispered.
They stood like that, not quite touching, not quite apart. Maybe tomorrow they'd go back to chasing seconds and risking everything. But tonight, in this fragile stillness, it felt like something was mending. Something real. Something that had never truly burned out.