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The energy at the stadium was electric. Just as Scar hoped it would be.
Thousands around them sat on the bleachers, racers casually chatting as they approached their cars, others talking to their pitstop crew. It was everything Scar had ever imagined, including the man across the way.
As usual, he had his red leather jacket on, a black skirt underneath with red, flowy trousers, a pair of black chunky trainers and matching sunglasses. To tie it all together was the necklace resting on his chest, an eye shaped from silver. Grian was one of the best racers on the track, and had been for the past few years; he was the reason Scar wanted to get into racing (professionally) in the first place.
Because Grian was many things, and one of those was undefeatable.
Not once had any racer managed to top his score, his round time, his placing.
And Scar had thought I could top it.
So there he was.
Maybe it was a mistake to walk up to him, and another to extend a hand.
Scar’s worst mistake was speaking.
“Nice to meet you,” he started, holding out a hand, but the man just stared at him, entirely unimpressed. He was shorter than Scar had expected, his brown hair completely unruly with no sense of style or class. When he looked up, eyes as pitch black as the void below, Scar noticed some eyeliner on his waterline that only worked to accentuate the darkness. Despite this, Scar felt drawn, as if tied to a rope that was being tugged from the other end with no way of letting go. “I’m Scar.”
The eyes then looked him up and down before landing on his face again. “I know, you’re that new rookie.”
“You— you know?”
“They say you’re good,” Grian huffed, though a smile didn’t tug at his face. He looked bored, if anything, but that didn’t make sense. As a racer at one of the biggest competitions in the world he couldn’t be bored. Scar wouldn’t allow it. But the man just tucked his phone into his pocket, likely having been scrolling just before being approached, and started walking. Scar was planning on following, but a dismissive hand waved him off, as if flicking a flea from his shoulder. Shock was all Scar felt. “But no one’s as good as me.”
And he was off before Scar could offer a reply, unlocking his car and ignoring everyone that approached him.
All Scar could think in that moment was the thought that had been on repeat since he was younger, since he first saw Grian beat records on TV.
I’m going to beat you one day whether you like it or not.
⚡︎
The race started off as expected.
Grian far in the lead and everyone else lagging a little behind.
This was because, usually, the course of action was a little like that of a running race; you go slow at the start, especially the first lap, and speed up as you go due to engine mechanics. Grian, who had some of the best pitstoppers in the field, had no qualms with breaking his engine, and often sped ahead before others could even consider doing the same.
So, like Scar had taught himself to do, he sped up.
Going through the gears was like clockwork, practically routine, perfected to enhance his speed and ensure engine safety, and soon he was right up Grian’s tail, grinning at his bland face in the rearview mirror of his vehicle. It was obvious he saw what Scar was doing, but they both knew Grian couldn’t speed up much more without risking his car, so from then on it was more about retaining the speed as much as possible. On straightaways this was a non-issue, but turns were a driver’s true test at keeping their pace without driving themselves into a wall.
It was a skill Grian had perfected long before competitive racing, and one Scar had learned from watching dozens of videos of his races, taking note of each meticulous angle, every mile-per-hour he dropped.
So Scar dropped a gear and waited for Grian to turn.
Using his technique on tarmac wasn’t the smartest choice he’d ever made, a risk bigger than he knew he should take, but drifting was one of his best attributes, and overtaking the other and driving into first was habit more than it was an achievement.
But from then it wasn’t about keeping first, it was about keeping in front of the other.
The other that looked absolutely furious, hands inevitably locking tighter onto the wheel.
And suddenly Scar forgot anyone else was in the race. In that moment it felt like just the two of them, Grian constantly moving to his side to overtake, only for Scar to follow the direction before he could clip the metal, giggling when he watched the driver behind him groan with frustration, whacking his wheel.
Another turn arrived before Scar would’ve liked, and it wasn’t long before a car was passing around him, window rolled down.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, rookie!” Grian shouted, over the wind and somehow reaching through Scar’s car, the man looking to his side with a smirk and revving his engine in agreement, finding the first smile he’d ever seen on Grian’s face.
It was soft, proud, challenging.
He was caught so off-guard that Grian revved his engine and managed to gain another few metres on him, so he forced himself to wrap his hands around the wheel and focus on the road ahead of himself.
He had a race to win.
⚡︎
Scar wasn’t sure the stadium had ever been so loud as he stepped out of his car, holding a hand up over his eyes with a wince, the amount of lights too bright over his face. Each and every scream was too loud, too much, so much so that he didn’t process the man in front of him, the level voice, the hand wrapping around his wrist.
And suddenly everything quietened.
The lights, the shouting, the white noise in Scar’s head, and it was all replaced with one thing; Grian.
It was easy to focus on one thing, on the sounds of Grian breathing and the view of his now-brown eyes under the soft lighting, and it was just as easy to hear his words now.
“Good race.” Was what he was saying, letting Scar’s arm go, the skin he was holding now cold to the warm air around. Before Scar could even begin to mourn the loss of the warmth, a hand was extended to him, just as Scar had done at the start of the race. But, unlike Grian, Scar had taken the hand offered with a thankful smile of his own. “Still not sure how you sped up any more in that last stretch.”
“Well, I tried my best,” Scar huffed, squeezing the hand before reluctantly letting it go, burying his hands in his pockets. But Grian was giving him an odd look, hand still suspended in the air, brows furrowed. “Maybe I’ll beat you next time.”
“Uh, Scar?”
“Hm?”
“You beat me this time.” Grian told him, and Scar just froze, recalling the race in his head.
Turns and straights, a sharp frown twitching up into a competitive smirk, white knuckles on a steering wheel—
He didn’t even remember crossing the finish line.
“Did I?”
“Why would I lie?”
“I don’t know!” Scar squawked, trying his best to remember it but only coming up blank. He must’ve blacked out from the pressure. “Ugh, I beat you and I don’t even remember it.”
“Well,” Grian started, and Scar made note of his unsure and almost nervous tone, very different to his outward confidence. “Guess you’ll have to pay more attention next race.”
“Wh— huh?”
“That was only the first race, idiot,” Grian teased, nudging him but sticking a little closer than before, something mischievous sparkling in those umber eyes. “We still have four left of the tournament.”
“You think I can do it again?” Scar asked, partially shocked by Grian’s odd sportsmanship, having expected some prissy, self-absorbed racer, only to find… well, Grian.
A man who just seemed happy to have finally met his match.
Because he grinned, smile bright and sharp, and he planted a solid hand on Scar’s shoulder, eyes flitting over his features, observant.
“I think you’re the only one who can do it again.” Grian replied, letting his arm drop and starting to shuffle back towards the door again, Scar suddenly taking notice of the loud noises again. “It’s nice to have a challenge for once, Scar. And I’m glad that challenge is you.”
The door to the outdoors opened, Grian beginning to step out, but something must’ve possessed him to make him reach out and grab the man’s wrist, just as he had his own. In the background voices screamed, people chanted their names, but all Scar could think about was the man in front of him, shocked and flustered but not against the touch.
So Scar only held him tighter, swallowing.
“You uh— wanna go out for coffee some time, maybe?”
The question shocked the both of them, Grian gaping back at him, evidently not entirely sure what to do with himself.
Other than reply.
“Sure. That’d be awesome.”
“Great.”
“Sweet.”
The cheers got louder.
“We should really get back out there—“
“Yeah, uh, you go ahead, I’ll catch up.”
And, somehow, Grian knew what he meant without him having to say it, simply nodding and leaving, the door swinging shut behind him.
Leaving Scar to want to crawl into a pit of his own misery.
Because he had not just asked his rival out on a date.