Chapter Text
Josh Dun had everything Tyler Joseph did not. Major sponsors, a charming public presence, and a seat in a factory team. And not just any factory team—no, he rode for Ducati, the best of the best, with a bike that was decently fast at worst and borderline unbeatable at best.
And here Tyler was, stuck on his shitty Yamaha.
He had to fight tooth and nail just to get the damn thing through practice sessions, let alone contend for a win. Josh never faced that same struggle, having been fast-tracked from the lower divisions straight into Ducati because his parents had pulled some strings. Nevertheless, he didn’t actually hate the guy. How could he? Josh was kind, sweet, and everything good in the world. He would wobble into Tyler’s box after races—still in his leathers—with a lopsided smile and some form of a compliment on the tip of his tongue.
It was the same song and dance every single weekend. Tyler would have a shit race, while Josh would inevitably win. Then, the curly-haired brunette would saunter into his box, absolutely radiating joy and whimsy with the biggest grin known to man on his face and drops of red-dyed sweat trickling down the side of his neck as he consoled Tyler.
It should feel annoying—downright condescending. But it doesn’t. Because it’s Josh. And hell, Tyler would let anything slide if Josh was the one to do it.
And once again, this is where he finds himself after another awful race. Sitting in his pit box, with his knees pulled up and Josh right next to him.
The humid air of the garage still hung heavy with the smell of scorched fuel and burnt rubber. Tyler was slumped on the ground, his knees pulled up, the cool metal of the wall a distant comfort against his aching body. Josh sat next to him, having changed out of his race leathers this time and into a tight black t-shirt. The distant sounds of the paddock only served as a muted backdrop to his defeat.
His team manager, Paolo, had scolded him countless times for letting the enemy into their garage. Something about Josh stealing their bike design or race strategy and gaining a competitive advantage. Tyler just laughed in his face. Competitive advantage, he says. As if Yamaha was even competitive to begin with. Josh didn’t have anything to gain by being here; their team had no secrets worth the trouble. Hell, even Tyler himself doesn’t understand why Josh insisted on befriending him. It wasn’t like he could’ve gained anything out of it. No points, no publicity, no inside track on a winning setup. Josh was loved by the media as it is. Interviewers loved him for his friendliness, fans loved him for his authenticity, and all the other riders were on friendly terms with him. He was the polar opposite of Tyler, who would lash out during media scrums and blatantly ignore any of the poor media interns trying to get him to do press. It was no wonder he barely had any sponsors, a fact that kept him constantly tethered to a failing team.
It was the only reason he was stuck with Yamaha. Both he and the team were wholly dependent on the other. Tyler desperately needed them for what little funding they could provide, and they desperately needed him so they could at least manage to scrape together points every now and again.
What Tyler lacked in social skills, he made up for on the track. He used to win every single race in the lower divisions like Moto3 and Moto2, which is how he got into MotoGP—the most elite level of motorcycle racing—at only 19. Yet, now it felt like he was past his prime at the ripe old age of 22, stuck on a losing team with a losing bike and a quickly deteriorating mental state. And no matter what he did, nothing seemed to work.
Not even changing out the tyre strategy every weekend or working himself to the bone with the mechanics, tweaking every single detail on the bike down to each screw. He’s been here for three years and it feels as if they’re only moving backwards.
He stared hard at the carpet beneath his bike. The light emanating from the fluorescent tube light washed everything out in a dull shade, the dark electric blue of the bike striking out against the dark tones of the garage.
“Ty– Tyler, hey. You okay?” Josh’s voice faded in as Tyler struggled to pull his focus up from where his eyes were stubbornly drawn to a random spot in the carpet.
He felt the sudden sense of reality crashing down on him as he ripped his eyes away from the carpet to focus on Josh and his stupidly big eyes.
“You with me, dude? You were kinda zoning out for a bit there,” he remarks, eyebrows furrowed in concern.
"I need to leave this team, Josh," Tyler blurted out, the words feeling heavier as he finally voiced the fear that haunted his mind. "I'm going backwards. I'm wasting the bike’s potential—and mine. If I stay here another year, I'm done. I'll just be another footnote. The kid who burned out before he even hit twenty-five."
He seemed to regret even opening his mouth, only realizing that he had spilled his biggest fear to the man who was supposed to be his enemy after he had closed his mouth.
Josh seemed startled, eyes widening marginally as his eyebrows shot up.
“Really?” He treaded carefully, as if talking to a cornered animal.
“Yeah. I just- I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to waste it all on this team, no matter how much I love them and my bike. I can’t, Josh. And it pains me to no end, because it’s all I’ve ever known. They’ll think I’m a traitor.”
“You know there are teams who would drop everything to sign you. Why not?”
“I- I don’t know,” Tyler’s voice cracked a little, his eyes burning up as he looked away from Josh and looked up at his bike from where he was sitting on the floor. He swallowed, willing his voice to stop shaking. “I don’t want to leave Trash.”
He shakily nodded his head toward the bike. "When I leave, they'll put some rookie on it. Someone who doesn't understand the transmission's temper, or the way the electronics glitch out if you don't talk to it right before a session. They'll ruin it. They'll just treat it like an old, failing piece of equipment instead of... instead of her."
Josh followed Tyler's gaze to the Yamaha prototype. He didn't laugh or dismiss the intensity in Tyler's voice. He understood the deep connection a rider could have with their machine, even if his own bond with the Ducati was a little less personal.
“And even if other teams were willing to sign me, I’m scared,” he trailed off, letting himself curl up tighter as Josh slung an arm around his bony shoulders. “I don’t like change.”
“I get that, Ty, I really do. But you need to think about yourself here. And about what’s best for you. You’re an amazing rider; you used to lap people in Moto2 every other weekend. If you stay here forever, you’ll never be able to live out your actual potential.”
Josh tightened his arm around Tyler's shoulder, pulling him a little closer. And surprisingly, Tyler let him. "Change is terrifying, yeah. It means new mechanics, new chassis feedback, and a new bike you’ll have to adapt to. It means you might fail publicly. But you’re already failing publicly here, Tyler, just slower."
He paused, seeming to think. "If you go to a better team, you're getting engineers who can tell you exactly why you're two tenths slower in turn five. You're getting the chance to fight me, properly, with a bike that deserves you."
"And Trash?" Josh continued softly, glancing back at the Yamaha. "You gave it everything. You kept it alive. Now you have to trust that someone else will do the same. And I’m sure she would want you to be out there on the podium instead of sulking in your garage."
Tyler didn’t reply, mulling the thoughts over in his head as he slumped against the Ducati rider, dropping his head on his shoulder.
“The season’s coming to a close… I don’t wanna give up on her yet,” Tyler mumbles, sniffling.
“Then don't,” Josh said, his voice firm but patient. He tightened his arm around Tyler's shoulders. "You don't have to quit on her today. But you have to start thinking about next season from now. The factory teams start making offers and finalizing their lineups right after the final race. As of now, I don’t think Ducati is keen on kicking out Marquez just yet. KTM and Aprilia aren’t so bad."
“KTM? Hell no, I hate Acosta.”
“You hate most of the paddock, Ty.”
“I don’t hate you.”
Josh seemed stunned at that, freezing before breaking into another blinding grin as he shuffled to yank Tyler into a bone-crushing hug, which prompted the younger boy to yelp before inevitably hugging him back.
Josh laughs softly into Tyler’s hair, the sound warm and unguarded, and for a moment it cuts through the fog in Tyler’s chest better than any pep talk ever could.
“I’ll take that as a win,” Josh says, finally loosening his grip just enough to look at him. “High praise, coming from you.”
Tyler huffs, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand and scowling like he’s embarrassed to have been caught feeling anything at all. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late,” Josh replies easily. “I ride a Ducati. Comes with the contract.”
They sit there like that for a while—shoulder to shoulder, backs against the wall—until the noise of the paddock starts to creep back in. A scooter zips past outside the garage. Someone laughs. Somewhere down the lane, a bike fires up, the engine note sharp and alive in a way that makes Tyler’s chest ache.
Josh glances sideways at him. “You know what I actually see when I watch you race?”
Tyler doesn’t look up. “Pain? Suffering? A man slowly losing his sanity?”
Josh snorts. “No. I see someone riding the absolute piss out of a bike that has no business being where it is. You’re not disappearing, Ty. Everyone knows it. Engineers, team principals—hell, even the commentators. They just don’t say it to your face because you look like you might bite.”
“I would,” Tyler mutters.
“I know. You’re like a cat with rabies.”
Josh’s tone shifts then, quieter, more serious. “Listen to me. You’re not betraying anyone by wanting more. Not Yamaha. Not Trash. Not your crew. You gave them three years of your life. You gave them results they didn’t earn on paper. That’s more than enough.”
Tyler finally turns his head, eyes glassy but sharp. “And if I jump ship and I still suck?”
Josh doesn’t dodge the question. He never does. “Then at least you’ll know. At least you won’t spend the rest of your life wondering what would’ve happened if you’d taken the chance.”
That lands. Tyler exhales slowly, shoulders sagging as if something heavy has finally been set down instead of dragged around.
“…I hate that you’re right.”
Josh grins again, smaller this time. “Yeah. People say that a lot.”
A shadow crosses the garage entrance, and Paolo’s voice carries in from outside, barking something in rapid Italian. Tyler stiffens instinctively.
Josh stands, stretching his arms over his head. “I should probably get lost before your boss actually murders me.”
Tyler nods, then hesitates. “Hey, Josh?”
“Yeah?”
“…If I do leave. If I end up on a decent bike next year.” He swallows. “You won’t go easy on me, right?”
Josh’s smile sharpens. “Absolutely not.”
Good, Tyler thinks. For the first time all weekend, the thought didn't make his stomach drop in fear or dread. Instead, it sent his pulse spiking in that thrillingly addictive way he was hooked on—the genuine, untainted adrenaline he chased ever since he was a kid on a pocket bike.
Josh taps two fingers against Tyler’s helmet as he heads toward the exit. “Think about it. Call me if you want to yell about contracts or change your mind twelve times in one night.”
“Only twelve?”
Josh laughs as he walks away. “Yeah, thirteen is where I draw the line.”
Tyler stays where he is after Josh leaves, eyes drifting back to the Yamaha. Trash sits quietly under the harsh lights, scuffed and stubborn and familiar.
“I’m not done yet,” he murmurs, more promise than apology as he gets up from where he was sitting so he could pet the bike’s smooth fuel tank.
He looked at Trash one last time, a mix of gratitude and sorrow washing over him. One last fight, he thought. Then we both move on.