Chapter Text
The thump of party music reverberates through Isack’s bones, turning him into one with the beat as he bops with the sea of people on the dance floor. His current state of bliss has been meticulously curated by a perfect mix of Pierre’s very expensive spirits, and he’s not about to waste it. So he enjoys the comfortable buzz of alcohol in his veins, the wild beat of the music, the sight of a cute boy dancing across the floor. He’s about to shoot his shot with cute boy when he's rudely dragged off the dance floor by Esteban.
“What.” Isack whines, above the fading music, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
“Pierre wants to go street racing. Apparently there’s this dude called Lightning who’s the real deal.”
Hm. That sounds kind of fun actually. It’ll give him a chance to show his Porsche 911 some action.
Pierre is surrounded by a bunch of their friends when Esteban and Isack finally find them in the parking lot.
“There you guys are,” Pierre says when he spots them, slurring his words slightly. “I was just saying that no one has ever beaten Lightning before. We’re going to show him what speed is.”
Isack grins and slides into his Porsche with a practiced ease. He follows Pierre’s Aston out onto the road, tapping his fingers on the wheel in excitement. The rest of them trail after him, a convoy of low riding luxury cars.
The street racing scene in Paris, apparently, is located in a huge parking lot under a flyover near the banlieues. Isack roves his eyes appreciatively over the many short skirts and the miles of legs. He likes this kind of scene. Pretty girls, pretty boys, pretty cars. The dream, really.
Pierre pulls to a stop before of a group of people standing in front of an ancient Ford GT, the rust of the car contrasting sharply with the shiny new sportscars all around.
The group breaks apart as Pierre stumbles out of his car. There may be four or five of them, but Isack’s eyes are drawn immediately to the blonde in the middle, in a sleeveless tee and jeans, leaning carelessly against the rusty GT.
His face is the embodiment frost, stern and unapproachable. His eyes are grey, cold and impenetrable. A cigarette hangs at his unsmiling lips, and even his spiky hair seems to warn everyone to keep a healthy distance. If Isack were in the mood for a chase, he’d already be rearing at the bit for a shot, to see what it took to get that ice to crack under his hands. But these days he’s pretty happy with the easy sex he finds at parties, so he just crosses his arms and watches the scene as he leans on the door of his Porsche.
“Lightning,” Pierre says, and the blonde removes the cigarette from his lips with two slender fingers in response. “I want to race.”
The blonde – Lightning – regards them with icy disdain. “I don’t race drunks,” he says, and his tone is full of the kind of brash confidence that makes people keep a wide berth. “Come back when you’re sober. You can race then.”
Pierre tries to argue, but Lightning has turned his attention to the short Asian man by his side, and he pays Pierre no mind.
“Killjoy,” Isack mutters.
“I’ll be back.” Pierre calls angrily, and their engines roar with disappointment as they reverse away.
Whatever. They pull back into the parking lot of the party house. Isack downs a couple more shots to get back into party mode. He doesn’t remember much more from the rest of the night, only heavy bass, pretty lips, flashing lights.
Isack wakes with a piercing hangover, so bad that he still feels vaguely drunk even as afternoon sun streams into the room. Someone must’ve brought him back to his apartment last night. He sits up, groaning. Memories from the night blur and swirl with the room as he moves, and yet the image of cold grey eyes and an icy handsome face remains crystal clear. Who was that?
But it doesn’t really matter. Isack has seen plenty of good-looking people, and that particular one isn’t special. He drags himself into the shower, downs a Coke to fight the hangover, and by the time he sprawls back onto the bed to doomscroll, he’s forgotten that face altogether.
Isack’s hangover makes the whole day fuzzy, and considering he woke up late into the afternoon, night creeps into the sky very quickly. His phone lights up and he grabs it in relief. His two-week late homework has been staring in his face and he wants nothing more than a distraction.
There’s a message from Pierre. racing 10pm it says. Now that’s exciting.
The racing scene is the same as yesterday, but Isack is sober enough to properly appreciate the sound of engines being fired up, the clack of high heels. And more interestingly, he spots Lightning before he sees them. Isack watches in fascination as Lightning laughs, no sign of the coldness of last night. In fact, he looks warm somehow, his smile crinkling around his eyes and his cheeks. The moment is fleeting. Lightning notices their convoy and frost descends onto his face, turning him back into the unapproachable, uncaring driver.
“You know the rules,” he says when Pierre pulls up in front of him, “I take your car when you lose.”
“I’m not going to lose.” Isack can hear Pierre’s sneer. Lightning only shrugs and lights a cigarette.
As Pierre’s Aston and Lightning’s Ford GT line up to conquer the expanse of parking lot left open for racing, Isack figures that it’s good that Pierre is going first. It’ll give him a chance to check out Lightning’s driving style, his weaknesses. He’d very much like to beat the unbeatable Lightning.
Isack puffs on his vape as a scantily clad woman waves a flag to start the race. Engines rev, tires squeal, and the two cars pull off the line. It’s immediately captivating. Isack knows about racing. He knows the lines, the right time to shift gears, how to drift to save time. And yet he’s stunned by the ease with which Lightning’s ancient GT overtakes Pierre’s Aston at the first turn.
Lightning drives aggressively, always shifting up, always braking late, yet more importantly, he drives like he’s one with the car. Isack can’t see him pressing the brake or the accelerator or the clutch, but he knows if he could, that movement could only be described as dancing. Isack can’t help but be impressed. The Aston is fast, but Pierre relies on its speed, makes the car do the work for him. For that alone, he loses the moment they peel off the starting line.
At the last corner Pierre tries a desperate dive, clipping the back end of the Ford before spinning out. Lightning keeps his car on track with ease, and sails over the finish line. Isack is quite impressed.
Lightning does half a donut once he finishes the race, spinning the car around so he faces Pierre as he limps back towards them. He steps out of the car, cigarette still hanging at his lips quietly, as if he hadn’t just raced the fastest quarter mile Isack had ever seen.
Pierre slams the door to his Aston closed as he clambers out. He throws his keys vaguely in Lightning’s direction. Lightning smirks as he catches them – a little tug on his lip – but his eyes still look like a frozen lake. He sweeps his gaze over the rest of them, and lingers for a moment when he finds Isack’s eyes. Isack’s breath hitches when they make eye contact. Weird. Isack has been around plenty of beautiful people and none of them have literally taken his breath away. He's probably just taken by Lightning’s race craft. He’s about to ask for a race of his own when Pierre raps on the roof of his Porsche.
“Let’s go.” he says.
“No more racing?” Isack frowns.
“Can’t race without a car, genius.” Pierre swings himself into the passenger seat.
Well. He supposes he can race Lightning another time, when he knows his strategy better.
“Your place?” Isack says when he gets in the car, trying to diffuse the anger rolling off Pierre in waves. Pierre only nods.
They flop onto Pierre’s couch, the core five of them – Isack, Pierre, Esteban, Elliot and Sofiane – and Esteban produces a pack of beer.
“He’s such a dick,” Pierre says when the alcohol liquifies his crystallized anger, “calling himself Lightning and beating my Aston in his fucking 2005 Ford. Smug idiot. I’ll show him.”
They all agree with that. Lightning really is too full of himself.
Conversation flows with the packs of beer, and they stay up way too late for a Sunday night, talking casually about weekends in their holiday homes by the Seine, their latest conquests, and one very heated debate on which animal they would fuck if they had to pick one.
Midnight comes and goes, and Isack drags himself back to his penthouse by dawn chorus. Once again, he wakes up late in the afternoon. He toys briefly with the idea of going to class, but abandons it in favor of a smoke and a TV show in bed. No one would dare to fail him anyway, given the extent of his father’s power in the university.
When Isack tires of lazing in bed and the worst of his hangover passes, he slips into shorts and a T-shirt and heads to the gym. He’s about done with his lift when his phone lights up with a text from Esteban. ferrari showroom in ten? pierre lightning rematch.
Isack smiles. He’s glad racing is turning into a fixture in their lives. Things had started to become a little boring, the same parties, the same faces, the same routine. Racing is a good way to spice things up. And he’s always loved speed. He admires the bulk of his biceps in the mirror before heading out, thrumming with adrenaline.
The Ferrari showroom is the embodiment of what you get can with money, numbers followed by many many zeroes. The room is sleek and modern, just like the bright red cars studded across the shiny marble floor.
Isack spots the gang gathered around a LaFerrari, admiring its lines. He daps them up with ease, enjoying the crisp sound of their palms smacking together.
“Isn’t the F80 faster than the LaFerrari?” Isack asks when he daps up Pierre.
“Of course I know that,” the corners of Pierre’s mouth are turned down in annoyance. “I was just admiring a classic.”
“Fair enough.” Isack grins, but Pierre’s tone rubs him the wrong way.
They move towards the F80. It’s truly a masterpiece, sparkling red paint contrasting with black carbon fiber and yellow brakes.
“Isn’t the top speed of this guy like 30 kilometers faster than your Aston? You’re basically guaranteed to win.” Elliot says, patting its engine.
Pierre grins wolfishly. “Damn right.”
Isack thinks that racing is not as simple as having the fastest car. If Pierre can’t make his engine sing like Lightning can, there’s no chance of him ever beating Lightning. Something stops him from saying that particular thought aloud.
They roll out of the showroom fully decked out, a parade of sleek cars. It’s still too early for racing, so they play FIFA for a couple hours at Pierre’s. No one drinks though, remembering Lightning’s condition from that first night.
The thing about the street racing scene is that it’s always different. Isack loves it. He recognizes none of the girls, none of the boys, not even the cars, but the screaming engines, the shiny paintjobs and the screeching tires appeal to something deep in his bones.
Lightning smirks – a slanted, cocky thing – when he spots them. “I schooled you so well yesterday, you decided to give me a Ferrari as a thank you gift?”
Isack cracks a smile. Crazy burn. And he did say that he wasn’t interested in the chase, but Lightning is endlessly fascinating. The confidence verging on assholery, the icy mask, the moments of warmth, all of it makes Isack want to get closer and closer, just to see the truth behind this enigma.
Pierre obviously doesn’t appreciate that comment as much as Isack does. He leaps towards Lightning, fists raised. Esteban drags him back. “Talk on the track.” he says. Pierre grabs his keys and climbs into the car to start it. Isack catches Esteban’s eye from across the roof of his Porsche. They both already know how this is going to end.
Last time they raced, Lightning simply outclassed Pierre. This time, as they line up on the starting line, Pierre keeps revving his engine, glancing meaningfully towards Lightning, who looks straight ahead, one hand on the steering wheel. It’s quite a picture, the quiet grey Ford next to the screaming red Ferrari.
They peel off the start line. Immediately, Isack can tell that Pierre is driving angry. He shifts up too early, keeps the RPM too high. Isack is not surprised when he loses control in the second corner. Lightning sails over the finish line, and has parked his car in his usual spot by the time Pierre pulls up.
Pierre tosses the keys at Lightning, who catches them and spins them around on his finger. “Thanks,” he says, and the word drips with sarcasm.
Pierre gets into Elliot’s car this time, waves at the rest of them to follow. Isack goes reluctantly. He still hasn’t had a chance to race, but Pierre is angry, and Pierre is his friend, so he leaves.
The rest of the night is predictable. Pierre sulks. They drink to cheer him up. They play pool and let him win, they play Mario Kart and let him win that too.
Isack wakes the next morning with another hangover. But he’s up early enough to go to class, so he goes. He doesn’t expect to be riveted, but he is. He forgets, every time, that he does love math. His joy at completing a perfect proof is broken by his phone lighting up. A text from Pierre. mclaren showroom at 3
It’s already 2:45. Isack groans, debating staying another ten minutes to finish class or to leave early. But then he remembers how angry Pierre was last night, and how snarky he was when Isack showed up last to the Ferrari showroom. He packs his bag and leaves.
He shows up third to the showroom, beaten out only by Esteban and Sofiane. They’re busy talking Pierre up, telling him that Lightning only won last night because he riled Pierre up. And they’re not wrong, but Isack isn’t so sure Pierre can beat Lightning at all, even with the fastest road car in the world. It’s not about speed, but the faster the car, the harder to drive. Isack is reasonably sure that, with Pierre’s control, he’ll end up in the wall.
They pull up to the scene a little later than usual, having gotten caught up in a debate of boobs vs ass. Esteban had mentioned the third secret possibility – dick – and that had led to whole other conversation about size and girth.
Finally at the track, Isack relishes the familiar hum of adrenaline in his veins, the smell of oil, the sound of engines. And of course, there’s the by-now-familiar sight of Lightning, cold as ice, surrounded by his gang for whom he defrosts momentarily, their vintage cars, his rusty GT.
The other thing that’s familiar is Pierre strong-arming his way into racing first. This is the fourth time. Isack was too drunk to mind the first time, the second he was able to explain away as data gathering, and the third as Pierre needing to redeem himself. But now he’s run out of excuses and he’s getting a little annoyed.
He doesn’t pay attention when Pierre lines his bright orange Mclaren W1 up with Lightning’s Ford. Instead, he looks at Lightning’s gang. There’s a tall Asian man wearing a shirt with a picture of a very grumpy looking cat, a kid in an Argentinian football jersey standing next to another guy with brown hair, and a shorter Asian man, the one he remembers Lightning talking to on that first day.
The crowd roars, and Isack turns his attention back to the race, where Pierre has tried to drive Lightning off the track and has instead gone wide himself. Isack watches as Pierre hurls the keys to the McLaren directly at Lightning’s face with some force. Lightning catches them, unfazed, but Isack is a bit taken aback by that display of aggression.
Pierre gets into Esteban’s sleek Jaguar and they peel off, followed by Sofiane and Elliot. Isack doesn’t get into his car. Instead, he walks towards Lightning and his gang, who are currently shooting the shit about something, possibly Pierre. Despite very much wanting to beat Lightning, Isack knows from the three times he’s seen Lightning race that he has no chance of winning. So he avoids Lightning and approaches the short Asian man, hand stretched out for a handshake. “I’m Isack,” he says when they shake hands, “wanna race?”
“Yuki.” The man replies, “and sure.”
“Just checking, you won’t take my car or anything if I lose right?”
“Nah,” Yuki laughs, “that’s Li—”
The brunette kicks Yuki in the shin. “Ahem,” Yuki continues, “That’s Lightning’s thing. I only ask for Portobello mushrooms.”
“What?” Isack is a bit stumped.
“Depends on what my restaurant needs on a particular day.”
“Fascinating.”
Yuki walks towards his car, a very beautiful old Shelby Cobra, signaling the end of that bizarre conversation. Isack spares a glance at Lightning on his way back to the Porsche, and notes with satisfaction that the ice has thinned enough to reveal a quiet curiosity.
He checks his phone before getting into the car, and it’s lighting up with messages and calls from his gang. He ignores them and drives to the start line.
There, waiting for a cute boy in a crop top and sinfully short shorts to wave the flag to start the race, everything else falls away. Isack breathes, turns into one with the Porsche. He’s flying the moment the flag goes down.
He shifts up, presses the accelerator to the floor. The Porsche has the advantage of faster acceleration so he makes the most of it, and keeps speeding up. Isack brakes late into the first corner, leading by a car’s length. He whoops in joy, the Porsche purring underneath him. But then he misjudges the braking point of the next corner and Yuki manages a switchback, and takes the lead. The final corner has them more or less abreast, with Isack attempting a late dive, but Yuki gets a better exit and pulls ahead to win by just over half a car’s length.
“Good race,” Isack says, when he’s out of the car.
Yuki grins. “I need ten kg of mushrooms. Fresh.”
“You got it.” Isack laughs, the thrill of a race well driven making him giddy.
He gets back into the car and heads to Pierre’s place. Time to face the music.
Esteban winces when he opens the door for Isack. “You good?” he asks.
“Yep.” Isack nods. “How is he?”
“Pretty mad.” Esteban puts a comforting hand on his shoulder as he leads Isack into the apartment. Isack thinks absently about how Esteban was always the kindest of them all.
Sofiane and Elliot look up in shock when Isack walks in, as if they’re surprised he came back at all. Pierre is sprawled on the sofa, clearly drunk out of his mind. “Isack,” he slurs, “where the fuck were you?”
“Racing.”
“What, did you just have to prove that you’re better than me? I hope Lightning put you in your place.”
“Nah not Lightning, I’m not confident enough for that. Raced one of his friends. Still got beat though. He wants Portobello mushrooms? They’re all super weird.” Isack waits to see how his olive branch will be taken.
“Fucking weirdos.”
Isack lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Since when did Pierre have so much power over him and what he could do?
“Maybe we can all try to race them tomorrow,” Esteban rushes in to finish smoothing things over, “all of us together could probably do them some damage.”
Pierre nods at that, and Elliot and Sofiane agree after Pierre’s green light. Isack feels better. Maybe going against what Pierre wants can turn out well sometimes.
The next night, Isack watches less bitterly when Pierre lines his Rimac Nevera R up with Lightning’s trusty GT, knowing that he’ll have a chance to race later without worrying about upsetting his friend.
Pierre runs a mostly clean race this time, which means he doesn’t push Lightning off the course. The power of the Rimac gets him a lead off the start line. But it’s abundantly clear that he’s not familiar with the car, and Lightning capitalizes on that, pushing hard into the first corner, staying very close and putting pressure on Pierre. It works in the end. The Rimac is too sensitive and Pierre gets rattled by Lightning breathing down his neck and he spins out in the last corner.
Pierre throws the keys at Lightning when he gets out of the car, with even more force than yesterday. “Let’s go.” he says to the rest of them.
“What about—”
Isack starts to say, but Pierre is already in Sofiane’s car, driving away. Elliot and Esteban share a helpless look and speed off after them. That leaves Isack, fuming. Fine. If he wants to play it like that.
Isack stalks towards Lightning’s gang. Then he sees Yuki and remembers the large bag of mushrooms in his backseat. He turns back around to grab it, takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down, and hands it off. Yuki looks positively delighted.
The member of Lightning’s gang closest to them is the brown-haired white guy. Isack shakes his hand. “Isack.” he says, just in case the man had missed it.
“Jack. But people call me The Perentie.” Isack has no idea what the fuck a Perentie is, but it sounds exciting enough.
“What does it cost to race you?”
“iPad Pro and an Apple Pencil.”
“You’re on.”
Jack turns to the Argentine jersey guy and pulls him into a kiss. “Wish me luck Franquito,” he grins. The other boy kisses his cheek. Isack smiles at them without meaning to. He notices Lightning watching him, calculating, only relaxing when he sees Isack smiling. Protective, huh? The realization sparks something warm in his chest.
Jack drives a bright yellow Corvette, one from the early 2000s. It complements the deep green of Isack’s Porsche in an interesting way. Once again, Isack gets the upper hand off the starting line and into the first corner. On the second turn, he brakes earlier, remembering what happened last night, which allows Jack to pull up close to him. Isack brakes as late as possible into the third turn in an attempt to reemphasize his lead, not expecting Jack to drift calmly past him, before straightening out and flying across the line only a wheelrim ahead of Isack.
“Nice drift, dude.” Isack says when he gets out of the car. Jack manages to thank him before he’s engulfed by blue and white, a mop of curly brown hair. They’re adorable. Isack feels a little tug in his heart, one he thought he killed long ago with all the meaningless easy sex, all the drinking. He squashes it down, gets back into the car. Love is too much work. It’s foolish to want it.
Outside Pierre’s, Isack squares his shoulders for a fight.
Sofiane opens the door. “Dude, you’re in trouble.”
Isack doesn’t point out how stupid that concept is. He’s not in kindergarten and Pierre is not his disappointed teacher. Pierre is, ostensibly, his friend.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Pierre snaps the moment he sees Isack.
“Racing? Like we all agreed.”
“Well, I changed my mind.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“How dare you disrespect me like that? Ignoring me?”
“You’re my friend,” Isack says, desperately, trying to bring the conversation back from this spiral.
“Some friend, if you keep being chummy with people who embarrass me day after day.”
Isack is tired, suddenly. A bone-deep tiredness. He knows if he keeps arguing, Pierre will only get more and more angry, until they both blow their tops. So he takes a step back.
“I was joking,” he says, as believably as he can. “I just had to give that guy his mushrooms.”
Pierre looks at him coldly, but it’s not the same cold as Lightning, for whom it’s an alluring mask. No, this coldness comes from the heart. “Fine.” Pierre relents. “Don’t joke like that again.”
They drink and they play poker like normal after that, but something is broken beyond repair. Isack is tired of bending to Pierre’s will. He’s surprised that he only noticed Pierre’s unchallenged imperiousness so late. He supposes he has to thank Lightning’s insistence on sobriety for that. And Isack knows that Pierre is threatened by him now. Even if he’s backed down, he’s proven that he’s not a mindless follower. Nothing can be the same again.
The rift becomes evident the next day, when Isack is not invited to go car shopping in preparation for the race. Instead, he joins the gang at Pierre’s after they’ve bought a Bugatti, hanging out for a few short hours before the race.
Pierre loses, predictably, spinning out in the first corner when he doesn’t slow enough, not used to the raw power of the Tourbillon. Isack doesn’t watch him, enjoying instead the way Lightning handles his GT, when he decides to drift, when he takes a corner regularly.
Pierre throws the keys at Lightning and leaves. Isack watches them go. Pierre in Esteban’s car, Sofiane and Elliot behind them. He feels only the slightest twinge of sadness.
He hands Jack his various Apple devices, laughs at Jack’s unfiltered delight. He catches Lightning looking mildly amused, and Isack’s heart skips a beat. What the fuck. It’s not like Lightning is devastatingly handsome. Why is the tiniest smile making Isack act like a schoolgirl with a crush?
To distract himself, Isack looks for someone else to race. He’d meant to race Jack’s Argentinian boyfriend (Franquito, apparently), but he seems preoccupied with the iPad. Well then. Super tall Asian it is. The man takes his proffered hand and pumps it up and down. “Isack, right?” he says, smiling disarmingly. It makes him much less intimidating, considering he’s more or less twice Isack’s height. “I’m Alex. If you lose to me you need to buy me ten bags of cat food.” In the ensuing groans, Alex defends himself. “I have to keep the Albono Zoo up and running, okay?”
“Deal.” Isack says, laughing a little. This gang really is a motley lot. Isack is charmed.
Alex also drives a Bugatti, but it’s a Veyron. Funny looking, but infinitely better than Pierre’s blue monster, currently abandoned in a corner.
Of the cars he’s raced in the last couple of days, Alex’s is the closest to him in acceleration. This means that he doesn’t get the early advantage. Instead, he brakes late into the first turn, getting ahead for a moment before Alex wrestles it back. He tries again at the next corner and the same thing happens. His blood thrums with excitement. At the final corner he goes for it again, and Alex pulls off another switchback. He crosses the line with Isack’s bumper right at his rear fender.
“Crazy defending, man.” Isack grins when he gets out.
Alex laughs. “They call me Thai Minister of Defense for a reason.”
“No one calls you that,” Lightning calls, the ice melting just enough to split sunlight into shimmering rays. Isack’s treacherous heart stutters.
“Yeah that was Checo’s nickname.” The Argentine adds. Isack laughs. He doesn’t get the reference but he still laughs.
“I’ll get you the cat food tomorrow,” he says before getting back into his trusty Porsche.
Isack drives straight to his apartment, doesn’t think about Pierre or the rest of them. Instead, he basks in the high of racing, a high that drinking and sex just never gives him anymore.
The next morning, Isack wakes to morning light streaming through the windows. He doesn’t remember the last time he woke up without a hangover. It’s a feeling he could get used to.
He goes to class, hangs onto every word the professor says, drops by office hours for all of his professors to figure out how to catch up on all the shit he’s missed. They look mostly petrified and somewhat disbelieving of his change of heart. He’s not sure he believes in his change of heart. All he knows is that he’s outgrown his gang.
Despite that realization, he does hang with them in the evening before they go racing. It’s not like he wants to cut them out of his life permanently. He just needs some time away from them. No one mentions where he was last night, but there’s a slight awkwardness in the air. They’re all afraid of breaking the thin ice they stand on. Pierre is stern and quiet.
They make quite an entrance when they pull up to the lot. Isack isn’t surprised. Even he spent a good five minutes staring at Pierre’s Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut, the fastest road car in the world. Lightning doesn’t look worried in the least. In fact, he looks the same as always, but that might be because he doesn’t even bother looking at Pierre. He looks directly at Isack. And the ice in his eyes has melted into stunning grey lakes. It’s doing things to Isack’s dead heart. Bad things.
Lightning doesn’t light a cigarette before the race this time, as if he knows it’ll be a hard fight. They line up to start, and this time Isack’s dislike of Pierre is outweighed by his appreciation of Lightning’s racing, and only his racing.
Pierre takes a commanding lead at the start. Lightning dives into the first corner, drawing abreast of the Koenigsegg before falling behind again on the straight, the power of his 2005 Ford GT simply no comparison to the modern-day rocket ship. Isack bites his lip in worry. At the second turn, Lightning dives again, and then drifts, artfully cutting off Pierre’s best exit. This gives him the barest edge into the final corner, the beast roaring right beside him. Lightning tries the same thing into turn three, a late drift, cutting off Pierre’s line. He speeds down the final section, the Koenigsegg catching up with every second. He crosses the finish line an inch before Pierre. Isack cheers unabashedly with the rest of Lightning’s gang.
Yuki, Jack, Franquito, and Alex jump on Lightning as he climbs out of the car. Next to them, Esteban, Sofiane and Elliot approach Pierre slowly, as if afraid. Isack heads towards Lightning, then stops, caught awkwardly in the middle.
When Lightning re-emerges from the tangle of his friends, he extends his hand to shake Pierre’s. “Good race.” he says. It’s genuine. Isack is surprised and not surprised at the same time. He’s mostly glad that he was right about someone warm and soft hiding beneath the layers of bravado that made Lightning the icy calm driver.
But Pierre glares. “Don’t mock me.”
Lightning blinks, withdraws his hand. “I wasn’t.”
And then Pierre reaches into his pocket, pulls out a switchblade, points it at Lightning. “I said don’t mock me.”
Lightning smirks and says nothing, staring right down the knife pointed at his heart, the cockiness returning in full force. Pierre whirls around to face his friends. “And you guys,” he says gesturing wildly, “what reason do you have for him beating me this time?”
“He cut you off,” Elliot says.
“He didn’t leave space,” Sofiane adds.
Esteban says nothing, but Pierre has already moved on.
“And you.” Pierre points the knife right at Isack. “What do you think?”
“I think you had no chance of beating him. Not today and not before. He drives like he’s dancing. You drive like a peg legged pirate. It doesn’t matter what kind of car you have.” Isack isn’t sure where this bravery comes from, maybe he’s been inspired by Lightning. He glances over at the blonde and notes that the frosty mask has dropped, replaced instead by real surprise, both eyebrows raised.
He turns his attention back to Pierre just in time to see him lunge forward, knife trained at Isack’s neck. Fuck. So much for being fucking brave. Isack is too terrified to move.
And then someone’s wrapped a hand around his arm and he’s being dragged away from the knife’s edge. When he stops moving, he sees that Lightning stands half in front of him, arm raised protectively in front of Isack. It takes everything Isack has not to turn into jelly right there. As things are, he doesn’t want Pierre to see that he’s scared, so he stands up straight and glares. But the hand hidden from view behind Lightning comes up to fist tightly in the back of Lightning’s shirt, searching for something stable to hold on to. The cloth is warm. Isack leans a little closer to Lightning, feeling strangely comforted.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Lightning hisses.
“Teaching someone a lesson.”
Isack isn’t sure what Lightning is going to say in response, because they’re cut off by a woman’s voice.
“What’s going on here?” Her tone is severe, the voice of one commanding great power and respect. Yet Lightning doesn’t answer her. Instead, he takes the lull to turn to Isack. “Are you alright?”
He’s frowning in concern, but Isack is preoccupied with the realization that he’s been wrong all along about Lightning’s eyes. They aren’t a cold grey. Up close, they’re a blinding blue, like the bright sapphire lakes in the middle of the tundra. He nods, transfixed. Lightning nods back and turns to face Pierre, dragging Isack’s attention with him.
“Who the fuck are you?” Pierre is saying to the woman, who’s come to stand in front of Lightning, between him and Pierre. She’s wearing a long black dress, with a slit in it, showing off the knife strapped to her thigh.
“You don’t need to know my name,” and wow if Isack thought Lightning’s voice was cold it was because he hadn’t heard her speak. “Just know that I run this place, and what you’re doing is bad for business.”
“Now,” she continues, stalking towards Pierre, bearing him down with her overwhelming presence of power. “You’re going to hand Lightning the keys, and then you’re going to get the fuck out of here.”
Pierre has backed up until he hits the door of the Koenigsegg, knife drooping uselessly. She takes her own knife from her thigh, and runs it gently over his jaw, light enough not to draw blood, hard enough to make the threat obvious. “Is that clear?”
Pierre nods and throws the keys at Lightning, who catches them without dislodging Isack’s death grip on his T-shirt. Isack watches as his erstwhile friends tumble into their cars and flee.
The woman turns to face them, and Isack notices that she’s really quite beautiful, huge brown eyes, high cheekbones. “Thanks Rafa,” Lightning says.
“No worries,” she smiles, and there’s no sign of the terrifying woman who just scared Pierre away.
Lightning holds out the keys to the Koenigsegg. “Thank you gift?”
Rafa laughs. “I’m not touching anything that douche has touched with a ten feet pole. Just give me twenty percent of the sale.”
“Done.” Liam laughs, and Isack can feel it in his fingers.
Rafa looks at Isack, appraisingly. And then she nods and walks away.
When she’s gone, Lightning turns back to Isack. “You still good?”
Isack finds his voice, finally. “Yeah,” he manages, “thanks.”
“No worries.” Lightning smiles, and immediately the icy tundra is gone, replaced by summer skies. His face breaks open, crinkling around the eyes and the cheeks. Isack forgets to breathe. He’s too far gone to berate his lungs for betraying him.
Lighting extends his hand. “I’m Liam, by the way.”
Isack realizes that his right hand is still desperately gripping Lightn— Liam’s shirt. He lets go, face burning, and shakes Liam’s hand.
“Isack,” he says, because apparently the mix of having a knife pointed at him and having the sun shine on him in the middle of the night have fried his brain.
Liam laughs. It’s beautiful, more beautiful than his racing, more beautiful than sailing on the Seine in summer, more beautiful than anything Isack has ever seen. “I know,” Liam says, still laughing.
Wow. Isack needs to get the hell out of here before his heart comes back to life. “Thanks for saving me,” he says, “I’ll catch you around.”
He all but runs to his Porsche, gets in in what feels like the most awkward way possible, and speeds back to his apartment.