Chapter Text
It had to be said that Lance McClain had never, ever done anything in his life by halves.
While most children were off proclaiming to the world that they wanted to be a pilot or a footballer or a policeman, little Lance had only ever responded that he wanted to be a “horsey-rider”.
He supposed that it all stemmed back from family holidays to his grandparents' farm, where their large plot of land provided the perfect place for a rambunctious young boy and his siblings to play and explore to their hearts' content. Fields of long grass, open pens of chickens that were just begging to be chased, trees to climb.. All in all, it was a little boy's patch of heaven.
What held the fondest of memories for him, however, had been the old carthorse that spent lazy days plodding round their land and exploiting the friendly neighbours who would walk past the end of the fence with carrots and apples and a friendly scratch on the chin. Old Bembe was a true gentle giant, a large beast with extraordinarily hairy legs and the cutest tuft of hair on his upper lip that formed the perfect moustache. Due to his broad build and black and white markings Lance (before he actually understood that animals were different and just because a cat and a dog both had four legs and a tail that did not make them the same thing) used to point to him from his mother's arms and call out to the cow in excitement.
Although Bembe was too old to be worked or ridden much, from the age of two or so Lance used to be allowed to sit on the great creature, his grandfather holding one leg and his father the other, and they would walk around the field with barely a rope around his neck, the boy's hands looped tightly in the thick mane as he felt the body beneath him shift from side to side, in awe at the power held in this softest soul.
Pipo, the name he called his grandfather, used to show him pictures of Bembe back when he was a working horse, pulling carts laden down with hay or bricks or whatever the village had needed him for at the time, along with Lance's own father sat on the back much as Lance had been, aunts and uncles playing around the horse's large feet without fear of being trampled on.
For his third birthday Lance had been given a handmade toy that was designed to look like Bembe, one he carried with him everywhere, with little buttons for eyes and strands of wool for his mane and tail. And when he carried him everywhere, he genuinely took him everywhere. Bembito, as he fondly called him to differentiate him from his much larger counterpart, joined them at mealtimes with his own slice of apple from Lance's plate, sat in his lap in car journeys, and shared a pillow with him at night.
For his fifth birthday, when his parents realised his horsey obsession was not just a phase as had been the same for his older siblings, he was given his first proper riding lesson at a yard not far from where he lived. Dona was a tubby little sweetheart with golden fur and a white mane and tail, a palomino as he later learned to call her, and he loved her to pieces. Even after he'd stopped needing somebody to lead him or hold his leg he had insisted on continuing to ride her. They were terrifying in the way only a bombproof young boy and a cheerful little pony could be, bouncing round the arena with the seemingly sole purpose of giving his poor mother a heart attack. He rode her for years, trying other horses but always gravitating back to her and her kind-hearted nature, the gentle look in her eyes and her velvet nose.
It was heartbreaking when his growth-spurt hit him some years later, his instructor kindly and sadly telling him that he was just too tall for her smaller build these days, and that it would be better for him to start riding the bigger horses. He was just above average height for a boy his age although genetics suggested he would be in for a few feet more later down the line. With twice weekly lessons that he earned through volunteering at the yard after school so that his parents could spend their money and attention on his two younger sisters, Lance was soon learning more riding skills. He found the slower arts to be less interesting, while jumping proved to be a practice that both terrified and excited him.
Of course, as with every hobby, it wasn't without its risks. He took his fair share of tumbles, of hooves accidentally stepping on toes, of headbutts and headaches and sprains and bumps, but no matter how hard he fell he was only too eager to get back on again. He was never without confidence, his teachers remaking that he could be lying face down in a pile of dirt after a particularly nasty throw only to roll over with a bright laugh and proclaim that he was going to master the art of falling gracefully no matter what.
Always a smile on his face and a compliment on his lips, he was certainly popular enough and loved by all who met him, and his free volunteering sessions soon made way for paid work to help with other children that were learning to ride. Having grown up as the middle child of five, Lance was no stranger to dealing with children of any age. He could get the shy ones out of their shells and bring the cocky ones to heel with little more than a joke or a look, and he'd never been happier. He didn't really know what he wanted to do with his life, but the only thing that was set in stone was that it would definitely involve horses.
He finally gained direction halfway through his sixteenth year, fresh out of school and working full time at the local yard when one of the older boys working there asked if he wanted to join a small group of them on a trip out of town. He had been lucky enough to get tickets to one of the popular races down at the Oriental Park Racetrack and had one going spare. Naturally he'd agreed, not really thinking much of racing but knowing that he would be a fool to pass this opportunity up. He'd seen it on the television a few times and knew some people who liked to bet on it, but his interest mainly lay with riding where and when he could.
All it had taken was a three hour road trip and a handful of hours at a race track and Lance had known that his own little world was suddenly, inexplicably thrown upside down.
And that was how, three years later, Lance had found himself moving in to the Galloping Garrison Jockey Academy to start his training to become a fully fledged racer. Although very slightly on the tall side, genetics had been remarkably kind to him, leaving him with a skinny build that was perfect for his future career. It had taken a lot of blood, sweat and a bucket-load of tears, but when he'd held that acceptance letter in his hands to the congratulations of his family he'd known that every minute had been worth it. It was no mean feat to get into one of the most prestigious Academies in the area, and upon arriving he immediately knew it was going to be an international experience.
Armed with two suitcases and a rucksack, he'd ridden the coach for a good twelve hours to get to the accommodation, a set of apartments that were situated a good quarter hour walk from the riding school itself. There hadn't been anyone to greet him but the place was bustling with students moving in, and at least someone had had the forethought to place signs to the different blocks along with a list of room allocations. He'd been placed on the third floor, room 302, and never again did he want to have to lug two heavy cases up three flights of stairs.
Maybe that was part of the training in itself? For some reason, that wouldn't have surprised him.
He pushed open the door to find that the room wasn't unoccupied, a stocky, dark skinned individual sat up in the left bed and flicking through a magazine. Thick black hair was tied out of his face with a yellow headband, and by the motion of his jaw Lance could only assume he was chewing gum. He couldn't see the title of the magazine, it being folded in half so that he could hold the current page with more ease, but when he realised that someone else had entered the room he looked up and greeted Lance with one of the warmest smiles he'd ever seen.
“Hey,” the stranger beamed, and Lance noted that his voice matched his smile – big, broad and full of warmth. He was immediately reminded of a blanket and a fireplace on a cold evening. It was that sort of comforting aura that his new room-mate exuded. “You must be Lance McClain, right? I hope you didn't mind me taking this side of the room,” he rambled, pace increasing with a hint of panic in his voice, “Just that I thought it would be more awkward if you came in and I was just sat in the middle of the floor and I moved in yesterday and I didn't know when you would and-”
Lance raised a placating hand and with an easy grin shucked his rucksack onto the floor and bounded on to the other bed, stretching out in full (and avoiding concussing himself on the wall more thanks to divine providence than his own forward planning). “Don't worry, my dude, I will sleep anywhere and everywhere. Lance is the name, racing's the game, and.. I've completely forgotten what your name is. Tsu-something..?”
“Just call me Hunk, it's easier.” Hunk seemed relieved with Lance's easy going nature, at least, and the lankier male felt a sudden surge of excitement for it all. He'd managed to find the place, find his flat, and not aggravate his room-mate in the first exchange. Things were looking up McClain.
He took a few moments to survey the unpacked side of the room, trying to get a quick feel for what he hoped would become one of his good friends here. Judging by the number of photos on the wall above his bed, Hunk was as much a family man as he was. He couldn't see properly from this distance but it looked like he might have a brother, and there only seemed to be about five people cycling through the different photos, but they were important to him all the same. They had desks at the foot of their beds, and Hunk's already had a small pile of textbooks and pads of paper and a neat little desk tidy stuffed with coloured pens. A potted plant sat on the corner, just budding, in a decorated porcelain pot that was painted in some style he wasn't familiar with.
He had to admit that despite the fact they were sharing a room, it was a good size, and there were two of everything – they didn't even have to share a wardrobe. Plus it had an en-suite, but he had a feeling that was more because the queues for the shared showers would be insane otherwise. Trying to stay smelling fresh as a horsey person was a losing battle, but one Lance was determined not to give in to. Living at home with two younger sisters, an older one and an older brother as well, all of which were more than willing to throw a fuss over him stinking up the house, he had become an expert in keeping smells out of the house and masking any lingering scent with slightly obnoxious hygiene products. Speaking of which, he hoped there was ample shelf space in their bathroom. Some people may argue that he didn't need eight bottles of lotions, but he considered such people to be heathens. Each one had a very specific use, and it wasn't his fault that he suffered from irritatingly sensitive skin. He could rash just from sneezing.
As nice as it would be to just lie there for the time being, he knew he would feel much happier when he'd unpacked and settled in, and then he could text his parents to let them know that he was a competent adult and wasn't going to live out of his suitcase for the foreseeable future (unlike somebody he knew, not mentally pointing fingers at anybody, Carlos. Who was the superior brother now?). With an exaggerated huff of effort he rolled over the side of the bed and onto his feet, Hunk sitting up a little straighter while watching him move to open up the first case, loaded t the brim with clothes and casual essentials. Jeans, coats, shirts, only half of which were to be used away from the horses. He knew that a considerable amount of their time was to be devoted to the yard and training, but if they thought he wasn't going to make the most of the short journey to the city from time to time, they could think again. One didn't go on the pull stinking of shit, after all.
“So,” his new roomie began, warm, chocolate eyes following him as he started to ferry his belongings to the wardrobe, neatly folding jeans over hangars before slipping shirts over the top of them to save on space. “So you're here for the jockey program?” Ah, yes, small talk. It was always a bit awkward and embarrassing meeting new people, asking the most obvious of questions to each other, but Lance was never flustered in social situations. For him conversation was as easy as breathing, and no question was too plain or too intrusive. If anything, Hunk would likely have to attempt to shut him up some time later, after Lance had talked his ears off.
He hummed in the affirmative, rubbing his thumb over his favourite blue hoodie a moment before folding it up and placing it on the shelf above the clothes' rail. He never really saw the point in hanging hoodies up when they were meant to be chucked on and huddled into for comfort with no previous planning. If he wanted his hoodie like hell was he gonna waste time fumbling to get it off the hangar and inevitably getting it stuck on other hangars or bouncing off the back of the wardrobe. He was perpetually late for school, he was well versed in 'when things were too much effort'. “Sure am! I've not got much experience though, only done it a bit with an ex-racer back at my old yard, but I ain't worried. There's natural talent in these veins, baby.”
He wasn't an idiot, he knew how this Academy worked. They took in hopeful candidates, a fairly large number of them, really, and then put them through their paces and whittled them down with scathing brutality. He reckoned perhaps only half of the first years would make it through to the second year of training, and that was after twelve months of gruelling yard-work and being chucked on the most disastrous horses possible. Unless you were born into a prestigious family, there was no fast-lane to the top. In the horse-world, you damn well worked your way up from the literal bottom. As far as appealing jobs went, shit-shovelling wasn't even in the top three-quarters. Still, he'd wanted this for a long, long time. If they wanted to kick him out they were going to have to pry his clammy, cold hands from the stable door. And his teeth. And his legs. He had absolutely no intention of letting go of this opportunity no matter what. He knew it wouldn't be easy, he knew he didn't have the pedigree or the experience of a lot of the fellow students, but all that meant was a lot more perseverance was needed. Even if most people who met him assumed that he was a joke, he would prove to them that at his core he was a fighter to the end.
“What about you? What course are you here for?” He had a feeling it wasn't for the jockey course, and he always hated to judge any book by their cover, but Hunk simply didn't have the build for a jockey. It was a hard truth in their career that you had to be an absolute stick like he was to get hired by anyone. In fact Lance was a hint on the tall side for most people, but he was hoping that would get overlooked. He wasn't too tall, he just wasn't the perfect ideal. Really, it was almost as bad as the modelling world sometimes.
“Trainer studies,” the other male beamed, and Lance couldn't help but smile as he heard the excitement tint his voice. “At worst I'll come out with the qualifications to be a head groom, but if I make the cut I can organise training programs and coaching, and I'm taking extra modules in equine physiotherapy too.” That was one of the ideals with the Galloping Garrison, really. It wasn't just a school for jockeys, or trainers, or stablehands or vets. It was a place for everyone, where all the students learned to work together. He'd heard rumours that in the second or especially third years of study, where they got sent off on work placements together, that if you'd worked well in groups earlier on you often got grouped together again in the future. If he gelled well with Hunk, perhaps they might get work experience on the same yard together some time down the line.
It wasn't an easy course the other had opted for, either. Sure, the jockeys got the prestige and the recognition, but every race was a team effort. Unless the trainers could provide the groundwork and the hours and hours of hard work and practice in the background, the jockey didn't stand a chance at guiding their horse to victory. If Hunk managed to apply himself well and develop his skills, he could become a very prominent name in the future.
“Equine physiotherapy? I've only ever learned to click out legs, and I'm not even very good at that.” There'd been one old gelding back at his yard who suffered from gammy knees, and seeing the poor thing shuffling there from side to side in discomfort had tugged at his heart strings. He'd gotten the local vet to teach him how to stretch them out, and as disconcerting as it was to hear the pop of such a loud joint, it was clear the creature had appreciated it. He couldn't imagine how horrible it was to not be able to crack yourself out at any time. Heck, he did his back at least three times a day.
“Oh, yeah, I mean it was so terrifying the first time I saw it done. We had this horse whisperer come to the yard I volunteered at, and I saw him crack a horse's neck out and honestly, the only thing that really got me through was seeing how much happier Rocky was after that. He wouldn't take his bridle, would barely eat, was snapping at anyone who came close. Within an hour after that though and he was head-butting us all in a demand for fuss.”
Now that sounded fair. It would be amazing to be able to do such a thing, but Lance doubted he'd ever have the aptitude for it – nor the strength. Nor the confidence. One wrong move and everything could be made sooo much worse. Still, if Hunk wanted to pursue it, he could damn well chase his dreams.
Clothes put away he soon moved to hang his hat up on the peg inside the wardrobe, tucking his boots in the bottom of the unit too. Knee-high, black, shiny leather. He adored them, and they hugged his slender calves something rotten. He had a couple of pairs of jodhpurs stashed away, too; beige for anything official or for exams, and then a navy pair and a black pair for everyday use. He used to have a pair with glow-in-the-dark stars on the butt.. But he didn't think they would really be appreciated in this sort of setting. That and they'd split right in the crotch. Shame, the kids at the yard had adored those.
“Is Rocky your horse?” There was something exciting about hearing about other people's horses. It was like the joy with discussing pets, dogs or cats or the like, but he'd always found horses to carry a little extra weighting in his mind. The way Hunk's chest puffed out in pride suggested that he'd hit the nail on the head, there.
“My brother's and mine. He's looking after him while I'm studying here. He's a coloured cob, a proper gypsy horse, tricolour. Here, hang on-” While he rummaged through his phone to find a picture of his baby, Lance started to put his quilt and pillow covers on the bedding the faculty provided, the design on them a print of a sandy beach under the evening sun. He loved the warmth of the golden coloured sands mixed with the cooling blue, and it did give him a little reminder of home, too. At a welcoming noise form Hunk he soon leaned over as he beat a pillow into its case, letting out a low whistle at the selfie of Hunk with the pony – well, horse. Rocky reminded him a lot of Bembe, except in the colour of burnt caramel with a black stripe in his mane. He was big, he was stocky, and his mane looked like it belonged in a l'Oréal advert. Hunk just looked so darn happy in that photo, too.
Lance wolf-whistled, folding the edge of the pillowcase over and tucking it in out the way. “Oh, he's lush. What a babe!”
“Yeah, I'm gonna miss him and his wickle kisses. He's such a little snuffler.”
The conversation soon progressed onto discussions about other horses they had, with Lance telling him all about Dona and Rigo and all the other horses at his old yard (and the time big ol' Coca Cola had broken into the feed room and literally emptied two feed bins' worth of nuts). In turn Hunk told him about their mother's old pony, Maizie, who was, in his words, “the biggest bitch of a mare you will ever find”, but she and Rocky got on well at the same livery yard so they could save money on rent, which was a nice thing. They chatted as Lance pinned up pictures of his family to the wall next to his bed, arranged in a fairly sporadic pattern that filled up the empty space, though the framed picture of his immediate family went on the corner of his desk to act as motivation during the hard times that would inevitably come.
A couple of ornaments went on the shelf that straddled both bed and desk, sea shells in a metallic rose shade that shone pearly white from certain angles, a little jar of sand from Varadero beach that he'd collected on their last family holiday, and a bracelet his cousin had made for him from preserved cuttings of Bembe's tail after the poor thing had passed away, thankfully from natural causes. It was a lovely mix of black and white strands, and although he rarely wore it for fear of losing it, it was a nice keepsake that he never wanted to part from.
Seeing him almost done with unpacking, Hunk grinned and pulled his laptop up onto his bed from the side cabinet, opening it and flashing him a shy but excited grin. “There's nothing really going on this evening, but as a last supper before the inauguration day tomorrow, do you want to order takeaway and watch a film or something?”
He excitedly dove on to his bed next to him, jabbing his finger near the screen whenever something appealed as they browsed through the options available in the area, feeling the warm buzzing in his chest that suggested that this was going to be the best year of his life. He was going to progress and develop as a person, he was going to make incredible friends, and he was going to prove to both his family and himself that he had what it took to chase his dreams.
And if the well-loved and dog-eared plush of Bembito was tucked in under his quilt ready to keep him content at night, who really cared?
