Chapter Text
It was over. Funny Valentine was dead—but his body had disappeared. To where exactly is a mystery. But one thing was for certain; the nightmare was over.
Johnny stumbled back to his feet, his chest heaving as he tried helplessly to catch his breath. For a moment, he felt at peace. Happy–proud. But there was a dawning sense of dread stirring within his core. His body ached, his head was spinning, and for the first time in a while, he could finally say the words;
"I'm tired."
The admission felt heavier than anything he'd carried throughout the race.
He looked down at his feet, the sand crunching under his boots—a feeling he had missed. A miracle he had chased across desserts, through blood and sacrifice.
If only Gyro had been there to see.
What would he even say?
Johnny huffed out a weak breath, something close to a laugh that didn't quite make it.
"...You'd say somethin’ stupid," he muttered. "Act like it was nothin’."
So caught in his own thoughts, Johnny had hardly registered the sounds of footsteps from behind him.
He didn't bother to turn around—he was in dire need of a break. From everything, really.
Then—
A faint metallic clink.
A soft roll of the sand.
Johnny's breath stopped.
His body knew before his mind could stop the flood of thoughts.
A steel ball.
It rolled lazily across the ground, circling once near his boot before coming to rest against the side of his heel.
Johnny felt light headed. As if he was one second away from fainting from panic right then.
He stared down at the ball. The world seemed to narrow around that singular object.
He felt his throat tighten.
Behind him, someone clicked their tongue.
"Careful with that. It's not exactly a toy."
Johnny could already feel the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
That voice. He was sure of it. It was him.
The accent, the casual irritation. The warmth tucked behind it.
Johnny couldn't move. Couldn't turn to look. He couldn't. He didn't want to, for fear that if he did it would turn out to just be all inside his head.
The thought of it killed him.
The footsteps came closer, unhurried.
"Hey," The voice called once more. "You listening?"
Again, Johnny said nothing. He had lost his voice. And the ache in his chest had grown since then.
Johnny finally turns.
He shouldn't have.
He knew he shouldn't have.
But he did.
Slow. Careful.
And oh, he regretted it more than anything.
Gyro Zeppeli stood a few paces behind him, one hand resting loosely at his side, the other flat at his side. The same stance. The same ease.
The same face.
Johnny felt the lump in his throat returning stronger, pain set in his face. His breath hitched—sharp and broken.
"...Gyro."
The name left him before he could stop it.
Before he could stop himself from letting it escape.
Gyro blinked.
Not in surprise—not even in confusion.
Just a blank stare, like he was trying to place something that wasn't quite there.
"....Yeah," he said slowly. "That's me."
A pause.
Then—
His gaze narrowed just slightly.
Recognition.
But not the kind Johnny needed.
The kind he wanted more than anything.
"Have we met...?"
Johnny felt something in his chest twist—tight.
This wasn't right. Was this some kind of cruel joke?
This was Gyro, wasn't it? The same one, no doubt. It had to be!
There's no way it wasn't him..
"You—" His voice cracked. "You don't—?"
Gyro tilted his head, studying him now. Really studying him.
"...I've seen someone like you," he admitted.
Johnny froze.
The words hit harder than it should have. And hurt more than he'd like to admit.
"Well—not you." Gyro added quickly, brows knitting. "Not exactly, at least. Something's different about you. I'm just not sure what it is."
That faint, irritated click of his tongue—the same.
Different clothes, different–ehh...—well, no, you look about the same. I think—"
Johnny's hands started shaking.
"You're tellin’ me—" he swallowed hard. "—there's another me..?"
Gyro huffed out a laugh.
"Wouldn't be the weirdest thing I've seen."
Another pause. The silence stretched between the two as they stared at one another, as if they were simultaneously attempting to communicate telepathically.
Johnny didn't even know how to react. How could he react? How could he feel happy—when the man standing before him wasn't his?
“So…you really don't know me at all? Or at least—remember who I am?"
“I think I would remember someone like you.”
Gyro's words lingered in the air longer than they should have.
Johnny felt them settle somewhere deep in his chest—heavy, unmoving.
His fingers twitch at his sides.
“Yeah,” Johnny said after a moment, voice thin. “I guess you would..”
He didn't mean for it to sound so bitter. Bitter, and small. But he didn't even have the heart to take it back.
So he didn't.
Gyro’s brows pulled together slightly.
“I didn't mean—”
“I know.” Johnny cut back in, not giving him a chance to speak.
Silence fell again, thicker this time.
Johnny dragged in a breath, but it didn't do anything to help. His chest felt tight—like his lungs were struggling to take in the air he so desperately needed at the moment.
“You said there was someone like me," He choked out, his voice all wobbly. “where you're from.”
“Uh-huh.”
Johnny swallowed.
“Was he–”
Johnny's voice caught in his throat, but he forced the question out anyway.
“—important- to you?”
That was it. The question.
Gyro didn't answer right away.
For the first time since he appeared, he actually looked..unsure.
“...Yeah,” he said eventually.
Simple.
Johnny wished it had hurt less.
“He was,” Gyro added, more firmly this time. “a pain in the ass, but—” A faint, familiar huff. “Yeah.”
Johnny let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“Figures.”