Chapter Text
You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.
-Richard Siken
It ends like this.
They’re parked askew off some deserted road in Monza, the headlights of a rented Ford Focus casting weak shadows against gnarled trees.
Daeyoung’s hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are bone white. He hasn’t turned to look at Sion once, not since they left the motel, not since Sion mumbled, “Let’s go somewhere else.” Sion keeps his head against the half-rolled-down window, staring blankly at the black expanse outside, his eyes clouded over like he’s already miles away, like his soul is still lying on the motel curb.
Daeyoung hates it when Sion looks like that. Unreachable. You’d think with a decade of practice he’d be better at deciphering Sion’s expressions, but he’s just as clueless as he was when he was just “Daeho’s little brother,” tailing behind Sion around the track like a clueless duckling.
“Daeyoung-ah, I—”
“I know, hyung.” Daeyoung cuts him off. He doesn’t need to hear it. Doesn’t want to hear it.
I know that you’re going to be the first Korean Formula 1 driver in history. I know what this means for us since you haven’t replied to my messages in days. I know what you look like when you want to kiss me, or when you’ve had a particularly good race that makes your skin burst in colors, or when you’re dying to laugh but trying to fight it. I wish I didn’t.
Sion doesn’t move at first. Then he lifts his head, his gaze meeting Daeyoung’s in the vague reflection of the windshield. “It’s better this way,” he says at last, the words lifeless, mechanical.
“Do you honestly believe that?” Daeyoung asks. Sion flinches, even if Daeyoung hasn’t raised his voice.
“You don’t understand.” Sion says.
“No, you don’t understand!” Daeyoung’s voice cracks, and he hates it, hates how raw it feels. “I never asked you to choose. You’re the one—”
Sion turns away, his jaw tightening as he stares at the dashboard like it holds the answers to this fucked-up situation. “You deserve better, Daeyoung. Now you can finally focus on yourself, do your own thing.” The words sound rehearsed, hollow, a cheesy inspirational quote a mom would frame and hang on her kitchen wall.
Daeyoung starts laughing. Maybe he’s going crazy. Did he really toil through his engineering finals, barely sleep for a week, skip his commencement, and then make a fifteen-hour flight to Italy for the Formula 2 championships just for this shit?
"Don’t you dare pretend this is about me.”
The silence that follows is unbearable. Sion doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t fight. He just sits there, looking as defeated as Daeyoung feels, and somehow that makes it worse.
“Fine. Fuck you, Oh Sion.” Daeyoung spits. And with that, he reaches over and shoves the passenger door open. He catches a whiff of Sion’s favorite cologne that smells like rosewood and cardamom, and he has to stop himself from breathing. The cold night air rushes in, but Sion doesn’t move right away. For a moment, Daeyoung thinks he’ll stay. But then Sion steps out of the car, the door shutting gently behind him.
Daeyoung swallows. He sniffs once, a dry bubble of laughter spilling out his lips before he slams on the gas pedal.
And he can’t help thinking, as the wind slaps against his face on the highway, that he finally gets why people race. The rush of speed, the thrill of being the one leaving instead of the one left behind.
Here’s the kicker about desire, about yearning, about want: it gets stronger every time you try to kill it.
And you can only pray that it goes dormant. Desire curls up in the cave of your rib cage, purring harmlessly in its sleep, but you know it’s going to wake up one day. You know it’ll rear its ugly head and come out of hibernation. You know that much by now.
Sion is no stranger to desire. He’s been told, ever since he was a child, that the only thing worth hungering for was the trophy. It’s what he told himself every sleepless night spent in the cramped, noisy RV, his parents' voices rife with expectation as they told him, “You’re special. You’re going to win. You’re going to make history.” It’s what he repeated every time his ribs ached from slamming into the sides of his go-kart, every time he bled for this sport. Desire, for Sion, isn’t a choice. It’s a demand. A biological function as natural as blinking or digesting.
But when the adrenaline wore off, Sion felt like there was something—someone—that might’ve been worth actually wanting. He never lingered on it for long. There wasn’t enough time.
Sion tosses his helmet onto the workbench, sweat dripping down the back of his neck as he plops down on the team couch. He’s half watching the mechanics tinker with the car, half scrolling through his phone, thumbs pausing over an unopened message from the girl he ghosted last week.
"She’ll get over it," he says to himself, locking the screen with a sigh. It wasn’t like he made any promises. He never does. It’s easier to keep things casual, no strings attached. If he’s going to crash and burn, it’ll be on the track, not in some messy personal entanglement.
His team manager strides into the garage, clipboard in hand. “Sion,” Doyoung greets, the tone of his voice immediately putting Sion on edge.
"What now? Did I forget another sponsor dinner?" Sion sighs, “Wonbin’s gonna tear me a new one.”
“It’s not about that,” Doyoung says, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking years older by the minute. "This is serious.”
“What, did Julian get arrested? Please tell me it was a first-degree felony.”
Doyoung looks like he’s about to commit manslaughter himself. “Forget your feud with your teammate for a second. Derek quit last night.”
That gets Sion’s attention. He sits up straighter, smirk slipping slightly. “Wait, why?”
“You tell me.” Doyoung says. “We’re bringing in someone new.”
“Right before race weekend? This is insane. Why can’t you just—”
“I’ve got other responsibilities besides cleaning up your mess, Sion. The new guy’s young but he’s just came off an unprecedented winning streak in endurance racing. Taeyong literally raved to me about him for an hour, so he knows what he’s doing. You’ll meet him tomorrow.”
Sion opens his mouth to argue, but another look at Doyoung's face shuts him up. He leans back in the couch again; his mind is already spinning. A new engineer means learning new rhythms, new boundaries. He hates the instability.
“Fine. But if this dude screws up, don’t come crying to me when I start ignoring him,” Sion says.
Doyoung snorts and regards Sion with something akin to pity.
“You’re such a child sometimes, you know that?” The team manager doesn’t wait for a reply before walking off. “Don’t forget your interview’s in ten minutes.”
Sion stares down at the bunched-up material of his Navy blue fireproof, mindlessly twisting a faded green braid around his wrist.
“So, Sion, with Red Bull and McLaren in such a tight fight for the Constructors’ Championship, how important is tomorrow’s qualifying for you and the team?”
“It’s huge. Every position counts right now, especially with how close we are to McLaren. They’ve been strong all season, but I know we’ve got the pace to take them on.”
“You’ve mentioned the car feels better, but there’s still a lot of pressure. Do you think the team’s recent changes will affect your performance?”
“Not at all. The team knows what they’re doing. We’ll put it all together tomorrow.”
“There’s a lot of buzz about your new race engineer. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a race engineer joining mid-season, right before a race at that. Can you give us any insight into how that’s going to work, especially since you’ll be working together for the first time in two days?”
“I haven’t met him yet. Guess we’ll see how it goes.”
“Interesting. A lot of fans are curious about how you’re balancing everything this season—intense races, the pressure for the WDC title, and, let’s be honest, your personal life, which is always in the headlines. How do you manage it all?”
“I focus on racing. Everything else is just noise.”
“Fair enough, but people are starting to notice a pattern. Does keeping things ‘casual’ in your personal life help you focus on—”
“Next question please.”
“Alright, alright. Last question: what’s your goal for this weekend?”
“Win.”
“Looks like a ferret hibernated in your ass, smoked weed, then died,” Wonbin quips, lounging against the garage wall with a Red Bull cap pulled low over his forehead. Six months in the job and he’s already stopped wearing his PR team badge, he looks more like a celebrity than a team member.
Sion groans, tugging at the neckline of his fireproofs. He was tossing and turning all night from the anxiety. Stupid Derek. So they may have gotten into a fight over race strategy and Sion used every swear word known in the history of mankind, big deal. Derek totally overreacted by resigning. “Can you not?”
“What? Just saying what everyone else is thinking,” Wonbin shoots back with a grin. “Exciting day, though. New engineer. Huge rivalry with McLaren. Your teammate’s two points ahead vying for second place… Pressure’s on, golden boy.”
Sion prickles at the nickname. Some tabloid started calling him that during his F1 debut and he gets goosebumps every time he hears it. “You got a point?”
“Not really,” Wonbin clasps his hands behind his head. “Just figured I’d enjoy watching you squirm for a change.”
Sion rolls his eyes and turns away, trying to tune his friend out. The garage is filled with machines humming and tools clattering, but none of it drowns out the nervous energy crawling up his spine. Their technical director Johnny is talking to the mechanics and his teammate Julian is nowhere to be seen, as per usual.
“Think they’ll be nice and actually tolerate your temper?” Wonbin asks suddenly, cutting through Sion’s thoughts. “Or, like, be one of those hardasses? If I were you, I’d be praying for the former.”
“I’m not worried,” Sion lies, his index finger twitches where it rests on the edge of the workbench. “They’ll just do their job and stay out of my way.”
Wonbin snorts. “Yeah, sure. That’s definitely how this is gonna go.” His eyes focus on something behind Sion and get that slight mischievous glimmer.
“What, is Sohee here already? I swear you two are attached at the hip—” Sion starts, turning in his chair to follow Wonbin’s line of sight.
But it’s not Sohee. It’s Doyoung, standing by Sion’s car, talking to somebody. It's a guy. Tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair that catches the early morning light. The sun in Barcelona is beautiful this time of day, spilling gold across the paddock, but it does little to soften the strong lines of the stranger’s posture or the focused way he’s listening to their team manager.
Something about him feels... off. Or maybe too familiar. Sion squints, trying to place him, but his brain isn’t quite catching up.
Then said stranger turns into the light.
Sion freezes. For a second, he wonders if he’s got a brain tumor and he’s imagining things. But no. He’d recognize Daeyoung anywhere. He’s taller now, broader in the shoulders, with the kind of posture that doesn’t belong to the kid tailing behind Sion at the track years ago. Back then, Daeyoung was all wide eyes and awkward limbs, constantly tripping over himself to keep up with his brother—and with Sion. He’d been quiet-spoken, shy, the type to hand Sion water bottles during karting meets like it was his sole purpose in life.
This Daeyoung isn’t that kid.
This Daeyoung walks in the Red Bull garage like he owns the place, a clipboard in hand and an expression that’s unreadable except for the slight furrow in his brow. His navy Red Bull jacket fits snugly around his shoulders, and his hair—shorter than it used to be—makes his sharp features even more striking. His eyes, darker and sharper than Sion remembers, lock onto him instantly.
Sion’s chest tightens and looks away, his mouth suddenly dry. He isn’t even sure what kind of face he’s making right now but it sure as hell isn’t a pretty sight. The fact that Wonbin keeps jabbing him in the rib as Daeyoung walks closer doesn’t help anything.
“Good morning,” Daeyoung says politely. His eyes flick briefly to Wonbin before settling back on Sion. “I’m Kim Daeyoung, your new engineer. Ready to get to work?”
Wonbin lets out a low whistle. “You are Sion’s new engineer? Oh, this is gonna be fun.” He looks like he’s about three seconds away from squealing and clapping his hands together.
Daeyoung’s lips jerk, just barely, like he’s trying to decide if he should smile or ignore the comment entirely. He opts for the latter, turning his full attention to Sion. “Let’s start with setup adjustments. We’ve got a lot to go over before qualifying tomorrow.”
Sion blinks, his brain struggling to catch up. The last time he’d seen Daeyoung, the kid had been staring at him in a beat-up Ford, his expression stormy as he spat out words that still haunt Sion on nights when the silence gets too loud. “Fine. Fuck you, Oh Sion.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Sion finally says, voice sharper than intended.
Daeyoung doesn’t flinch. If anything, he seems… composed, maybe even bored. “I work here,” he replies evenly. “I’m your race engineer now. Red Bull thought it’d be a good fit.”
Sion laughs, a dry, disbelieving sound. “Yeah, I’m sure they did. Does Daeho know about this?”
Daeyoung falters at the mention of his brother but recovers quickly. “He’s the one who encouraged me to take the job.” He pauses, lowering the clipboard. “Look, I’m not here to make things weird. This is my job now. I’m good at it.”
“Since when were you a race engineer?”
Daeyoung cocks an eyebrow. “Since graduation. Figured you’d know that, considering you’re the one who said I should ‘focus on my own thing.’”
The words aren’t bitter, but they land with precision, like a jab to the ribs. Sion didn’t mean it like that, but the look on Daeyoung’s face that day said it didn’t matter how he meant it.
“Well, congratulations,” Sion says, folding his arms. “You got your wish.”
Daeyoung takes a step closer, clipboard tucked under his arm. He’s taller than Sion, just enough to make it noticeable, and it grates on Sion’s nerves, though he can’t figure out why.
“I’m not here to make this personal,” Daeyoung says, soft but firm. “I’m here to do my job. To help you win. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Sion challenges, his voice dropping until it's almost a growl. “You think we can just pretend like nothing ever happened?”
“I’m not pretending anything,” Daeyoung says, his gaze unwavering. “But if you can’t handle working with me, that’s your problem, not mine.”
For a moment, Sion doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been good at losing—arguments, races, bets—and the fact that Daeyoung seems completely unshaken only makes him want to push harder.
Wonbin clears his throat from the corner where he’s very clearly been eavesdropping. “Soooo, you two need a moment, or can we all get back to saving Red Bull’s ass this weekend?”
Daeyoung steps back. “Strategy meeting starts in ten minutes,” he says, all business. “Don’t be late.” With that pointed remark at the driver, he turns and walks away, leaving Sion standing there gaping like an idiot.
Wonbin strolls back into Sion’s line of sight, pockets in hand and grinning. “That,” he says, pointing at the door Daeyoung just exited through, “was incredible. Better than any reality show I've ever watched. I’m so glad I came in today. Oh my god, I have to stop by Mclaren and tell Sohee everything.”
“Shut up, bin,” Sion warns, but his words lacks their usual bite. He stares after the spot where Daeyoung had been standing.
Wonbin lets out a laugh, ignoring Sion’s halfhearted warning. “No way. Do you think he’s still pissed at you? Of course he is. I would be. God, where are the Drive to Survive cameras?”
“Wonbin,” Sion snaps, his jaw tight. “I said, shut up.”
But Wonbin just raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin never faltering. “Alright, alright. I’ll save my commentary for Netflix then.” He pauses, then smirks. “I give it two strategy meetings before you either implode or kiss him.”
Sion glares at him. “Leave. Now.”
Wonbin shrugs, backing away but still chuckling to himself as he heads toward the other side of the garage. “I’ll be in hospitality if you need someone to tell you, ‘I told you so.’”
Once Wonbin’s gone, Sion exhales, running a hand through his hair. He hates how his heart is still racing, hates how Daeyoung’s words, measured but ever so cutting, keep playing on a loop in his head. “I’m not here to make it personal.”
That’s right. It’s not about old arguments or abandoned roads in Monza. Not about how Daeyoung looked at him that last night in Monza or how Sion wept afterwards, or how Daeyoung used to tag along at every karting meet, shy but determined, his brother’s shadow and, eventually, Sion’s.
It’s about winning, Sion tells himself. That’s what everything is supposed to be about. It’s always been about winning.
When Sion walks into the strategy room, Daeyoung is already there, standing near the screen displaying track data. He’s leaning over the table, his tall frame hunched as he scribbles notes on a tablet. He doesn’t look up when Sion enters, but Sion can feel the shift in the air, the way Daeyoung’s posture stiffens ever so slightly.
“You’re late,” Daeyoung says without turning around.
Sion checks the clock on the wall. “By two minutes.”
“Still late.”
Sion rolls his eyes and sprawls into a chair at the table, like he’s trying to take up all the space in the room. “You’re really serious about this, huh?”
Daeyoung finally looks up, his eyes meeting Sion’s briefly before flicking back to the screen. His expression is calm in a way that grates on Sion’s nerves. He’s used to seeing people annoyed with him—disappointed, irritated, or just done. But this... this calm? It throws him. Like Daeyoung’s already figured him out.
“Someone has to be serious,” Daeyoung says, not even pausing as he continues marking a note on the screen. “Wouldn’t want you falling apart out there.”
“Funny,” Sion snaps back. He hates how defensive it sounds, like he’s got something to prove. “You’re already sounding like you think I’m going to screw it up.”
Daeyoung pauses at that but doesn’t look at Sion right away. When he does, his gaze is solid, like he’s weighing a decision. “If I thought you’d screw it up,” he says finally, “I wouldn’t have taken this job.”
The words settle into the room like a challenge, and Sion doesn’t know why they stick with him the way they do. He tries not to think about it, focusing instead on the screen Daeyoung’s pointing at now.
“Turn 7,” Daeyoung says, tapping the tablet like he’s already forgotten whatever tension just passed between them. “You’re braking too late and losing traction on the exit. We’ll need to adjust that for qualifying.”
“I’ve got it under control,” Sion says quickly.
“You don’t,” Daeyoung replies, not missing a beat. “You need to start listening to me, you know. I’m starting to get a feeling this is why your previous engineer quit.”
The words hit harder than Sion wants to admit, but he hides it behind a smirk. “Maybe they just couldn’t keep up.”
“Or maybe you don’t know how to listen,” Daeyoung shoots back, still irritatingly calm. “Look, Sion. I don’t care what happened before I got here. I don’t care about the excuse or your shitty attitude. I care about one thing—getting you across the finish line first tomorrow. That’s it.”
Sion stares at him, trying to read the expression in Daeyoung’s dark eyes. There’s no anger there, no malice. Just determination. The same determination he remembers from years ago, back when Daeyoung was just a kid, still trying to figure out where he fit into Sion’s chaotic world.
“Fine.” Sion finally says. “Tell me what to do.”
Daeyoung blinks for a second before moving to the next section of the track map, pointing out another adjustment, and Sion stares at the curve of his jaw for half a second too long before looking back at the tablet. He hates how unflappable Daeyoung seems, like he’s already figured out all of Sion’s edges and doesn’t care if he gets cut on them.
By the time they finish running through the data, it’s been hours and Sion can feel his spine collapsing in on itself. Sion gets up, stretching out his shoulders as Daeyoung gathers his things.
“Try not to overthink it,” Daeyoung says suddenly, not looking at him. “You’re good enough to get pole, Sion. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone.”
Thrown by the unexpected gentleness in Daeyoung’s tone, Sion opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Daeyoung doesn’t wait for a response, walking toward the door with that same confident stride.
As the door swings shut behind him, Sion finally lets himself exhale, his hands tense by his sides. He tells himself it’s just the pressure of the weekend. The race. The points. Julian. All of it.
But it’s not, and he knows it.
Qualifying goes as well as he could’ve hoped.
The paddock thrums with energy as the cars roll out of the garage. Sion tugs on his gloves, flexing his fingers as he settles into the cockpit, the world outside narrowing into the focused hum of the car around him. The sun glares off the tarmac, and somewhere ahead, Julian is weaving aggressively on the out lap, his car a flash of red and blue that never fails to get under Sion’s skin.
“Radio check,” Daeyoung’s voice sounds through the earpiece. Sion still isn't used to hearing his voice again, let alone from right inside his ear, but he tries not to think about that for now.
“Still clear,” Sion confirms. He glances in the mirrors, watching Julian slow in front of him, leaving an exaggerated gap that forces Sion to back off. He clenches his jaw shut.
“He’s playing games,” Sion grits out.
“He’s baiting you,” Daeyoung replies. “Let him. You’ve got space behind. Focus on your out-lap.”
Sion huffs, biting back the witty comeback sitting on his tongue. It’s not that Daeyoung’s wrong (he's not) but there’s something infuriating about the way he says it, like he knows exactly how to keep Sion back from breaking down without even trying.
The green light flashes, and the world shrinks further. Sion slams on the throttle, his car leaping forward as he dives into Turn 1. The tires grip perfectly, the balance of the car singing through Sector 1, but Julian’s already posted a purple time. Sion grits his teeth, pushing harder, the edges of his vision narrowing as the car dances through the high-speed corners of Sector 2.
“You’re gaining,” Daeyoung’s voice crackles. “Three-tenths up through Turn 7. Keep it smooth.”
Sion presses harder, the car responding with perfect precision as he powers out of the corners. His mind flashes briefly to Julian, who's probably grinning smugly in his own cockpit, convinced he’s already locked down pole. The thought ignites something in Sion, pushing him to the limit as he tears into Sector 3.
The final chicane looms, brutal and unforgiving. Sion brakes later than he should, the car skimming the curb as he powers out onto the straight. The finish line rushes toward him, and he feels the adrenaline spike as he crosses it.
“P1,” Daeyoung says, and there’s a note of approval almost imperceptible in his tone. A hint of satisfaction. “Two-tenths clear.”
Sion exhales, his grip on the wheel easing as he rounds the cool-down lap. A grin tugs at his lips despite himself. “Told you I had it.”
“You did,” Daeyoung agrees. “Good lap.”
Back in the garage, Sion pulls off his helmet, damp strands of his hair clinging to his forehead. He doesn’t have time to revel in the moment before Julian strolls past, his smile tight, his eyes flashing with something that could almost pass for admiration if it weren’t so fierce.
“Congrats,” Julian throws over his shoulder, words dripping with mock sincerity. “Better enjoy it while it lasts.”
Sion doesn’t rise to the bait. They’ve been caught more than enough times fighting by the media. “Don’t worry, I will.”
Daeyoung walks to his side, mic tucked below his chin. He doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at the display screens on the wall, then back at Sion. “We’ll need to look at your braking into Turn 1,” he says after a moment, voice neutral. “You can still find time there.”
“Already thinking about tomorrow?” Sion asks, wiping his face with a towel.
“Always,” Daeyoung replies.
Sion lingers, pretending he needs another pass with the towel even though he’s already dry. Daeyoung’s focus is maddening, so sharp and deliberate it's like nothing phases him, like Sion is just another part of the job. It still feels like a fever dream.
There’s a pause before Daeyoung glances up. Their eyes meet for a split second, and Sion has to look away first.
“Good session,” Daeyoung says, annoyingly neutral.
Sion doesn’t answer right away. His fingers pick at the edge of the towel before he tosses it onto the bench, breaking the moment. “Yeah,” he mutters. “We’ll see.”
Sion takes second place in Spain, Lando takes third. The winner isn’t Julian, but McLaren’s relentless pace. The podium feels hollow, the champagne bitter, but Sion catches sight of Daeyoung standing with the Red Bull crew below the podium, his arms crossed, watching wordlessly with a gaze that won’t waver, not even when Sion stares directly at him. It’s grounding in a way Sion won’t admit, and it stays with him as he steps off the podium, as Julian drops another smart-ass comment, as the crowd’s roar fades into background noise. And, Sion’s ashamed to admit it, as he jerks off later that night. Totally healthy, everything is fine.
The scent of fuel and rubber clung to the damp evening air, the kind of smell that stuck in your nose long after you left the tracks. The rain had let up hours ago, but the asphalt was still slick, reflecting the floodlights in broken streaks of gold and gray.
Sion sat on the edge of the team van, still in his race suit, his legs dangling off the back. He stared down at the split pavement, his helmet beside him, streaked with dirt and a scuff from where he’d tossed it in frustration after the race. Third place. He could still feel the fresh sting of it.
Third wasn’t good enough.
The sound of sneakers scuffing against wet pavement broke the silence. Sion didn’t look up, not until a voice called out to him.
“Here.”
Daeyoung stood there, holding out a Gatorade. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen, his frame still lanky and awkward in a hoodie that looked a size too big. The hood hung half off his head, rain-soaked hair plastered to his forehead.
“I don’t need it,” Sion muttered, glancing away. He didn’t have the energy for this.
Daeyoung didn’t budge. “You do.”
Sion turned his head, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “What are you, my nutritionist now?”
“No,” Daeyoung replied, stepping closer and setting the bottle on the edge of the van. “But hyung said I should check on you. Said you’d be mad.” He hesitated, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “You do look… mad.”
“Yeah, well,” Sion said, knocking his heel against the front hood of the van. “I’m fine.”
“Really?”
Sion shot him a glare, but Daeyoung didn’t flinch. That surprised him. Most people, like mechanics, teammates, or even the occasional rival, knew better than to bother him when he was in this mood. But Daeyoung wasn’t most people.
“You were good today,” Daeyoung said suddenly, voice quieter.
Sion blinked. “I came in third.”
“Yeah, but…” Daeyoung’s gaze flicked to the ground for a second before meeting Sion’s again. “Your overtakes were cool. You didn’t hold back. You never do.”
Sion didn’t know how to respond to that. Compliments weren’t rare, but they usually came from people with more to gain. This felt… different. Honest.
“Thanks,” he finally replied, the word awkward in his mouth.
Daeyoung smiled, small and hesitant but bright enough to cut through the haze in Sion’s head. He leaned against the side of the van, hands still in his pockets, his shabby Converses scruffing against the ground. They stayed like that for a while, not talking, just listening to the distant hum of the last karts being packed away.
It was rare for Sion to feel like that, especially during his teenage days: safe. Unguarded. Seen. Looking back on it, maybe those were his favorite memories of karting. Not the races and the trophies and gold medals pressing against his sternum, but their aftermath.
Hindsight is a bitch.
Weeks blur together in flashes of color and sound: the roar of engines, the smell of burnt rubber, the flash of cameras. Sion loses track of the cities they’re racing in, circuits blurring into one endless stretch of asphalt and adrenaline. It’s all high stakes and late nights, tension wrapped in champagne and sweat. In the background, Daeyoung is always there. Just close enough to notice, just distant enough to stay out of reach.
Monaco is always a pain in the ass. It just rained that morning and his tires have less grip than previously expected. By lap 48 Sion’s still fifth place and Julian is slicing through the swimming pool chicane with infuriating accuracy, and Sion can feel the pressure mounting. He’s only twenty points from Lando, who’s first, 14 points from Julian, but the difference is growing bigger with each race.
He finishes fourth and watches Julian spray champagne all over Oscar’s face from the garage. If his water bottle wasn’t made with steel, it’d be a sheet of paper by now.
“Not your best,” Daeyoung says, seemingly unfazed by Sion’s murderous expression that has steered away any human being within a ten-meter radius.
“Yeah. No shit, Sherlock. You know how hard overtaking is in Monaco.” Sion laughs dryly. They stand in silence looking up at the television for a few more seconds. Sion goes to his happy place where he tries different medieval torture devices on Julian.
Daeyoung doesn’t react. “You don’t have to fight the car so much.”
Sion sucks in air, then lets it out in a quick, clipped sigh, the words grating against his nerves. “What the fuck does that mean?” A couple of the mechanics glance over but quickly look away, wisely choosing not to get involved.
“It means stop trying to muscle through every corner like you’re wrestling the car into submission.”
There might be some truth to that statement. Sion's arms and abs have never been in more pain. “I’m not muscling through,” Sion mumbles, the defensive edge in his tone giving him away.
“You are,” Daeyoung asserts. “You’re so tense in the cockpit that it’s affecting your exits. You’re fighting it when you don’t have to. The car can give you what you want if you trust it.”
Sion drags a hand down his face. “Yeah, sure. "Trust a giant pile of welded metal", said the person who screamed his lungs off when going on a kiddie rollercoaster at Universal Studios.”
It's the first time he's brought up their shared history since their reunion. Daeyoung’s lips twitch, and for a moment, Sion thinks he might laugh. But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps closer. He’s wearing a grey Henley today and it’s doing far too much for his arms than Sion would like. Sion swallows, taking a step to the side so he doesn’t do anything stupid like stare at Daeyoung’s lips. The younger’s voice drops an octave to make it feel like this conversation is meant for Sion alone. “You don’t have to like what I’m saying, but you know I’m right.”
Sion looks up, jaw hardening as he meets Daeyoung’s gaze. “If you really had the magic answer to everything, I’d be first right now.”
It’s a petty thing to say, Sion knows it, and he almost expects Daeyoung to scoff and walk away.
Daeyoung only tilts his head, the barest trace of annoyance breaking through. “Fourth place isn’t bad.”
“Yes, it is,” Sion looks at Daeyoung, his voice hitching on the last word pathetically. “It’s bad for me. It’s bad for the team. And it’s bad when that five-feet-seven smug ass is on the podium again, grinning like he owns the whole damn sport.”
Daeyoung studies him for a beat too long, and Sion hates the way his stomach twists under that gaze, hates how Daeyoung’s silence feels heavier than words. “You put too much weight on what Julian’s doing,” Daeyoung says finally, his tone softer but no less firm. “The only person you’re racing against is yourself.”
“Spare me the pep talk, coach.” Sion turns away. The edges of the garage blur in his vision, the noise of the team packing up fading away . “I already know where I screwed up.”
“You do?” Daeyoung asks, quiet yet challenging, like he’s testing just how far Sion will let himself unravel. Other people would’ve shut up at this point, but not Daeyoung.
Sion rolls his eyes. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m saying you’re too focused on proving you’re better than everyone else to see what’s right in front of you.” Daeyoung’s voice dips lower, his words deliberate, and when he takes a step closer, the space between them feels suddenly, unbearably small. “You’re not losing because of Julian, or Lando, or anyone else. You’re losing because you’re so busy trying to control everything, you forget how to drive.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and unrelenting, and Sion doesn’t know whether to throw a punch or walk away or fucking cry. He digs his heels into cement instead, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You just know everything, don’t you?”
Daeyoung doesn’t answer right away. He takes another step closer, close enough now that Sion can feel the faint brush of his breath when he speaks, lifting one of his cursedly good-looking eyebrows. “No. I just know more than you think."
It’s not a challenge. It’s a simple, ridiculously self-assured statement. Sion wants to tackle him.
For a second, he considers saying something, anything, to break the moment. But then Daeyoung’s eyes flicker down, just briefly, to where Sion’s hands are still clenched at his sides, before lifting back to meet his gaze. There’s no smile or smirk, just a look that makes Sion’s pulse spike in a way that has nothing to do with anger.
“Just think about what I said,” Daeyoung says finally before leaving, like he’s finally satisfied by what he’s done to Sion.
How. The. Hell. Did little Kim Daeyoung grow up to be someone like this.
The first time Daeyoung asked Sion out, it was May, and he had just graduated from high school. It was the kind of night where sticky air clung to your skin like a sheet of honey, full of humidity and the smell of freshly cut blades of grass. The backyard of the Kims’ house was dimly lit by a single porch light, casting uneven shadows over the neatly trimmed lawn and the garden that Mrs. Kim had been so proud of.
Sion had flown back for Daeyoung’s graduation ceremony. It was a last-minute decision, he wasn’t even sure he had time, but Daeho had insisted. “He’d kill me if you weren’t there,” Daeho joked, the implication behind the words going unacknowledged. And of course Sion came, filmed Daeyoung’s valedictorian speech and whistling loudly when Daeyoung walked across the stage with that wide grin of his.
Daeyoung had grown taller. Five centimeters since the last time Sion saw him. He noticed it the moment they hugged after the ceremony, how Daeyoung didn’t have to tilt his head to meet Sion’s eyes.
Hours later, they were sitting on the wooden bench near the edge of the yard, half-hidden by the overgrown hydrangeas. Sion could hear the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses filtering through the open kitchen window.
Daeyoung sat with his elbows resting on his knees, fingers picking at the hem of his polo shirt. Sion, slouched back against the bench, scrolled through his phone, pretending not to notice how restless Daeyoung looked.
“You’re not acting like yourself tonight,” Sion said finally.
Daeyoung shrugged, his gaze fixed on a dandelion a few yards away. “Just thinking.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Sion teased, nudging him with his elbow.
Daeyoung didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look at Sion. His jaw was tight, his hands gripping the edge of the bench like he needed to hold on to something solid.
“Can I ask you a question?” Daeyoung said suddenly.
Sion turned off his phone, scooting his butt forward. “Since when do you ask for permission?”
Daeyoung didn’t smile. Instead, he turned slightly toward Sion gingerly, like it took incredible force for him to move his body. The porch light cast a muted glow over his face, and for the first time that night, Sion noticed how much Daeyoung had grown up since the time he saw him last year, how the angles of his face had lost their softness, losing the final vestiges of adolescence.
“What if we… went out?” The words tumbled out quickly, like he’d been holding them in for too long and they’d finally forced their way free.
Sion tilted his head. “Out? Like, now? It’s kinda late, the convenience store’s still open if you want snacks or—”
“No, hyung, I meant. You and me,” Daeyoung clarified. He turned to face Sion, his eyes searching and raw in a way that made Sion’s breath skip. “What if we went out? Like, on a date.”
The words hit harder than Sion expected. His eyes widened, his hand stilling on his phone. He stared at Daeyoung, unsure of how to respond, unsure of what he even felt.
“Daeyoung-ah…” Sion started, voice low, careful.
“Just give me an answer,” Daeyoung cut him off, long fingers digging into the edge of the bench. “Spare me the whole ‘you’re a good person’ song and play.”
Sion looked down at his lap. “You’re not even eighteen,” he said finally. Inside the house, Daeho laughed loudly at something.
“And you were just twenty like two weeks ago,” Daeyoung protested. “That’s not—there are couples with bigger age gaps than that.”
“It’s not about age,” Sion said, louder now like he was trying to convince himself as much as Daeyoung. “You just graduated high school, Daeyoung. You should be focused on, I don’t know. On college, or your friends, or literally anything that doesn’t involve me.”
“I know what I want,” Daeyoung snapped, turning fully to face him now. There’s so much pure want in his eyes that Sion doesn’t know what to do. “I’ve known for a long time, Sion. Don’t tell me I don’t.”
Sion was standing on the edge of a cliff. What scares him even more is how much he wants to jump off.
“Maybe you think you do.” Sion said finally. “But you don’t. Not really.”
Daeyoung’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he looked like he was going to argue. But then he turned away, staring out at the hydrangeas, clearly hurt. “Bullshit.” he muttered, but he didn't sound like he would fight anymore.
Sion searched desperately for a justification. “I’m flying out in a few days. You know that. This,” Sion gestured between the two of them, “whatever you think this is, it probably wouldn’t work.”
“Fine,” he said, defeated. “Forget I said anything. Sorry, hyung.”
A horrible mixture of emotion flashed across Sion's mind, it felt like fear and guilt and something too akin to desire for his own good. He didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know if he should.
“Daeyoung...”
“You should come in, too, it’s time for dessert.”
The porch door slammed shut.
The air in Barcelona carries a crispness in the evening, a welcome reprieve from the heat of the day. The city sprawls out below the rooftop terrace where the team has gathered for post-race drinks, laughter and clinking glasses blending with the faint noise of traffic far below. Sion leans against the railing, a gin and tonic sweating in his hand.
He finishes third. It’s not bad when Julian scrapes into second and Norris dominates yet again, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Piastri’s biting his ass right now and he literally had a stress dream of a papaya orange car chasing him into a pool of lava.
The paddock party that follows is loud and gaudy, filled with champagne and too many bright smiles. Sion leans against the bar, nursing a beer he’s barely touched, his gaze drifting over the room. He’s too tired to make small talk, too restless to leave.
“Sion!” a bright voice calls from behind him, and he turns to see Elise, a Red Bull media liaison he’d been seeing for the past few weeks. She’s radiant, blonde hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, and she’s holding two glasses of wine, one of which she hands to him.
“I was wondering where you disappeared to,” she teases.
“Just needed some air,” Sion replies, taking the glass from her.
Elise smiles, leaning against the railing beside him. “I was talking to Daeyoung earlier,” she says after a moment, voice too light. “He’s so interesting. Did you know he was in endurance racing before this? He told me this story about how—”
“Yeah, I know,” Sion cuts her off, his tone more snide than appropriate. He sees the flicker of surprise on her face and forces himself to relax. “I’ve heard his stories more times than I’d like to, trust me.”
Elise laughs, brushing it off. Sion lets his eyes flick across the terrace. Daeyoung is standing by the bar, his posture relaxed as he chats with one of the older mechanics. He’s not looking at them, but a mental image of Elise laughing with him, her hand lingering on his arm, burns in Sion’s mind.
“Anyway,” Elise says, turning her attention back to him. “You were amazing today.”
“Not really,” Sion interrupts. “Third place is shit.”
Elise furrows her brows, caught off guard by the blatant bitterness. Then she smiles again, thinner this time. “Well, I thought you were great,” she excuses herself to grab another drink.
Sion goes back to watching Daeyoung, who’s laughing at something a mechanic said. The sound of it grates Sion’s nerves and he takes his jacket from the back of his chair, leaving without another glance back.
Elise breaks up with him three days later.
Sion wins in Belgium. It’s enough to get him up to second place in the driver ranking, just three points above Julian.
Dinner is nice enough, a decent gathering in a local restaurant the team has rented out. Sion sits at the end of the long table, picking at his food while the conversation flows around him.
At the bar, Daeyoung is seated near Noah, one of the younger drivers who’s been making waves in Formula 2 and just had the chance to test-drive this weekend. Noah’s charm is undeniable—dark hair falling in front of his green eyes, his grin wide and effortless—and Sion notices the way he leans closer to Daeyoung as they talk. Sion remembers vaguely that they’re the same age and narrows his eyes.
For the rest of the evening, his eyes keep drifting back to Daeyoung and Noah, to the way Noah leans in, predatory grin growing wider. Daeyoung doesn’t seem to react too visibly (he never does these days) but the sight of them together sets something itchy and restless crawling under Sion’s skin. He prays it’s an allergic reaction and anaphylaxis will take him to see his maker soon.
Daeyoung makes eye contact with him across the restaurant once, a brief glance that feels like it stretches too long, carrying something hefty. There’s no smirk, no acknowledgment, just a steadiness that feels more meaningful than it should. And then Daeyoung looks away, back to Noah, back to whatever casual conversation they’re having that’s got Noah hanging on his every word.
Sion’s fork scrapes against his plate, the sound grating enough to make Julian, seated beside him, glance over.
“You alright, mate?” Julian asks, his perfect British accent too casual to be genuine.
“I’m fine,” Sion snaps, shoving his plate away and pushing back from the table. “Done eating.”
“Clearly,” Julian remarks under his breath as Sion stalks toward the bar.
He doesn’t mean to approach them. He doesn’t even know why he’s walking in their direction, but his feet carry him there before he can think better of it. Blame the one drink he had.
“Sion,” Daeyoung says first, looking surprised.
Noah glances up, his grin dropping slightly. Busted. “Oh, hey, Sion. Congrats on the race today!”
Sion forces a smile. “Thanks. Didn’t know we were hosting the F2 crowd tonight.”
Noah laughs, either missing or ignoring the passive aggressive prod. “Just tagging along. Needed some real competition to look up to, you know?”
Daeyoung shifts on his chair, his gaze flicking between them. “We were just talking about braking points in the last sector."
“How thrilling,” Sion deadpans, crossing his arms. His eyes flick to Noah, who’s still grinning like he’s in on some joke Sion doesn’t get. “Mind if I borrow Daeyoung for a second? Team stuff.”
Noah shrugs, hopping off his stool. “Sure. I’ll catch you soon, Daeyoung.”
Daeyoung watches Noah walk away (this punk better not be checking out his ass, Sion thinks) before turning to Sion. “What’s so urgent?”
“Uh nothing,” Sion says too quickly. He looks around before suddenly realizing how stupid this all is and therefore malfunctions for a second. “I thought you… looked like you were, uh, in distress.”
“In distress.” Daeyoung repeats, clearly amused. “I was just talking.”
Sion fakes a cough and looks up at the bar TV playing today’s race rerun like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen in his life. “Really? My bad. Uh. Cool. I’ll just go. You know. Do my thing. Mingle.”
Mingle? Really?! Sion nearly throws himself face first into an empty beer pitcher.
Daeyoung does that thing with his mouth where he pulls one corner to the side like he’s trying not to smile. “You go do that.”
Sion curses inside as he walks away, especially when he sees Noah sauntering back to the bar.
The restaurant begins to empty as the night drags on, but Sion stays planted at his seat, his drink forgotten on the table, condensation dripping onto mahogany. He goes on his phone and pretends he's not watching Daeyoung, who's standing with a group of staff now. Noah is saying something animated that makes the group laugh. Daeyoung’s not smiling, not really, but he's wearing an expression that feels too similar to the fondness Daeyoung wore when Sion used to fall asleep mid movie, too tired from his hectic schedule. Of course, that was years ago. What made Sion think he had the rights to Daeyoung's affection?
It bothers him too much, the way Daeyoung fits in anywhere he goes, the way people seem to orbit him without him even trying. Sion takes another swig of wine and wishes it were vodka.
“You’re going to snap that glass in half if you keep holding it like that,” Julian says, appearing at his side with the kind of smirk that makes Sion want to knee him in the balls.
“I’m fine, dude. What's up with you today?” God, Sion misses Wonbin. Stupid flu.
Julian is clearly unconvinced. “You’re staring, you know. Very subtle. I thought your eyeballs were going to pop out of their sockets."
“Piss off, Julian. Like you deserve to see my eyeballs.” Sion snaps, pushing out of his chair and walking toward the door. What the hell did that mean? Sion doesn't even know anymore. Looks like it's going to be the Great British Bake-off marathon and a big bucket of ice cream tonight.
By the time he reaches the hotel, the knot in his chest hasn’t loosened. If anything, it’s wound tighter, pulling at his ribs with every step he takes down the dimly lit hallway.
His heart is pounding and he tells himself it’s just the race, the adrenaline of winning, the prospect of the WDC title.
When he hears familiar footsteps behind him, his pulse spikes before he even turns around.
“Sion,” Daeyoung says.
Sion turns around slowly, unsure what expression to make so he tries to smile and frown at the same time. “What’s up?”
Daeyoung doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at Sion like he’s trying to read for something Sion doesn’t want to show. It’s unnerving, the way Daeyoung’s calm always feels like it’s wrapped around something sharper, something just out of reach, like a veiled dagger. “I thought your room was one floor above us.”
“Yeah. Just.” Sion bounces on his heels awkwardly. “Just… taking the scenic route.”
Daeyoung hums, clearly suspicious. “The scenic route. Through the windowless hallway.”
“Yeah. There are, y'know. Paintings.” Sion hopes the lights are dark enough so Daeyoung can't tell he's blushing. He sweeps his right arm across the hall towards two glorious beige paintings of triangles before stuffing his hand in his pocket.
Daeyoung nods. “You should get some sleep. Early start tomorrow.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly, and his lips curve into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Oh, and… Say hi to Elise for me, will you? Haven’t seen her around lately.”
Sion squints, caught off guard by the casual jab. “We broke up.”
“Really?” Daeyoung’s eyebrows lift, just an inkling of surprise that might as well be amusement. “Damn.”
Sion clenches his jaw. Fucker.
Daeyoung steps past him, his shoulder brushing Sion’s as he moves toward the hallway. The touch is faint but it lingers anyway. It burns. He exhales sharply, watching as Daeyoung continues walking, his pace unhurried, his posture loose, like he knows exactly what he’s leaving behind.
And then Daeyoung stops.
He doesn’t turn fully, just glances over his shoulder, gaze catching Sion’s like a fish hook. “You should get used to it,” he says lightly, but there’s weight in his voice, a deliberate slowness that makes Sion’s throat tighten.
“Get used to what?” Sion’s voice comes out quieter than he intends.
Daeyoung’s lips twitch, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not being the only one people notice.”
The words hit harder than they should. “Whatever you think you’re doing,” Sion bristles, taking a step forward before he can stop himself, his fists still clenched at his sides. “It’s not going to work.”
Daeyoung turns fully now, and for a second, Sion wishes he hadn’t. The way Daeyoung looks at him, nonplussed and laced with something darker, makes the space between them feel smaller, suffocating.
“What do you think you’re doing, Sion? Loitering outside of my room at ass o’clock? Saying I was ‘in distress’ like you’re some knight in shining armor?” Daeyoung shoots back.
Sion scratches at his nape. “You were surrounded by people. Looked overwhelming.”
That faint almost-smile Sion hates (and definitely doesn’t think about more than he should) flashes across Daeyoung's face again. “I can handle myself, Sion.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn’t be so…” Sion waves a hand vaguely, trying to find the right word. “Inviting.”
“Inviting?” Daeyoung lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Are you seriously slut shaming me right now? For talking to someone?”
Sion swallows hard. He wants to snap back, to come up with some cutting retort that will put space between them, but his brain is stuck on the way Daeyoung is looking at him, so in control and composed while he’s peeling back layers Sion doesn’t want to admit are even there.
“No. No, I didn’t mean it like...” Sion starts before he decides otherwise. He blows a gust of air out his lips. “Just. Forget it.”
Daeyoung doesn’t move. He stands there, a rigidity to his shoulders, the subtle pull of something beneath the surface. “You’re a terrible liar,” he says softly, no bite to it.
“Yeah, well,” Sion grumbles, his voice rough. “Maybe you’re just too good at getting on people’s nerves.”
Daeyoung tilts his head, his lips curving into that almost smile that Sion hates. Or maybe doesn’t. “You make it easy.”
The air between them feels loaded, charged like a storm waiting to break. Sion shifts on his feet, his fingers brushing against the raised patterns on the wallpaper. “Whatever, just...Go to bed.”
“You’re deflecting again,” Daeyoung says, stepping even closer. “Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind?”
Sion exhales sharply, his frustration boiling over. “You’re what’s on my mind, alright?” The words tumble out before he can stop them, and the second they’re out, his chest floods with panic.
Daeyoung freezes, his eyes widening. It’s almost satisfying to watch, Sion thinks, to see something finally tear through his calm demeanor.
“You’re always there,” Sion shakes his head. “Always just…In my head, and it’s driving me insane.”
“Maybe you do know why,” Daeyoung says softly, and there’s something in his voice, something tender and sharp all at once, that makes Sion’s breath catch.
He’s too close now, close enough that Sion can feel the brush of his sleeve against the naked skin of his forearm, the heat of him filling the small space between them.
Sion doesn’t move. He doesn’t think he is physically able to.
The silence stretches, heavy and charged, until Daeyoung finally tips his head, his gaze flicking down to Sion’s lips for the briefest second before meeting his eyes again.
“Goodnight, Sion,” The greeting, achingly familiar, makes Sion’s eyes sting.
When Sion finally makes it back to his room, he puts his pillow over his face and screams so loud Wonbin sends him a “bitch u just woke me up be prepared for wrath”, followed by a “r u getting fucked or murdered or both tho?”
Sion replies him with a middle finger emoji.
Sion spends the next hour going on Grindr and swiping right on any living soul, if only to get Daeyoung’s annoying face off his mind.
Spoiler alert: he fails.
The next day, Eddie, a journalist covering the circuit and recent match, approaches Sion in the paddock, his Canon slung casually over his shoulder. When Eddie asks if he wanted to grab a drink, Sion says yes. Under the right light, Eddie almost looks like someone else he knows.
Cliches exist for a reason. Every emotionally constipated fuckboy has a tragic backstory. Oh Sion is no exception.
The first time he raced he was nine, small for his age, and standing near the pit lane with his helmet clutched tightly in his hands. His kart was already on the grid, waiting, but his legs refused to move.
“Focus, Sion,” his father had told him earlier that morning. “We didn’t fly you here to make mistakes. We flew you here to win.”
Sion’s grimaced at the memory, the same words looping in his head like a relentless drumbeat. You don’t want to be a pussy. Stop acting like a girl.
His breathing quickened, shallow and erratic, and his vision blurred around the edges. His father’s shadow loomed over him, piercing and unforgiving, but he couldn’t look up. Couldn’t move. He could feel the weight of the other kids’ parents staring, gossiping—wondering what was wrong with the boy too frozen to even put on his helmet. I’m embarrassing myself, he thought.
He didn’t remember how he got into the car. Maybe his father had grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him forward. Maybe one of the officials had taken pity on him, guiding him toward the kart like a fragile piece of glass about to shatter.
The race itself was a blur, jolting turns and the deafening roar of engines, the world tilting at angles that made his stomach lurch. He didn’t remember crossing the finish line. He didn’t remember the trophy they handed him, gold and gleaming and too heavy in his small hands.
He remembered his father’s smile, though. Not a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes. But it was the closest thing Sion had ever seen to approval.
“You did good, son.” his father said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I knew you could do it.”
He threw up in the parking lot thirty minutes later, the vertigo seizing him so violently he couldn’t stand. His mother had wrinkled her nose, pulling him back to his feet and wiping his mouth with a napkin she held with the tips of her fingers. “You’ll grow out of it,” she’d said, brushing his sweat-matted hair back into place. “It’s just nerves.”
Now, when he races, the anxiety feels different. It doesn’t come in waves anymore; it’s always there, a constant static beneath his skin, an ache in his chest that he’s learned to live with. To win is to carry the weight of it, to pretend it’s not there.
He can’t afford any distractions.
Because if Oh Sion isn’t the best, then what else is left of him?
The next few races, well, go. In some unspoken agreement, Sion and Daeyoung don’t talk about that night in the hotel. Something feels shifted, though, lodged out of place by an inch, and Sion wishes his heart would stop stuttering when Daeyoung calls his name through the headset (he also imagines Daeyoung’s voice in the shower, two fingers deep in himself, but that’s not anybody’s business, not even Eddie’s.)
As the race season progresses, by the Singapore race he’s so close to Norris he could practically taste the title. If he wants red bull to renew his contract. He needs to win, especially since he only came in fifth last year. A win here would make or break everything.
The Marina Bay circuit glows under the floodlights, a glittering maze of sudden corners and unforgiving walls. The race is brutal, the humidity clinging to Sion’s skin even as the wind rushes past him at 200 kilometers per hour. He’s second, catching Norris’s DRS, then he's leading just for a moment.
And then he crashes.
The rear tire goes first, shredding itself against the curb as he exits Turn 13. The car fishtails, the barricade rushes up too fast, and all Sion can do is hold on as the impact jolts through him.
The sound of the crash is deafening, his world tilting sideways as the car grinds to a halt against the barriers. Sion gets whiplash for a second before everything settles into a grating silence, save for the pounding in Sion’s ears.
“Sion,” Daeyoung’s voice rings through the headset. “Sion, are you okay? Talk to me.”
Sion’s hands tremble on the wheel. He doesn’t answer.
“Hyung,” Daeyoung asks, louder this time. Panicked. “Hyung, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, Daeyoung-ah.” Sion rasps, but the words feel hollow, distant.
Zero points. A DNF is zero points.
The crash plays in his head on a loop. The sudden jolt of the impact. The grind of metal against concrete. The crowd's gasp, barely audible over the sound of the car slamming into the wall.
By the time the marshals get him out of the car, Sion’s hands won’t stop shaking. He waves off their concern, managing a terse “I’m fine” before he stumbles his way back to the paddock. His fireproofs cling to his skin, damp with sweat, and the noise around him—team radios, hurried footsteps, shouted orders—feels like a hammer pounding against his skull.
He doesn’t stop at the garage. Can’t deal with Doyoung and Wonbins’ concerned looks right now.
The chaos of the race continues behind him, but Sion keeps walking, his vision blurring at the edges as he searches for anywhere to be alone. He finds an empty storage room tucked behind the hospitality building, the door creaking as he pushes it open.
Inside, the air is stale and heavy, the only light coming from a glinting overhead bulb. Sion leans against the wall, sliding down until he’s sitting on the cold concrete floor. His breathing's shallow and erratic, his hands gripping the edges of his fireproofs like they’re the only thing holding his skin sewn together.
He squeezes his eyes shut, panic clawing at his throat.
I’ve given up too much for this.
His head drops into his hands, fingers digging into his scalp as the pressure in his skull builds until it feels near suffocating.
Then there’s a knock.
It’s soft, hesitant, but it slices through the haze in his head, a sound too obvious to ignore.
“Sion hyung.”
Sion doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. He keeps his head buried in his hands, his breaths ragged and uneven, keeps.breathing.
“I’m fine.” He finally croaks out.
The door creaks open, and Daeyoung steps inside, closing it gently behind him. He doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t fill the silence with empty platitudes or questions. He just crouches down in front of Sion, his knees brushing the cold concrete, his familiar presence comforting in a way Sion hates needing.
“You’re not fine,” Daeyoung says quietly, breaking the silence.
“Don’t,” Sion bites out. His hands fall from his face, and he leans his head back against the wall, blinking up at the harsh halogen lights above them. “I don’t need a lecture.”
“I’m not here to lecture you,” Daeyoung replies, his tone soft but firm. “I’m here because you’re shutting off, and that’s not going to help. You’re only going to feel worse.”
Sion exhales shakily, his hands balling into fists on his lap. “Are you my therapist too, now?”
Daeyoung smiles, painfully cute. “Sure, since you’re not self aware enough to see one.”
Sion rolls his eyes and lifts his fist up. Daeyoung doesn't flinch.
“I just want you to say whatever is on your mind,” Daeyoung continues. “You can trust me.”
Sion laughs bitterly, the sound catching in his throat. He drags a hand down his face, his shoulders shaking. “I like racing,” he says finally, his voice low, choked. “I love it. I love being on the track. But this—this sport? The pressure? The expectations from everyone? The fucking cameras following me everywhere, analyzing every move I make—” He stops, his breath hitching.
He looks at Daeyoung then, vision blurred with tears and his bottom lip trembling imperceptibly. “I gave up so much. For what? For… this?”
Daeyoung’s eyes soften, his hand hovering near Sion’s arm before resting gently on his shoulder. “What did you give up, hyung?”
Sion doesn’t respond at first. His throat feels raw, like someone’s taken sandpaper to his trachea. “I don’t know,” he whispers, barely audible. “Everything, I guess. The chance at a life. School. Friends. My…self. The things that mattered.”
The you goes unspoken, but it lingers, potent in the silence.
“I thought I had to,” he chokes out, his voice breaking. “I thought if I didn’t—if I let myself keep the things I loved—I’d lose everything. I thought … I don’t know. They’d be a distraction or something stupid like that. But now I—” He breaks off, the sobs wracking his body before he can finish.
Daeyoung doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try to fix it, doesn’t tell Sion it’s okay or that he understands. Instead, he wraps an arm around Sion’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug.
Sion tenses at first, his brain tells him to pull away, but then the warmth of Daeyoung’s touch is too enticing to leave. He hasn’t been held like this in ages. He leans into him, his face burying against Daeyoung’s shoulder, his tears soaking into the fabric of his jacket.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Sion whispers, his voice muffled. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”
Daeyoung’s hand moves in slow circles against Sion’s back, his voice hushed and comforting. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” he murmurs. “Just breathe, hyung. One thing at a time. You’ll be okay. You were the one who said I knew everything, after all.”
Sion laughed through his snot. It’s an extremely unattractive sound, but he can’t bring himself to care, “You’re so annoying.”
Daeyoung smiles, though Sion can’t see him. “Maybe. But I’m right.”
And for the first time in what feels like forever, Sion doesn’t feel like he’s drowning.