Chapter Text
Exhaust and cigarette smoke hit the back of Jisung’s throat, bitter, sweet, and strange all at once. It was the signature atmosphere of a haunt that only came to life between dusk and dawn, and as the sun finally dipped beneath the city skyline, golden light fading to grey, he watched the space around him fill. Silhouettes crossed the makeshift paddock, dyed leather jackets bringing a new sort of life to the otherwise monochrome scene.
Jisung’s hands were tucked into a jacket of his own, black and worn, disconnected from the colors around him. He was more of a shadow than most—and certainly more of one than Felix, who stood nearby.
A long-sleeve, red-lace top adorned his blonde friend’s torso, accentuating his toned form, leaving little to the imagination. Some modestly remained, though it was traded for spectacle in the form of an equally vibrant-red, cropped, feather coat. And where the hell he’d sourced leather pants, Jisung decided he didn’t want to know.
"Earth to Sung." A hand waved a hand in front of his face. "You're staring."
Jisung blinked out of his daze.
“Hard not to.”
“Good. That’s what I’m going for.”
“It’s working,” Jisung grinned encouragingly. “Has Chris caught on yet?”
“Haven’t seen him.” Felix adjusted his coat—quite literally ruffling his feathers. “We should look around.”
“Lead the way.”
The racing circuit operated in a liminal space, neither fully criminal nor entirely legitimate. The scene was occupied by a diaspora of adrenaline junkies, gearheads, and people running from all the obligations that tied them down under daylight.
One aforementioned gearhead was presently engaged in a heated conversation, speaking down to a second man who was kneeling beside a bike. The stripe of red on his jacket was a perfect match to the shade of Felix’s shirt and coat.
Jisung had to admit, Felix nailed his wardrobe choice.
He could see the moment Chris caught the flash of feathered red in his peripheral vision. With a near-comical double take, he dropped his conversation entirely and turned his attention to the arriving blonde.
Felix tossed himself into his arms with a shout and Jisung admired how effortlessly he was caught.
“Felix,” Chris laughed delightedly. “Wasn’t sure I’d see you tonight. Min didn’t scare you off?”
“He’s not the boss of me.”
“No, but he might be mine,” Chris chuckled. “If you keep acting up, you’ll get my bike confiscated.”
“I’d never let him,” Felix said firmly, not looking half as intimidating as he tried to sound.
Chris grinned at him.
“Ah, my downfall and my savior.”
He tilted Felix’s head with a thumb against his jaw, placing a kiss against his cheek.
Crimson spread across Felix’s face.
The distraction gave Jisung a perfect window to step away and spare himself further third wheeling.
He drifted into the masses, too curious to stay still, too restless to find a perch. The asphalt beneath his feet still held heat, though the peak of the day had long since passed. Eventually, he neared the betting tables, where the crowd thickened. Rough voices accompanied the clink of glasses and scent of whiskey.
As he moved, he began to notice patterns threading through the chaos, a visual language of sorts. A woman in a cropped jacket wore a scarf the same arterial red as Felix's feathers, knotted around her throat. A man leaning against a stack of tires had wrists wrapped in electric blue tape, matching the underglow of a bike nearby.
He passed a cluster of younger racers, barely legal, all wearing matching yellow armbands, laughing with the hysteria of those who’d recently discovered freedom.
One of them bumped Jisung's shoulder, hard enough to be intentional, and looked him up and down with a sneer.
The kid flicked Jisung's collar, the sliver of plain black fabric flipping loosely. “What are you, a stray?”
Jisung stepped back, brows furrowing. "Just here to watch the race."
“Sure.” The kid laughed. “If you say so.”
Then he sauntered off to his friends. Jisung continued on, sliding through the crowd, further into a mess he couldn’t even see the end of.
Somewhere in the distance, a bike engine screamed as it redlined, the sound vibrating in Jisung's molars. He was so focused on the sensory overload that he didn't notice a new group coalescing around him until it was too late.
“Hey, pretty.”
He froze. Without even looking for the source, he forced his voice steady and replied.
“Not interested.”
“Didn’t ask if you’re interested.” The voice came from directly in front of Jisung, the man stepping closer, blocking his route.
Jisung scoffed and turned, only to find another man blocking his left, and right… and then one behind him.
“I was going to ask…” the first man said, taking another step closer, “if you’re lost.”
He raised the back of his hand, running his knuckles along Jisung’s face. Jisung forced himself not to wince away from the touch. He glared at the man, his jaw clenched as the hand slid across his skin. Then he suddenly grabbed the collar of Jisung’s jacket.
“Look at that. Not a lick of color on you… I’d be happy to lend you mine.”
Jisung's pulse began to hammer. He'd learned young how to project calm, how to make himself small in ways that discouraged attention, but this group was persistent, emboldened by the night's lawlessness and the implicit bypasses granted by illegal activity and no official oversight. He could feel them shifting closer.
“Not. Interested.” He ground out. “I’m here with a friend.”
"Friend, huh?" Another one laughed, a harsh bark. "Which one? The pretty blonde? Heard he's Bahng’s new pet.”
“You a pet too? Or are you free range?" Another one chimed in.
Jisung steeled himself and jerked out of the man’s grasp.
“I’m not anyone’s anything. I’m just here for the race.”
The man laughed.
Jisung swallowed, doing his best to remain steady.
“Nobody’s here just for the race, baby. They’re here for the racers.” He took another step forward. “And that’s me.”
Jisung tried to keep some distance but backed straight into the man behind him, who laughed. The one in front grinned wider.
“If you’re not already with someone, you’re up for grabs. Luckily—”
“Is there a problem here?” A new voice cut through the noise like a needle through silk. “Or are you degenerates blocking the path for fun?”
The group went entirely still. Jisung watched the man before him go pale. He turned, not knowing what he'd find, and felt relief flood through him.
Minho stood a few paces away, head tilted back, staring at them through bored eyes. His gaze moved from the men around him to Jisung corralled in the center, and Jisung saw the corners of his mouth turn down.
Minho was older than Felix by four years, though the gap seemed wider with the way Minho was standing—as though nothing could knock him over. Jisung had met him a handful of times over the years, always in passing and always with Felix acting as a buffer; but as the fluorescent light caught the sharp line of his jaw and his fingers drummed a silent rhythm against his bicep, his knuckles flexing with subconscious precision, Jisung felt as though he were seeing Minho—really seeing him—for the first time.
"No problem," the first man stammered. "Just talking. Friendly conversation."
"Didn't look friendly," Minho said. He hadn't moved, hadn't raised his hands, but there remained an implicit threat in his stillness. “Did it feel friendly to you, Sung?”
What little color remained in the first man’s face drained entirely when Minho addressed Jisung by name.
"No," Jisung managed, surprised by the strength of his own voice. "Not exactly."
Minho's eyes narrowed, traversing the group. "Walk away."
The men dispersed like smoke, muttering excuses with half-bowed heads. Jisung watched them go, then watched Minho watch them, the set of his shoulders unyielding.
Once the last had disappeared into the crowd, Minho’s posture relaxed and he let out a long sigh.
“Jisung, what the hell are you doing here?”
"Uh… wrong place, wrong time?"
“For fucks—” Minho cut himself off, shaking his head and grabbing Jisung’s shoulder, guiding him elsewhere. “How the fuck did Felix let you come here dressed like that? You should have Chris’s color on you at least. Don’t you know how this place works?”
Jisung stumbled along behind him, trying to keep Minho’s pace without making a complete fool of himself.
“I—He mentioned something about wearing red, but I thought he was just trying to impress Chris.”
“It’s way more than that, Jisung. You wear the color of whoever you support, no matter your relationship to them. It tells everyone who they’ll have to answer to if they fuck with you. You really don’t—”
He let go of Jisung, slowing down only fractionally to tug a bandana out of his back pocket and hold it out behind him.
“Here. This’ll cover you for tonight. Just tie it on your wrist or something.”
Jisung took the bandana, blinking down at the pink material for a moment. Then he followed, Minho moving through the crowd ahead of him, parting it with nothing more than his presence, the occasional nod or lifted chin acknowledging his passage. Jisung managed to get the bandana tied firmly in place as they moved.
They found Felix near the starting line, caught in animated conversation with Chris and his mechanic who was gesturing emphatically with a wrench.
"Hyung! I didn't know you'd be here. I thought you were…" Felix's face lit up, then faltered as he took in Minho's expression.
“You let your friend show up without color? What the fuck, Felix?”
Felix’s eyes widened.
“Shit,” Chris cursed.
“Yeah,” Minho turned on him, “you too, big shot. So wrapped up in my little brother you didn’t even notice? Great reputation you’re building there, man.”
“Fuck, Min. I should’ve realized… Jisung, I’m sorry.” Chris dropped his head in apology.
Jisung stepped forward glancing between them. “It’s okay, really. I should’ve figured it out myself. I was being stupid.”
“I’m so sorry, Sungie,” Felix said, his brows furrowed in concern. “I completely forgot. Do you want my coat?”
Jisung imagined himself in the chaotic, feathery mess and laughed before he could help it.
“No,” he said, briefly touching the pink bandana now tied around his wrist. “I should be good.”
Jisung saw a look pass between Chris and Minho as he showed the bandana. Before either of them could say anything, Chris’s mechanic whistled.
“Careful, Hyung. People see pink floating around, they’ll start getting ideas.”
“Please, Seungmin. If a single scrap of fabric is enough to start rumors then you all clearly aren’t keeping the crowds entertained enough.”
“Wait,” Jisung paused, taking in Minho’s outfit. He held up his bandana-wrapped wrist again. “Don’t you need this? You don’t have any other…”
“Everyone knows who he is,” Seungmin cut in, smirking. “He could walk around naked and still go unharmed.”
Chris laughed, Minho rolled his eyes, and Jisung looked around in confusion.
Felix glanced at him, then back at his brother. "Minho used to race. He was kind of the face of the whole circuit, back when it was just starting to get organized. Before..." He trailed off. “Well, before he quit.”
"He was undefeated for two years," Seungmin added, leaning against Chris’s bike. "The Ghost, they called him. Because he'd come out of nowhere, and by the time you saw him in your rearview, he’d already be gone. I've never seen anyone else read a road like that.”
“Very poetic, thanks,” Minho said, dryly.
"You set records that still stand. The underpass run. The cliffside turn,” Chris said. “You’re not even on the road anymore and we’re still chasing your shadow.”
Jisung listened, fascinated, watching the way Minho's jaw tightened at the praise, the way his hand found the back of his own neck, rubbing at tension there.
“I'm retired,” he said firmly, “I just came to support you, because apparently you need all the help you can get against Hyunjin's new setup."
"And I appreciate it," Chris said, grinning.
"But I should've known you'd end up here too.," Minho continued, and his gaze pinned Felix, then flicked deliberately to Chris. "You never could stay away from dangerous things."
Felix's cheeks flushed, this time in embarrassment. "I'm not a kid, hyung."
“Then maybe try prioritizing your friends above your boyfriend, huh?”
“We’re not—”
“I—”
Felix and Chris both sputtered.
“Riiiight.” Minho rolled his eyes and turned away to address Seungmin. “So, what have you got him running tonight?”
Their conversation quickly shifted to compression ratios, suspension adjustments, and other modifications that Jisung had no hope of understanding. Nonetheless, he listened, absorbing the technical language, watching Minho's hands sketch shapes in the air as he spoke about lean angles and tire grip. There was very clearly still passion there, buried deep, a current running beneath the apparent surface of his retirement.
"You're taking a risk with that one," Minho said, leaning over Seungmin's tablet to examine schematics. "You'll gain top end but lose torque on the exit."
“He wants to maintain speed instead of just accelerating out of turns."
“He wants to be reckless.”
“Well, who set the tone?” Chris called over, finally having regathered some of his dignity.
Minho flipped him off without looking up.
Then the announcement came—indecipherable through someone’s ancient megaphone, but it seemed that nobody needed to hear the exact words to know what it meant: Racers to the line.
Chris squeezed Felix's shoulder, dropped a kiss to his temple that made Felix go pink and Minho go rigid. "Watch from the northside," Chris instructed. "Best view of the first three turns. Seungmin will set you up."
"Be safe," Felix said.
Chris smiled wide, all confidence. "Always."
Seungmin gathered his tools, called out instructions to a few others, and suddenly the clearing was emptying, the crowd migrating toward viewing areas.
Minho turned to Felix. "Seriously?"
Felix raised an eyebrow, all false innocence. "What?"
"I told you to stay away from the races." Minho's voice was low, controlled, but Jisung could hear the anger in it. "I should've never brought you along that first time. Should've never introduced you to Chris.”
"I'm not a kid," Felix repeated his earlier comment, stepping closer, chin lifted. "And you don't get to decide what I do or who I see. You retired. This isn’t even your world anymore.”
Jisung watched Minho’s hand flex at his side. The brothers stared at each other, the air between them charged.
“One rule.” Minho broke first, looking away with a sound that might have been a laugh or a curse. “One rule and I’ll let the rest slide.”
Felix stared at him.
“Stay out of the betting pools,” he said with the utmost seriousness.
Felix remained silent for a moment longer and then nodded once. “Fine.”
The group began heading towards the viewing point, Minho muttering about idiots exhausting him under his breath.
They found the north ridge, a natural elevation that offered a panoramic view of the course—winding through industrial ruins, dipping into tunnels, emerging onto straightaways where the bikes would become streaks of light against the pavement. Seungmin propped up a tablet showing a drone feed, the camera already airborne, sweeping over the starting grid.
They'd barely settled at the concrete barrier when a new voice cut through the pre-race tension.
"Well, shit. Is that pink? Didn’t know the Ghost was still haunting us."
Jisung turned to find a tall man approaching, helmet tucked under one arm, the other hand waving at Jisung's wrist. He was taller than Chris, with silver threading through his undercut and a mechanic's jumpsuit with purple accents unzipped to the waist, revealing a tank top and a collarbone tattoo of a chain.
"Hyunjin," Minho said, not looking up from where he was checking the tablet. "Don't start."
"Bit late to be finally accepting fanboys, isn’t it, Lee?" Hyunjin stopped close. His eyes tracked from the pink bandana to Jisung's face, then back to Minho. “Or have you found a protege? Thought that ended with—”
"Don't," Minho warned, and the temperature dropped ten degrees.
Hyunjin raised his hands, grinning unrepentantly, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Just saying. Everyone knows what pink means. Careful.” He nodded at Jisung, something bizarrely respectful about the gesture. “Vultures might start circling.”
Jisung looked down at the faded cotton, suddenly feeling its weight. He thought of the way the harassers had vanished at Minho's voice, the way the crowd had parted—how everyone had laughed when Jisung asked if Minho needed it back.
"Hyunjin," Minho said again, and this time his voice was soft, dangerous in a new way. "Get to your bike. Unless you want me to talk Changbin into cutting your brakes."
Hyunjin laughed, but he backed off, pointing two fingers at his own eyes then between Jisung and Minho, before melting back into the gathering crowd.
Felix leaned over, his voice low. "He's not wrong, you know. “Minho's pink..." He glanced at his brother, who was pretending not to listen. "Nobody wore it.”
Jisung's fingers found the knot of the bandana, tracing the frayed edges. "Why?"
Felix opened his mouth, but Minho cut in, still facing the track.
"Because I didn't want the responsibility.”
The starting lights went red. The engines screamed, a chorus of mechanical fury that vibrated in Jisung's teeth, his sternum, his bones. Then green, and they were off.
Jisung had never seen anything like it, the way the riders became extensions of their machines, leaning into impossible angles, their bodies mere inches from asphalt that could shred their skin at such speeds.
Chris was holding first, his line clean and surgical, but Hyunjin was riding like a demon, all flash and fury, his bike's red taillight disappearing into the first tunnel less than a second behind Chris.
Minho was leaning forward, shoulders tense.
"How many?" Jisung asked before he could stop himself.
Minho glanced at him briefly. "What?"
"Before you retired,” Jisung said, raising his voice above the noise of the crown. “How many races did you win?"
"Lost count," Minho said, flat and prideless. "Enough that people started showing up just to watch me.” His gaze was locked on the track. “And it became more of a spectacle than a challenge.”
Jisung had no idea what to say in response. The crowd spared him by cheering loudly as the placements settled, the race really kicking into gear.
Even from the ridge, the noise of the bikes reached them—a rolling thunder that built and faded as the pack navigated the course, doppler-shifting from scream to growl and back again. The air itself seemed electric, charged with the ozone scent of overheated metal and scorched rubber.
"Fifth turn," Seungmin said, gesturing for Jisung to step closer to the screen. "Watch this. Chris almost always brakes late.”
Sure enough, the dot on the tracking overlay didn't slow as it approached the tight left curve. Instead, he seemed to accelerate into it, his body leaning so far off the bike that his knee must have been grazing the ground. For a heartbeat, it looked like a disaster, gravity about to take over. Then he was through, the bike upright and screaming down the straight, having gained precious tenths on Hyunjin.
“That’s insane," Jisung breathed.
“It’s math,” Minho said quietly. He'd moved to stand beside Jisung, close enough to be heard without shouting. "He knows exactly how much traction he has left, exactly how far he can push. The insane part..." He trailed off as the drone tracked to the next sector, where Hyunjin was taking the same corner with a completely different approach—earlier braking, practically sliding the rear wheel before straightening into a hard acceleration on the exit. "The insane part is when you ignore the numbers and just feel it."
"Did you know them?" Jisung asked, looking over at him.
Minho met his eyes, and for a moment the noise of the race faded.
"Yeah, I knew them," he said. He opened his mouth as if to say more, but stopped.
Jisung swallowed and they both returned to watching; but Jisung found his eyes returning to Minho, catching the way the older man's hands gripped the railing, knuckles white, shoulders tense. He was riding the race in his mind, Jisung realized, leaning subtly with each turn he anticipated, fingers twitching on an invisible throttle.
"They're getting close," Felix said, pointing to where the crowd was shifting, migrating toward the finish line area. "Come on, we should get down there."
Minho pushed off the railing with visible effort.
The crowd had grown frenetic with the race's progression, voices raised in excitement and betting slips passing between sweating hands. The finish line was a straight stretch illuminated by floodlights, the asphalt scarred by countless tire marks. They arrived just in time to see the leaders emerge from the final turn—Chris and Hyunjin, neck and neck, engines growling like living animals clawing for the win.
It was close. It was so close. But Chris had the line, had the nerve, had something intangible that carried him across the finish a half-wheel ahead of Hyunjin.
The crowd erupted. Felix was moving before the bikes had even slowed, darting under the barrier with a recklessness that made Minho swear behind him. Jisung watched Felix reach Chris, watched the racer pull off his helmet and sweep Felix up in a hug that lifted him off his feet, both of them laughing, breathless with victory.
Then Chris’s hand was in Felix's hair, tilting his head back, and they were kissing.
Catcalls and cheers rang out from the onlookers.
Beside Jisung, a sound like grinding gears came from somewhere in Minho’s throat. When Jisung looked over, the elder’s face was dark, eyes narrowed, mouth twisted into a scowl.
"Unbelievable," Minho muttered, just loud enough for Jisung to catch. "I come back just to watch my brother making out with my old competition in the winner's circle. Should've stayed home.”
Chris broke the kiss, though he kept Felix tucked against his side.
“Min!” he called out, lifting his free hand.
Minho's neck twitched, but he walked forward, Jisung trailing behind, unsure what else to do with himself. They stopped a few feet away, close enough for Jisung to see the sweat on Chris’s forehead and the flush on Felix's cheeks.
"Victory lap," Chris said, tossing something toward Minho—a key, attached to a worn leather fob. "Take her for a spin. For old times' sake."
Minho caught the key automatically, but his expression didn't soften.
"Technically," Chris said, and his arm tightened around Felix's waist, "it's still your bike. If anyone has the right to take the victory lap, it's you."
Minho looked at the key in his palm, then at the bike. Jisung saw the struggle play out across his face, desire warring with pride.
"You just want me gone so you can keep molesting my brother in public.”
"That too," Chris agreed shamelessly, unrepentant.
Minho's eyes went to the machine again, and Jisung could practically see the pull take hold. Suddenly, he was moving, swinging his leg over the seat.
"Ought to just take it back," Minho muttered, more to himself than anyone else, getting settled atop the bike, sliding the key into the ignition.
The engine roared to life, a second later Minho was gone, launching down the straightaway, leaving a new set of rubber marks on the asphalt behind him.
The feed on the tablet in Seungmin's hand shifted, abandoning the post-race interviews and victory celebrations to follow Minho's solitary figure as he tore through the course.
"Not typical," Seungmin said, appearing at Jisung's elbow, watching the screen with a small smile. "Usually they stick with the winner. But..." He shrugged. "He's a legend. And whoever's flying that drone isn't going to miss the chance to watch Lee Minho ride."
Jisung quickly understood why. He couldn't look away from the screen. Minho was magnificent. Even without competition, he rode like a man possessed—or one finally freed. He pushed each turn faster than the last, leaning so far into the corners that his knee surely scraped the asphalt. He knew these roads, Jisung realized, knew them in his blood, his bones, his muscle memory. He wasn't racing against other riders, he was racing against himself.
"He's amazing," Jisung breathed, not realizing he'd spoken aloud until Seungmin laughed.
"That he is. Dangerous, though. That’s the thing about Minho..." Seungmin trailed off, watching as Minho took a curve at a speed that seemed suicidal, emerged perfectly, and accelerated into the straight. "He never knew when to pull back. That's why he was the best. And that's why he had to quit."
On the screen, Minho approached the final complex of turns, the underpass that would take him beneath the old highway and back toward the finish. But as the drone focused on the other side of the pass, all that came into focus was an empty road, no bike, no rider.
"Lost him," Seungmin said, sounding vaguely amused and not at all surprised. He turned to Jisung, that small smile playing at his lips again. "He'll be heading to the shop. Wanna tag along? Felix seems… occupied.”
Jisung glanced over to where Chris and Felix were still tangled together, lost in their own universe, Felix's fingers tracing patterns on Chris’s chest through his racing suit.
"Yeah," Jisung confirmed with a sigh. “I could probably use a ride."
Seungmin drove a vintage Volvo wagon, the back filled with toolboxes and spare parts that rattled with every bump in the road. To Jisung, it sounded like a safety hazard waiting to make itself known, but Seungmin seemed entirely unfazed by the persistent, and vaguely ominous, noise. The suspension groaned as they hit a pothole, leaving the floodlit finish line behind and plunging into the industrial district's maze of shuttered factories and loading docks.
"It’s nice to finally meet you by the way." Seungmin said, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror as he navigated. “Felix speaks highly of you.”
“That’s… surprising, honestly,” Jisung laughed a bit. “Would’ve expected him to complain about me constantly taking over his time with Chris.”
“Well, he does that too,” Seungmin admitted. “But he invited you out, didn’t he?”
“Sure, even though he ditched me five minutes after getting there,” Jisung said, no real offense in his tone. He knew what to expect from Felix. And, really, he was happy for him. His brother, however, had Jisung curious.
“How long have you known Minho?” he asked Seungmin. “I never knew he was part of all this."
"Six years. Started as his mechanic when I was nineteen, right out of trade school and stupid enough to think that what I knew about cars could transfer to bikes." Seungmin laughed dryly. "He broke me in fast. First time I passed him a bike with the suspension off by three millimeters, he took it around the block, came back, and told me exactly what I'd done wrong without even looking at the specs. Said he could feel it, as if anyone could possibly feel a three millimeter difference."
Jisung laughed, imagining it easily. “And you kept working with him?”
“Well, that’s the annoying part,” Seungmin said, smiling. “He was right. The suspension was off. He was right about everything after that, too. Most mechanics aren’t lucky enough to have a rider that knows their machine so well. Or they have riders that know their bikes too well, and have to fight them on every single adjustment.” He shook his head softly muttering, “I mean seriously, why even have a mechanic at that point. Anyways, even though he was hopeless with a wrench for a while, Minho built out his bike just as much as I did. Made me better at my job too—not that I’d ever admit it to his face.”
“My lips are sealed.” Jisung grinned. "What’s it like now, working with Chris?"
Seungmin tilted his head, considering the question.
"Chris is what Minho was, plus a bit of self-preservation. He's good—maybe as good—but they’re different. Chris rides like he’s got something to prove. People to impress, you know,” he said with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Minho though… he rode like he had nothing left to lose.”
Seungmin turned down a narrow alley, the Volvo's headlights illuminating graffiti-covered brick. Jisung thought of Minho on the bike, the way he'd disappeared into the underpass, the drone losing him the exact moment Minho decided he was done being watched. Nothing to lose made sense after watching him ride. The sentiment hit close to home for Jisung.
They pulled up to a corrugated metal building, the Volvo's tires crunching on gravel. Despite its harsh frame, the shop was warm when they walked in. And there, exactly as Seungmin had predicted, was Minho.
He was lounging on the bike, legs kicked up on the handlebars, head tilted back against the fuel tank. His hair was mussed by wind, cheeks flushed with the aftermath of a ride.
"Took you long enough," Minho said, not yet opening his eyes.
"Some of us prefer to keep our lives and limbs intact," Seungmin replied, moving to his workbench.
Minho snorted, finally cracking one eye open. He spotted Jisung hovering near the entrance, and his expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "You brought the stray."
“His ride was otherwise occupied.”
Jisung hovered near the entrance, unsure of his welcome, while Seungmin moved immediately to his workbench, flipping on task lights that hummed and flickered before settling into a harsh white glare. The shop was a cathedral of grease and metal, tools hanging from pegboards in patterns that probably made sense only to Seungmin, spare engines hung from chains in the rafters like mechanical chandeliers.
Jisung stood in silence for a moment, Seungmin clattering around in the background. Jisung found his eyes tracing the lines of Minho’s bike—the custom red paint job, the worn leather of the seat, the way Minho's body fit against it like it remembered his shape.
"I want to learn," he heard himself say, the words escaping his mouth before they’d entirely registered in his brain.
Both of Minho's eyebrows rose. "Sorry?"
"I want to learn how to ride. How to race." It came out in a rush, propelled by the memory of Minho on the track, the grace and power and absolute certainty of his movements.
Minho laughed. It was a genuine sound, surprised and rough, nothing like the controlled emotions he'd worn all night.
"You're serious."
"Yes."
"You don't have a bike."
"I'll get one."
“Do you even have a license?”
Jisung smiled. “Least of the legal concerns when it comes to racing, isn’t it?”
Minho stared at him. Then, slowly, a real smile spread across his face. It was a new expression and Jisung could only hope it meant something good.
"Well, shit," Minho said, swinging his legs down from the handlebars, sitting up to face Jisung fully. "Look at you."
Minho stood, crossing the space between them. He stopped close, invading Jisung's personal space enough that Jisung had to resist the urge to sway toward him.
“And how exactly are you planning to learn?”
Jisung's hand went to his wrist, where the bandana was still tied. He tugged it free and held it tightly in both hands. He didn’t hold it out to Minho, instead bringing it closer to himself and staring at the man in front of him.
“Teach me.”
"You're… serious."
"I am."
"It's not a hobby,” Minho said, staring at him intently. “You’ll wake up at three in the morning with your hands shaking because you took a turn wrong six months ago and nearly changed the lives of all your friends and family.” He scoffed. “You—you're a kid with soft hands and a crush on danger who thinks riding a bike sounds sexy."
Jisung met his gaze evenly. "I'm not soft."
Minho studied him for a moment longer, his gaze tracing Jisung's face, searching for weak points, for places where Jisung might break.
Jisung gave him nothing.
"If I do," Minho said finally, "nobody knows. Not Felix, not Chris, not the boys at the circuit. You show up to races when you're ready, and not before. You don't tell anyone who's training you. You don't wear my colors. You don't even look at me in public like you know me."
"Why?"
"Because I’m retired, and I'd like to keep it that way. Until—" Minho's voice hardened, something sharp and painful flashing behind his eyes. “Until I decide otherwise.”
Jisung nodded slowly, the bandana still wrapped tight around his fingers. "Okay."
"Okay," Minho echoed.
Another beat of quiet passed. They took each other in, Jisung trying to read Minho without any luck, genuinely surprised by his acceptance but doing his best not to show it.
Minho exhaled out of his nose long and slow. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and holding it towards Jisung.
“Your number.”