Racing (for you, with you, but never without you)
Title: Racing (for you, with you, but never without you) Pairing: Hoya/Dongwoo
Rating: PG-13
Lenght: Oneshot, 3,999
Summary: Between dreams and reality he's still racing for that one person
A/N: Beta-ed by the amazing kiccy
Racing (for you, with you, but never without you)
Howon lives for racing. He lives for the wind in his hair, the choked screams of pleasure in his throat, the way the engine roars and purrs under his hands, the shrill sounds of the squeaking breaks, and the strong smell of burned tires.
There’s never been a moment in his life when he hasn’t enjoyed the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and the sound of the cheering crowd when he gets first place. In those faces he sees admiration and pride and jealousy, and somewhere in between he sees his own (lying) reflection. He doesn’t look at the past or the future. He doesn’t mind the present either.
For Howon life is like a never-ending race track. He only has time to accelerate when needed.
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“Hoya! Hoya! Hoya!”
The cheers are deafening. Voices mix and tangle and create an almost physical mass of sounds and shouts laced with different accents. But the one thing he hears is the steady “Howon, Howon”- lost and found in between people with different races and nationalities. The voice is calmer and gentler and full of concern all at once. The one thing Hoya doesn’t miss is the hidden pride and victory, but for Howon the familiar tone is the only thing that matters.
And then he sees Dongwoo- with face calloused and tanned and almost foreign. With the same old wife beater stained with oil and dirt and car paint, and those tears and their invisible marks- because they dried a long, long time ago, but Howon still remembers.
He remembers the time when there was no Hoya, and Howon was a name of a person who nobody knew. He remembers Dongwoo- almost the same yet a lot more different. He remembers his first friend and his first addiction- speed. He remembers sleepless nights and erasing, erasing, erasing. Erasing his own existence in this world.
And creating a new one.
(Because deep inside Howon knows those tears are his, are for him and will forever be. Dongwoo is the only one that still keeps that one last part of Howon alive.)
“Hey buddy, you all right?”
His warm hand rests on Hoya’s shoulder, and the former flinches. He’s hot, and there’s sweat on his arms- drop after drop- it goes down well-toned muscles, and slides in between clinging cotton and faded jeans. Dongwoo’s hand is warm too- but a different kind of warm.
The heat of the engine hits Hoya as his hands rest on his newly-polished toy. It’s sparkling red, and Hoya sees their reflections. Dongwoo and Howon. He shakes his head and the arm that’s still resting on his shoulder, and manages a smile.
Because here- where the crowd is obnoxious and awaiting- he can’t let his defenses slip. They want and cheer for Hoya. Not Howon.
It’s behind closed doors and subtle secrets that he lets himself free.
Howon races to forget.
Hoya races to win.
And Dongwoo- Dongwoo’s the one who’s always behind (Hoya or Howon -sometimes the difference isn’t that big) him.
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He opens his eyes to the blinding sun and the smell of dried sweat. His hands and legs are tangled within a sheet of thin cotton that he kicks off almost immediately.
The clock on the bedside table next to him shows Howon that it’s already late afternoon.
“Shit, practice”
His thoughts and mouth work simultaneously as he lets out an angry shout (but it still holds a rainbow of different feelings because he is Howon’s only weakness).
“Dongwoo!”
His voice rings in the small apartment, and he lets out a few curses while stumbling through messy piles of clothes and empty bottles. The warm sunlight is still flooding through half-opened windows, and it brings a certain sense of peace in this afternoon filled with humidity.
He ends up in their small living-room that’s connected with an even tinier kitchen. Everywhere he looks he sees the familiar sight of left-over boxes with grease still dripping from them, and handprints that seem to have engraved themselves everywhere. They are large and scary, and placed at the most abnormal (obnoxious) places.
Hoya curses at Dongwoo and his perverted antics- now his brand new jeans are adorned with screaming red paint. The handprint is impossible to miss, and it seems to have been aimed exactly at his bottom.
Howon briefly remembers that after so many bottles of vodka or whiskey or whatever they drank last night, he’s supposed to have a spitting head-ache. But neither Hoya nor Howon have time for this right now.
He quickly crosses over the mess of undergarments and abandoned tools on the floor, and flinches when his bare feet hit the cold tiles in the kitchen. Here the atmosphere is a little bit more icy, which is a result of the dark colors the walls were painted into and the lack of a nearby window.
Hoya scoffs.
Howon barely suppresses a smile.
He’s been living with the older man for years now, and he knows that if he doesn’t fish out the crappy breakfast the other made him, he’s in deep trouble.
The faint glow of the refrigerator light illuminates his face as his eyes roam through lined up beers, abandoned (and probably expired) take-out food, and then the few fruits and vegetables that Dongwoo insists they have. Howon hasn’t exactly told him how they manage to magically disappear by the end of every month.
“Ah, there it is”
His quiet murmur gets lost between dark blue walls and specks of fading sunlight. His hand is slowly out-stretched as he gets out the plate with the (murderous) sandwich.
Hoya barely suppresses the urge to look between the two slices of bread.
Howon takes a bite.
And then cringes.
He can’t even identify the taste it has. It’s too salty, and then it’s too spicy and bitter and sweet (but the sweetness gets lost somewhere in between), and he’s feeling hot all over again.
Somewhere in the house a door slams with vigor. He realizes that the one to blame is probably the strong wind that seems to have emerged from nowhere. It brings a certain scent- of sea and sand and burning rays and beach volleyball. For a second the strong call of the gulls lulls him inside a world of crashing waves and deep blue nothingness. And in the next one he’s once again surrounded by second-hand kitchen cupboards and spiders that have crawled their way a little bit too high.
He sighs, and gulps down the offending food in his hands on almost one bite. Sweat is once again forming on his skin- just over his eyes and in the creased muscles on his hand- and it slides down and down and down- tantalizingly slow.
He throws the plate at the already cluttered sink, almost breaking it in the process, and makes a dash for his room. And then goes back.
He doesn’t know where his clothes are.
Or to be more specific, he doesn’t know which clothes are his and which are Dongwoo’s.
“To hell with all of this!”
His voice is too loud for the empty apartment, and it rings through walls and furniture, and then hits him back- just like a bad-aimed punch. He shudders, and just settles in for that pair of ruined jeans and the first clean (considerably) shirt he can pull out of the mess on the floor.
It’s white or it was white. Well, at least until Dongwoo got his hands on the fluffy cotton. Now it’s filled with colors and oil (or maybe that’s just Howon hoping for the best) and handprints. And somewhere in the mess of contrasting marks, he feels the scent that’s just so Dongwoo.
Hoya and Howon suppress the urge to throw up.
The shirt smells of sweat and grease and expired food and new car paint. And somewhere in between there’s the annoying scent of your typical air freshener and tears. Tears that exist only in Howon’s mind, but maybe, just maybe.
He pulls the offending material over his head, and quickly tries to get on the jeans- they’ve always been just a size to small for him being honest.
Soon enough he’s out of the door, and scurrying down the stairs. The elevator is (like usually) broken. It stands between floor number 4 and floor number 3, and the small, half-broken lamp that resides in its almost claustrophobic cabin looks like it needs changing again.
Howon unconsciously reaches for his phone, but then he realizes he doesn’t know the technicians’ number.
Hoya simply doesn’t care.
In the end he continues his dash down narrow stairways, and his eyes can’t help but linger over dark, mold-ridden walls and colorful graffiti. But with his speed everything mingles in an unrecognizable mix of darkness and sunshine, and purple that reminds him of all people so much of grapes he can’t believe it.
Hoya hates fruits, and anything and everything that’s considered healthy and nice, and you get (got a long time ago) rewarded chocolate for eating it.
Howon isn’t sure what he himself thinks, but maybe it’s for the better (or maybe it isn’t).
It’s in moments like this when he feels like he’s two people at once that he needs Dongwoo. Needs him more than anything. Because Dongwoo has always (was always and will always be) been Dongwoo.
And for Howon, Dongwoo has always been names engraved into trees, and detentions and pranks and sunny smiles, and unstoppable laughter that just seems so so ridiculous on moments.
For Howon, Dongwoo has always been home and friendship, and a warm hand over his, and something more, much more (but he wouldn’t admit it).
And Hoya knows better than trying to have a say in this.
When he reaches the end of the stairs, he almost collides with some of the other tenants of the building. He stumbles, swirls left and then right, promptly loses his balance , shouts a “sorry” that gets muffled by the wall he almost knocks over head-first, and runs all the way down to the garage in a daze.
He stops in front of the old, rusty, half-opened door, and listens. There’s metal clanking against metal, there are grunts and unrecognizable curses, and in the background he can barely make out some melody. As always, Dongwoo works with the radio on.
Howon slowly peeks in, feeling all secretive and mysterious, and for a moment he thinks he’s not wearing those new jeans and that shirt that compliments every muscle in his body, but a black suit. And it’s ridiculous, because he’s not 10 and he’s never going to be again, but still sometimes he wishes for the ugliest sins and has the most disturbing desires, and he doesn’t seem to remember if he was like that years and years ago.
Because if you’re racing to win, turning back is not allowed.
His eyes roam over the all too familiar form of Dongwoo. From the hands (slick with oil and sweat) to his torso (enveloped by what was once white but is now only a mix of colors undiscovered even by the most passionate daydreamer) to his thighs (clad with jeans that are too tight and too loose at the same time, and Howon can see every little thread that’s out of place) back to his face with eyes scrunched up (not from laughter but from concentration) , lips pursed (but still so intoxicating and clear against the pearly white teeth that sneak out from time to time), hair falling all over the place (with its dirty blond color that reminds Howon of honey and reflected sunlight and gold- old, rusty, forgotten gold).
Dongwoo glances up, and like every other time, Howon feels electricity running through his veins. Chocolate brown (milk chocolate) link with deep, raw, almost black and bitter, so bitter espresso. It’s magic, and Howon feels like he’s filled with stardust and faerie wings, and suddenly the sun seems to not be fading as it illuminates both men’s features. Specks of dust are flying around everywhere, and Dongwoo slowly stands up.
“It’s like he’s standing under a spotlight.”
That thought runs through Howon’s mind for a brief second, and then on his own accord he’s stepping forward to that one patch where the sunrays meet. They meet there too. And suddenly all seems to be happening too fast- he feels a tug on his shirt, and then their chests are colliding and creating a rainbow of paint and dirt and tears (Howon doesn’t know why he is still thinking of them). Their lips meet almost instantly, and it’s just raw passion that brings Hoya (no, Howon, he tries to protest) over the edge. And then Dongwoo’s moaning his name and…
“Howon, dammit, wake up! We have work to do!”
The alarm on his bedside table is ringing just a few notches too high.
An angry Dongwoo is definitely not the first thing that you would like to see early in the morning. That one’s for sure.
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He’s stuck between dreams and reality, between Howon and Hoya, and all seems like a never-ending mess of emotions and barriers and rainbow-colored tears.
He feels like he doesn’t know anything. Because every time he wakes up, there’s doubt hidden at the corner of his eyes, and it’s inevitable.
The two elements that keep him together are racing (Hoya) and Dongwoo (Howon).
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The heat is hitting him mercilessly as he races amongst clouds of wind-ridden sand and heavy raindrops.
A storm has never been a good sign. Especially when you’re hundreds of miles away from civilization, seated in a red bucatti that’s had so many modifications done on it that it’s almost unrecognizable. But another key factor for winning is originality.
He’s way up ahead of the others, or so he thinks (so Dongwoo thinks with his many calculations and strategies and complicated things when all you have to do is step on the pedal).
When there’s a desert storm he knows that nothing’s really for sure- well, at least until you manage to escape it. And what’s more exciting than racing with weather itself?
A smirk adorns hip lips and he accelerates. He doesn’t care about the fuel or those small tricky rocks that could make his tires useless in just seconds.
He races for the sensations it brings him. And right now it takes all his might not to scream out from pure pleasure (for a second it’s like he’s in another reality, and there are hands everywhere and nowhere, and there are choked moans filled with desire, and…).
“No, not right now.”
He lives a double life with every impending afternoon/night/morning- the time doesn’t matter, but ironically enough everything always starts from his bed.
He’s already lost track of what was once reality- for now he’s settling in for living in this kaleidoscope of changing emotions and situations and tears (Howon can never forget the tears).
The only thing that matters is that no matter what, when or how- he’s always the winner.
“Focus”
His eyes narrow on the nonexistent road ahead of him, and surely somewhere beyond the sand clouds, he knows the finish line’s awaiting him.
The engine’s purring like a satisfied cat under the touch of his expert hands, and he’s getting ready to launch into action.
It’s time for the cat to get its prey.
He knows he’s nearing the finish line. He hears it in the screams of intoxicated crowd and in the tension that hangs in the air. This is the last race of the season and the most tricky one too.
If he wins this one he has the right to call himself King.
Hoya thinks the title has never suited anybody better than him.
Howon blushes and hangs his head like an embarrassed school-girl. He wants to win too.
It’s in that split second when his front wheels are just passing beyond that one red line on the ground and the big ribbon’s almost in his face that he locks gazes with Dongwoo.
A victory smile is mirrored by both of them.
Howon thinks he has heard cheers, but- no, no he hasn’t. Because if before they were deafening, now they’re simply unheard of. It’s like those jokes- the one that are so funny that you can’t even find your voice while laughing- he knows there’s cheers but he simply can’t hear them. Because above tears and forced smiles and just pure ecstasy and adrenaline he sees or more like feels Dongwoo’s eyes on him. And even though he can’t hear it, he simply imagines the steady “Howon, Howon” and he feels satisfied with just the way Dongwoo’s voice breaks in the middle. Imagination is imagination, but maybe…
Millions of hands are stalking towards him, lifting him up, touching him, and he feels like everything has become a jumbled “congratulations” with a hint of “champion” and “amazing” in between.
There are still smiles and lies and jealousy, and in between some pieces of genuine happiness hang. Howon compares them to multi-colored confetti- all sparkle and beauty- but in the end, he reminds himself, even the most glorious ones have to be thrown away.
“Hoya, Hoya, Hoya”
He knows how the chant goes- Howon knows but just for a split second he allows himself to be free- nobody really notices the veil of secrets and boundaries that falls, and the way his voice cracks just a little.
Hoya would never cry.
Howon on the other hand thinks that he just might- from time to time that is.
The next thing he remembers is the after party.
People he doesn’t know, lots of alcohol, tons of food, colorful posters and cards and whatnot, and of course Dongwoo. Their small apartment is not made for these kind of things.
Howon finds himself trapped in a crowd that still seems to be chanting (at least in his mind), and he wants to scream and trash around and just kick them all out.
Hoya is assured that’s just the alcohol finally having some effect.
It’s hell all over again- but this time he doesn’t want attention. He wants to escape from it.
“It’s funny, really- how things change over the years.”
He’s standing in the middle of an impromptu dance floor, and he feels disgusted. By himself, by this reality (or dream, not that it matters), by everything and nothing. Girls fight over the places closest to him, and he’s trying to defend himself against perfectly polished nails and skirts that are so short they can’t even be considered as undergarments and shirts that are just so nonexistent he thinks it’s ridiculous. He sees bras and panties, and he’s supposed to be turned on. Instead he just feels reassured when Dongwoo pulls him out and then they’re standing on the rooftop.
Howon doesn’t remember moving at all from their alcohol drenched apartment, and that’s just odd. He’s heard of people just losing pieces of their lives of their memories, and it just scares him.
He has to be there every second- that’s essential to win.
(That’s essential if he still wants to be able to be Howon and Hoya and those thousand or so characters he plays in between- just because.)
But now it’s all about falling stars and distant galaxies and wind that brings the scent of a sea-storm. Somewhere in between there are hidden roof-tops and half-empty whiskey bottles (the expensive kind) and of course Howon and Dongwoo. Of course.
“I guess our dreams finally came true, huh?”
And it’s the bitterness that he feels in the other’s voice. He already sensed it at the edge of his tongue, blooming on his lips, tattooing his hands and heart and everything that matters or has once mattered.
He wants to say he’s surprised, but he’s calm. He wants to say he’s seen that coming, but he can’t deny that he has done everything to blind himself.
It took all of Hoya to create this. And it took one sentence from Dongwoo (the only one that still keeps and knows and maybe, just maybe loves Howon) to destroy it.
And it’s on this night when he feels like the stars aren’t that far away that he dares- dares to inch his hand a little bit closer to Dongwoo’s.
He figures that if this is a dream then everything’s going to be alright. And if this is reality then he prefers dreaming. As simple as that.
And their hands are closer, closer, closer. That’s the closest they’ve been since houses built on trees and dreams of flying and fame and money and being grown up. Howon realizes that Hoya has always been the one he has been idolizing throughout all these years. But Hoya isn’t real, and he isn’t Howon (at least not completely), and that’s all that really matters. He doesn’t know if he’s completely ready to kick him out and to find what he once was. But there’s Dongwoo, and he reminds himself that as long as there’s Dongwoo there will be a Howon next to him.
And he smiles, and thinks that dreams are dreams, and sometimes they’re stupid and impossible and just plain weird- but dreams are hope and forgotten promises and tears. For Howon it has always been the tears.
Dongwoo’s ones.
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He’s still confused because he lives and wakes up and what not, and it’s almost the same. It’s just these small details that give away everything.
The kitchen tiles- are they red or blue?
Sunggyu and on the other hand Woohyun- why can they never meet?
And Dongwoo- Dongwoo who’s always the same and yet different.
He lives and dreams and continues between two realities, and he’s already given up on trying to figure this out. He feels that it has been like that for as long as he can remember.
One time he wonders and tries to remember- has he ever wished of living a double life? Because this all seems way too similar to those stupid dreams and secrets that are shared between cotton sheets and toothless grins. Maybe he should ask Dongwoo.
But which Dongwoo exactly?
And in the end it doesn’t really matter.
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He wakes up tangled in tanned arms, and his lips are millimeters away from a sticking out collarbone. He feels the heat and there’s lust hanging in the air. He feels dirty and tired, and somewhere in between he’s regretting the fact on not really being here when this happened.
Because he doesn’t know where he ends and Dongwoo begins, and that feels like the rightest thing in the world.
He’s tangled between shallow breaths and slow heartbeats, and he counts second after second, and presses his lips on skin slick with sweat and maybe something else he doesn’t really want to think about.
He feels fatigue and he can’t feel one of his hands, but as long as he can feel all of Dongwoo that’s alright.
For a brief second he wonders, would things between him and the other Dongwoo be like this too? After months and months of hints and delusions and awkward touches of course.
He has heard somebody saying that all starts and ends with a kiss. The only problem is that he doesn’t know if he’s just starting out or nearing the finish-line.
“Howon”
His voice is groggy and scratchy, and he sounds like he’s had the worst hangover of the decade, but Howon kisses him either way- he has always loved risks more than anything.
And plus, don’t people say that all that matters is the road taken?
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He feels like a million people are shaking him, and then he hears the incoming sounds of jumbled words said so fast he can’t quite make out anything. For a second he feels like they sting his ears and hurt his brain, until he remembers this is what he loves.
Howon opens his eyes and he’s greeted by a stuffed room and the bottom of Sungjong’s bed.
This is the strangest dream (dreams?) he’s had in decades probably.
And then Dongwoo’s by the door, and he’s calling him saying something about schedules and managers, and he sounds so rushed and tired and just exhausted, and for his own good Howon pretends he doesn’t hear those cracks and the laughter seeping in between them that sounds like butterflies and cheesy love stories and fluttering paper hearts.
He figures this just might be another dream, but he doesn’t want to confuse himself. Because frankly it doesn’t matter- in the end he remembers Dongwoo’s hand is always engraved in his, and that’s all that’s really important.
He chuckles because it seems like he will be racing here too after all.
Well, his heart will at least.