Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jann knew it from the beginning.

He knew it since he touched that show car, since Coby won his first game, since that overwhelming shadow drowned him, since he was introduced to the concept of professional racing, since he touched his first Gran Turismo, since he knew what he could be, since he understood his destiny.

Ever since he realized that he couldn't be the best at what he was supposed to be.

He knew it because he had understood that he was made to be someone great, someone who would stay in the history books forever, he was made to be more than everyone expected, he was made in the fire of determination and the motivation of the lower class. He was made to fulfill his dream even if it wasn't the one he wanted him to dream of. He was made to make him proud.

Jann Mardenborough was made to be a racing driver.

And he had always known it.

And there was not a moment when he didn't think about it, when the thought didn't live inside his heart, when he couldn't ignore the truth that he knew haunted him with every exhalation he took, when the knowledge that he was destined to be more did not burn inside him like a fire, in which knowing what could never be made him want to disappear.

And maybe it was the overwhelming pressure on his shoulders that made him want to bury it, that made him swallow the lump in his throat, that made him manage to forget it. Although maybe it was the trophies that stared back at him every time or the inherent disappointment during dinner, but the wanting to silence, the wanting to ignore, makes him feel out of place. Makes him feel bad.

It makes him feel like he doesn't belong in his own family.

He ignores it as best he can most of the time, because it's more painful trying to deal with it than ignoring it, so he learns to let his brain shut down to avoid thinking about the cruel reality, he lets himself fall into the everyday, he creates a routine, he goes to college, gets a job in a department store, plays until he runs the tracks in his dreams, looks at his cell phone until his brain can't take it anymore and repeats it the next day.

But soon, the routine becomes insufficient, the guilt stays in his belly permanently, he can't help it, he can't ignore it anymore, how his heart melts like putty every time he sees that smile, every time he sees those arms wrapping around another body, every time jealousy overwhelms him, every time he feels that it should be that one.

His mind spirals down each time, he should be doing more, he should be trying harder, the cars are there, on his screen, perpetually waiting for him to use them, just there, but he knows that they are not what he is looking for, he knows that no matter how much he runs, how much he tries, he will never see it for what it is, he will never admit its validity.

So Jann pretends not to know.

He pretends because the thought torments him, because the reality of what could have been terrifies him, because what should have been makes him fall into a hole from which he cannot get out. He pretends to ignore because it's easier not to think how his fingers tingle every time his bike goes faster than it should, because it's easier to pretend not to want the thrill of death by squeezing his throat until he can't help but deal with the problem.

He quickly falls into another routine, not even a week after discovering that doing as much as he can to make his body ache doesn't work anymore (he chooses not to think about how it's so easy to satisfy his desperate body, it's better that way) and discovers another way to get his brain to shut down enough for the guilt tangled up inside his intestines to come undone for a few seconds.

Even if for that he need to get away from the simulation that he have burned into his brain, even if he have to give up the paralyzing speed, the overwhelming victory every time a new record slips into his account, the niche that has been created around him, even if he has to give up everything that makes him feel like a human.

He abandons his artificial reality so his new habit molds itself into him, so that it has the opportunity to slip between his ribs, between the fibers of his muscles, between his silent tears, between his immobile tongue, between the valley of his brain, so that slip into it so deeply that it becomes a part of himself.

He strangely finds solace in the agonizing pain it causes him.

He finds relief in the way he clings to the routine as if he doesn't know how to live without it, in his uneven nails holding on where he can, in his erratic breathing waiting for the perfect moment to start it, it feels like if it has always been there, waiting for him to realize its existence, almost like some cruel paradox no sense of fate.

He does it whenever he is alone, his fingertips burning every time, he does it when the general exhaustion of Coby's matches hits his parents, when the only thing that will hear him is the wind, he has his own twisted and uncomfortable ritual to start with, done his way, the way he feel it should be, the way he knows is a welcome in that world.

He is methodical and almost a perfectionist, following his steps to perfection and redoing them over and over again when he is wrong, punishing himself angry for allowing human errors in something that is not, frustrated because his clumsy fingers shake like a leaf every time he tries, disappointed that he can't even be good at it.

He repeats the instructions each time, scratching at his arm until the deep marks look more like burns than anything else. He bites his lower lip and lets the intoxicating burning loosen his muscles, continuing with his ritual, he takes out his old shirt under his bed like every time, perfectly folded but with dark spots covering it everywhere, he stretches it out on the floor and sighs for a second when he manages to cross that off his list.

He rummages through the space in the drawer under his desk until he finds a yellowish and wrinkled envelope, the envelope used to be a card, where in faded letters it used to spell awkwardly "for my dad :D" until time took them away and the envelope returned to his hands, he shakes his head, returning the envelope to its place and starting from scratch, the less he thinks the better, he reminds himself, crumpling the envelope in his hands as he takes it out again.

He licks his dry, cracked lips and opens it, glad for the eerie amount of warmth the glint of metal inside brings him, it's an eyebrow blade, stolen from his mother's things, the handle stained with his own blood from the last night but the rest is smooth, perfect, clean, ready to expiate the guilt outside of his body.

He gently lays it down on the shirt, the wooden floor of his room creaking unpleasantly when he gets up, he goes to look for alcohol, antiseptic and bandages, because he knows that he always needs them, because there is always something healing in his body, a wound sufficiently deep enough to keep the tissue from closing, a bandage straining to close what shouldn't have been opened.

And that makes him feel good.

He carefully places each item on the sides of the shirt, the old faded design staring back at him, a smear of dark, clotted blood drenching the orange cat's face and he tries to swallow the lump in his throat that makes it almost painful to continue with it.

He starts anyway.

The first cut is always experimental, it tests the edge of the blade and how deep it can go with just a superficial cut, the soft layer of white tissue returning the sight of his curious eyes, it lasts like that for a few seconds, only white contrasting against his tan skin, until the blood fills the space he opened and trickles down the curve of his thigh.

It's one of those days.

The blade cuts through his thigh like butter, three more cuts into the dermis before the sting of tears assails him everywhere, cuts shallowly as the blade touches his thigh, meaningless thin lines encroaching all over his thigh, they don't hurt just numb him, but he feels his fingers tingle to go deeper.

He presses the blade down hard, his lips pursed into a thin line before cutting into the fat beneath his palm, it stings and burns like hell, tears slipping down his cheeks but he feels almost immediate relief as the yellow fat reveals itself with morbid ease, his blood trickling down his entire leg until stain the wood.

He pulls the shirt over his leg, covering the fresh wound, the blood creating another dark stain as it falls to the cold, hard floor, his back arching up and dropping his head onto the boards, his mouth open in a cry of silent ecstasy as tears slide from his eyes.

His brain is blank, acting automatically after the blood is wiped away and tossed aside, his body curled up in the soft warmth of his sheets, the cut bandaged and disinfected as it was supposed to be, at that moment, when his blood circulates so slow that it hurts, he lets his mind go off and enjoy the adrenaline.

His life continues like this for a few months, his body is covered in deep scars day after day, the old and faded shirt fades into a deep red, forgotten every day until the loneliness of the early morning lets it escape for a few seconds, his parents only look at each other whenever long, heavy sweaters become a constant at dinner, and Jann allows himself to wallow in his father's concern.

Because, finally, he is looking at him with something more than disdain, he is finally looking at him with something more than deep disinterest, he is finally the center of attention, finally there is something more for him, finally he makes him feel something.

He knows that what he wants is selfish, he knows that the way he got it is selfish, but still it makes his heart flutter and his brain shut up for a few seconds.

Still it makes him feel good.

And he enjoys it, he enjoys the constant pain on his skin, the small amount of freedom he knows he doesn't deserve, the looks over his shoulder every time he goes to buy more bandages, he enjoys being the center of attention.

Because it's the closest thing he has to what he really wants, it's the closest he has to dangerous speed and boiling asphalt, to death clinging to him at every turn, waiting for the exact moment to take him away.

It is the closest he will ever be in his life. Silently wishing he could get a little closer.

And suddenly one day, he is selected for the GT academy.

And he realizes in that very second that this is his only chance. And he don't think to waste it.