Archive of Our Own ^beta

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ 𝘔𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘺  

The stadium roared, stomping and clapping as the cars rolled out and onto the track. Twenty of the world's top racers looked up from their wheels to gaze at the stands, each of their hearts beating wildly. Monty—  known famously as Lightning McQueen—  drummed his hands against his steering wheel, his left leg bouncing as his right feathered the gas. He was sweating under his helmet, biting hard on his lip until it cracked.

It was the kickoff of his second World Grand Prix, and the race was being hosted by Seoul. He was a little surprised that they hadn't canceled the event, and he hoped that it wouldn't be as crazy as the last one had been. The whole plot to have him killed really didn't settle his nerves for this one.

His eyes flickered over to the car next to him. It was Francesco Bernoulli's— a fancy Formula One car with some red and green accents. Monty still kind of hated him, even after their time after the race. He was a stuck-up racer with a big ego and an even nicer car.

He looked back at the line of cars in front of him. The race started in thirty seconds. He tightened his grip around his wheel, breathing in slowly, "Speed. I am speed," he whispered.

The starter raised his pistol heavenward and shot it. Each racer stepped on the gas, darting past the checkered start line. Monty kept his eyes trained on every car as he passed them. He gained momentum quickly, eventually catching up with Francesco's.

"Mother fucker," he smirked, noticing the boldened 'CIAO MCQUEEN' sticker on his bumper. He kind of loved that he didn't have it removed.

Their cars were almost wheel-to-wheel, buzzing in first place. Everyone in the stands leaned forward in anticipation as the cars drew closer and closer to the finish. Monty held the wheel tighter yet, blood pulsing into his hands.

He stepped on the gas and crossed the finish line.

He looked up into the stands, watching the shocked faces. It was his second tie.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

Reporters crowded around the winners, jamming their huge cameras into their faces. Francesco seemed a little annoyed, and Monty was just surprised. He remembered his three-way from a few years ago, how the news turned into a worldwide sensation. This was probably close to that, since they were well-known rivals in the racing community.

"Lightning, tell us how you did it!" A man yelled. Another yelled, "Francesco, this is your first tie! How do you feel about it?"

The Italian huffed and shoved through the crowd, fists clenching in annoyance. Monty blinked, turning to the cameras once more, "I'm looking forward to the next race," he said vaguely before escaping.

He walked into the garage, finding Francesco straightening himself up in a mirror. He looked frustrated, his stance sharp and stiff, hands down on a desk.

"Francesco," Monty called, standing a few feet from him. He looked back, the waves of his brown hair falling against his face.

"What is it?" He grumbled, "I'm a little busy."

He felt the familiar twitch in his eye coming back. Monty bit his cheek, his hand coming up to scratch the blonde scruff of his chin, "I can tell that you're annoyed about the tie."

"I never lose," he muttered.

"You didn't lose," he replied, "You and I won. You can always break the tie in Sydney."

Francesco turned, his lips pouting, "I never ever tie."

Monty groaned, stepping forward, "It can't be that bad! That just means we're the best racers in the lineup," he paused, eyes lingering on the moles scattered across his face, "Like I said, it's the first race. We'll have two more races to break it."

"And if we don't?" He snapped.

"That's impossible, and you know it," he watched Francesco as he crossed his arms, the sole of his foot tapping against the concrete floor.

He ran a hand through his light blonde hair, trying to calm himself, "You did well in the race today, Fran."

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘰  

Francesco and some of the other European racers went out to dine in one of the fanciest restaurants in Seoul. His leg was crossed over the other, trying his hardest not to bounce it. The results of the race had put him into a mindless state.

He played with his jeongol, his jaw clenching as he bit the inside of his lip. He was always competitive—   everyone knew that. But this feeling? It was way different. It was carnal. He needed to be first—   always. A tie meant that he wasn't the best.

He spaced out, his heart pulsating almost violently. Even with these thoughts, he did enjoy the concerned look that Monty gave him when they had talked. Their conversation had actually calmed him down a bit, and the way he said his sobriquet...

He bit into a piece of beef, shutting his eyes with a breath. There wasn't anything to these new feelings. They were just a mix of adrenaline and frustration, that was all. A distraction after a mishap.

"Hah! I almost passed you," Raoul smiled mischievously up at Miguel, who was dining on some Haejang-guk.

"Almost," he replied smugly before glancing over at Francesco, "You alright? You did pretty good in the race today."

Francesco snapped his head up, his eyes flickering for a moment, "I'm just tired. My pit crew was frustrating me earlier," he lied.

Miguel shrugged, "Just checking. Hey, can I get more of this dish?" He asked as a server passed by.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

After dinner, Francesco made it to his hotel room, kicking off his shoes before lying on the bed. He turned his head, the skyline of the Gangnam District fading into the darkness of the night as the sun sank below the horizon.

He shut his eyes, his hands curling against the blankets. Every distraction must be thrown out. His mother had taught him that after he'd been diagnosed with severe ADHD when he was a child.

He bit his lip, growling under his breath. She told him that, if he were to find a successful career, there were to be no intrusions—  for then his success would be jeopardized, and he'd be out of luck. Permanently.

He had always followed his mother's rules, which had come with broken friendships, broken toys, and complete compliance. She wouldn't let him throw away his racing career just for some useless thing that he would eventually destroy, anyway.

Francesco sat up, crossing his arms. He dragged his nails across his skin, sinking them in deep enough to draw small blotches of blood. He had to be perfect. Had to do every little thing better than everyone else. And when he couldn't be better, he had to pretend that he was better. That was the only way he could find happiness.

Eventually, he fell into a restless sleep, kicking the blankets off the bed as he dreamt of a beautiful performance gone wrong.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ 𝘔𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘺

Monty woke up, gathering all of his luggage. He met with his team in the lobby of the hotel, noticing Francesco and his team checking out.

"You don't think they give out them soft towels for free, huh?" Monty's friend Mater pondered. Luigi, who was a part of his pit crew, cocked his brow, "Eh, no."

He stared at Francesco, wetting his lips involuntarily. His legs moved on their own, concern and something deep filling his veins. Monty's team watched him quietly as he approached Francesco, "Morning."

Francesco immediately looked over, his sepia eyes falling onto him, "Buongiorno, McQueen."

"I hope you do good in the race tomorrow," he smiled.

His jaw tensed before he composed himself, "I always do good. I don't need your... buoyancy."

Monty's entire face crinkled in offense, staring as he walked away. What the hell? He knew he could be an asshole, but he didn't know he would still have the nerve to act like that, especially after their last competition together. Monty swore that he had changed.

"Monty, come on! We've got a flight to catch!" Sarge, another member of his crew, called. He huffed sharply.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

They boarded the jet, which would be flying most of the racers and their crew to Sydney. He sat down in his seat, his window overlooking the left wing of the plane. He assumed that the event organizers would have every team put together, but he was sorely mistaken.

He looked up, his eyes narrowing as Francesco stood awkwardly at the end of the row. The Italian bit his tongue before he slid into the seat next to Monty, trying not to make eye contact. Monty looked outside once more, the hand cupping his chin tightening.

The engines started, and the flight attendants passed out some earbuds for the TVs. He immediately plugged the jack of the wire into the back of the seat. He could feel the hairs of his back standing up, a pair of eyes boring into him.

Monty found a movie—  some weird animated movie called 'Planes' as the plane lifted off. He took a chance to glance at Francesco, watching the subtle way he tensed under his gaze. He had something on his mind, whether that was his shitheadedness or something else, he couldn't tell.

The flight attendants brought out some drinks. Francesco got a glass of straight Campari, the fiery red liquid simmering in the window's light. "I'd like some Crown Royal," Monty requested, watching as Francesco took a small sip of his drink.

They sat drinking in silence, staring at their TV screens. After an hour or so, Francesco got up to use the bathroom. Monty got up to follow him. His initial frustration had died off into curiousity, and he was also a little tipsy.

Francesco came out, flinching when he noticed Monty, "Gesù! Monty, what the hell?"

He crossed his arms, his blonde hair obscuring the very tips of his blue eyes, "Why were you acting like a douche this morning?"

He blinked, frowning, "Tch, your encouragement wasn't necessary. I already said that-"

"Enough," he interrupted lowly, "You were mad about us tying, and now you're acting like you're better than me. What's your problem?"

Francesco's ears reddened at his tone, his mind spinning for a moment, "Fuck off. I don't need to tell you anything." He began to leave before Monty steered him to the very back.

"Yes, you do. If you're affecting me, then you need to tell me," he huffed, "Tell me what's wrong."

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘰

They stood there for what felt like hours. He tried to hold himself up, to get this distraction out of his head, "It's just the stress from the competition."

"No, it's not," Monty insisted, "Either you tell me, or I pry it out of you."

His heart shot up into his throat, grazing his tonsils. The way he talked was distracting him even more, "I swear to God, McQueen-"

Lewis, a British racer, opened the curtains to the corridor. He paused in front of the bathroom door, staring at them.

Monty glanced back at him, "No one's in there."

"Uhm... okay," he replied awkwardly, slowly backing out of the corridor.

Francesco took the chance to step away, regaining his composure, "I don't have to tell you anything. If I truly wanted to disclose every personal detail of myself to you, I would've done so by now."

Monty's eyes narrowed, "I'm not asking for all of that," he muttered, his concerned tone creeping back into his voice, "I just want to know why you're acting like this all of a sudden."

He pursed his lips for a moment before replying, "It doesn't matter anyway. This whole competition will be over in a week."

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ 𝘔𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘺  

The plane landed in Sydney at around 1 AM without any trouble, and neither Monty nor Francesco had uttered a word to each other after they went back to their seats. Monty could tell that the entire plane had heard about something fishy going on in the back.

Everyone disembarked from the plane, trickling into a branch of the Sydney Airport. Monty found his team, cursing himself for even thinking he could drag any answers out of Francesco.

"You an' San Francisco got something going on?" Mater attempted to whisper, making a few other racers look back at them.

Monty shooed him away, "No! No, he's just being a dick, and I want to know why."

"He's always a dick," Luigi stated bluntly, "I fear there may be nothing to it."

"Everyone has a reason behind their behavior," he quickly defended, "Whether that's narcissism or some trauma— or both... I want to know."

Sarge hummed behind them as they walked down to the luggage carousels, "He did seem a bit nicer a few months ago. Maybe he's got something up his ass right now."

Monty shot a glare at him, "You've always got something up your ass."

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

Monty's team got to the hotel right after Francesco's team. The group was arguing with the lady at the desk about their rooms.

"The hotel is packed for the race, so our management had to do some room adjustments," she explained helplessly.

Francesco huffed impatiently in return, "I do not want to separate from my team." The lady looked past him and noticed Monty. She gestured for him to come over.

"Mr. McQueen," she said, "Unfortunately, our rooms have been packed to the fullest. We had to separate a few team members to make everything work out, so you've been assigned to Mr. Bernoulli's room."

He looked over at him for a second before shrugging, "That's fine with me." He could try to get some answers out of him, or, at the very least, observe him.

Francesco scoffed, staring up at Monty, "Piccola merda."

"Then it's settled," her shoulders sagged with relief, handing them their hotel cards, "Your paperwork has already been filled out, of course. Enjoy your stay and good luck with your races."

They rode up to the highest floor, getting off the elevator in complete silence. He enjoyed the frustrated glint in Francesco's eyes as he opened the room door.

They went inside, and Monty set his stuff aside, "Mr. Bernoulli," he leaned against a wall, "Care to let all your worries out for me?"

He glared at him intensely, "Absolutely not. Especially not now. I'm tired." Monty caught a glimpse of his pink ears.

Francesco sat on the bed, throwing his shirt off to the side carelessly. Monty joined him on the other side, slipping his shirt and shoes off, "You'll have to tell me inevitably. If I'm dedicated enough, I always get what I want."

"Is that so?" He grumbled, putting a pillow in between them as Monty laid down.

He rolled his eyes, stuffing the pillow behind his head, "It is. You're not going to block me out. I'll let you off until morning."

Francesco snarled, whipping around to face the other direction. Monty had to admit that he was pretty good at his whole shielding thing.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘰

Dim candles lit the hallway, and white lilies and roses were scattered across the hardwood floor. Francesco's vision was blurry, the edges of every item indistinct. He moved slowly, dragging a finger along the siding of the wall.

He happened upon a door after a few minutes of walking. He turned the knob, a wave of smells washing over him. It smelled of strawberry incense and cherry candles, followed by a faint, sweaty musk.

He stepped inside, his eyes flickering over a figure behind some silk curtains. Peaking through an opening, his gaze quickly fixated on Monty's back muscles. His skin was covered in a map of freckles.

"Fran," he hummed, twisting around to face him. He was wearing nothing but a few golden rings.

Francesco wordlessly climbed onto the bed, crawling over to him. He stared down at him, his hands planted by Monty's head, "You are insanely tempting, Mr. McQueen."

"Am I?" He purred, gently pulling one of Francesco's hands up to his blonde stubble.

He shuddered, the pads of his fingers rubbing his face. He had a jaw that was rounded just the right amount— almost like clay. He moved his finger up, pulling back the lips that covered his mouth. Monty had some of the sharpest canines he'd ever seen. Francesco had actually spotted them in some of the magazines he was featured in.

"You like these?" Monty breathed, his tongue twisting over the points of the teeth.

He smiled a little, "You're so annoying. And yes, I do." He leaned closer, hands trembling. He kissed the corner of his mouth softly.

Monty kissed him back, taking his chin in his hands and molding their faces together. Francesco took the lead once more, fitting his tongue into his mouth. He tasted of honey and whiskey— sweet and smooth.

"I hate you," he whispered, pulling back as his heartbeat sped up, "God, I hate you so much." His eyes wandered over his parted lips, noticing a crack that had split down the middle of his bottom lip. He always had that. It didn't matter what season.

He chuckled, "Asshole. Keep kissing me," he pulled him back in.

Francesco startled awake, breathing broken. He rubbed his face, his cheeks burning, his pulse high. Monty lay beside him, his arm straight under where his back had lain. His eyes flickered down to his lips, finding the crack.

He lay back down, and this time he faced him. He felt his arm behind him, but all he could focus on was his face. His messy blonde hair was draped over a quarter of it, his smile lines etched into his cheeks. Little imperfections were scattered from his forehead to his chin, the faintest bumps and scars molding who he was.

He scooted closer, eyes dropping to his neck. There were a few moles here and there, a prominent one in the middle of his jugular notch. He pursed his lips, looking up at his face once more. He couldn't indulge in his distractions.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

The track they would be on was around 4.8 kilometers. There was a 320-meter dirt section in the middle, and of course, Francesco hadn't practiced dirt racing. He fumbled during the last World Grand Prix on it.

He slipped into his racing suit before putting on his gloves. He had to be perfect today— no more distractions. Nothing would stop him from winning.

There was a figure in he corner of his eye that leaned against the frame of the garage door. He turned, seeing Monty. He always looked good in that stupid track suit of his— a bit '95' shaped against his chest. "Monty," he acknowledged, trying his best not to think about his dream.

He stared at him for a moment, "Don't worry about the race today. You'll do great."

Francesco ran a hand through his hair, his chestnut waves falling back perfectly into place, "Why are you so hopeful for me? Don't you want to win?"

Monty looked down at the ground, holding his helmet against his abdomen, "I mean, that'd be great. But it would be great if you won, too."

He stared at him, "You are so..." he let out a breath, "Dumb."

He smiled, "You usually say meaner things."

"If I say that I want you to win, would that get you out of here?" He grumbled, grabbing his own helmet.

Monty didn't reply, so Francesco just went for it, "I want you to win, too."

He smiled before he left him alone. That stupid smile. His stupid face. His dumb compliments. Francesco stuffed his head into his helmet, feeling himself burn up inside of it. He got into his car and pulled out of the garage, making his way onto the track with the other racers. Something throbbed in his chest.

The stands were full of people, even though it was nine in the morning. He bit his cheek a few times, ripping the flesh into his mouth. He bit into the wounds, the taste of copper on his tongue.

Win the race or fail... or Monty could win, and maybe it would be just as good as winning.

The cars stopped in front of the starting line. He set his head back against the seat, hearing the chatter of his pit inside his earbud. Everything was fine. Nothing would happen, and he would win. It didn't matter if his mother got mad at him, right?

The pistol went off, and he immediately zoomed to the front. Even with his inner dialogue, he couldn't help himself. He was programmed to win, no matter what. No distractions, no cares, no doubts could throw him off.

Monty was behind him, along with Jeff, an American; Carla, a Brazilian; and Max, a German. He turned his car, the massive opera house passing by. They got to the dirt section, which slowed him down. Monty drifted his car in front of his, and Francesco could barely make out him waving.

His heart stuttered before they got onto the track again, following Monty's lead. No distractions. No distractions. He pressed on the gas pedal, his car peaking at 367 km/h as he passed him. The finish line was a few meters ahead. He could win this.

There was another turn. Francesco looked in his mirrors to see if Monty was there, but just as soon as he looked, Monty's car rolled over, and he was crossing the finish line.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ 𝘔𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘺

He would've died if he hadn't had his helmet on. That's what the doctors told him when he woke up in the medical tent. Apparently, when he turned, he was going too fast for gravity to handle. The front of his helmet hit the steering wheel hard enough to crack when the car completed its roll. His car did pass the line in second place, though.

His legs were all bruised and scratched, and he had a now-bandaged gash on his arm from his window that had broken. His heart was still beating fast, his breath hard to catch. They had him take two ibuprofen just in case he hurt anywhere else.

Francesco burst into the tent after the doctors left, his hands shaking violently as he approached the bed, "Monty, Monty, Monty," he sputtered, his legs giving out under him. He fell into him, holding onto him tightly.

Monty made a small noise of surprise as he caught him, "It's okay, Fran. I'm here."

He squeezed him tight, hands gripping the back of his shirt. The doctors had taken off his racing suit after they brought him in. "You could've died."

The edges of his lips raised, his hands rubbing his back softly, "I'm okay," he whispered, "Everything's okay."

Francesco pulled back, staring at him with wide, worried eyes, the edges of them damp with tears, "Shut up."

They both flinched as the other racers poured into the tent, even some pit crew members checking in. Some reporters snuck a few photos, but then they were dragged out by security. He pulled his hands away, looking down at him as everyone crowded around him.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

Francesco had been kind enough to take him to dinner that night, checking up on him almost every minute. Monty stared at him from across the table, munching on his meat pies, "You didn't have to do all of this."

He fidgeted, scratching his arms nervously, "A near-death experience always calls for... uhm, consolation," he watched him carefully, "Just eat your food."

He huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head, "They have to get a replacement car shipped to Berlin by tonight since mine was totalled," he said, "Anyway, thank you for this."

Francesco flushed a little, pulling his sleeve down. His eyes flickered to the bottom of Monty's neck before looking back up at him, "... Uh-huh. Of course."

He sipped his iced coffee. His breath hitched as the memory of the impact played in his head, the feeling of flying and falling happening all at the same time. His knuckles whitened, body tensing. His mind blanked, the gash on his arm thrumming. His ears rang until he felt a push against his foot. Francesco was gazing at him from across the table, "You alright?"

Monty snapped out of his trance, shaking his head, "I- I'm just thinking about the crash. It's..." he breathed sharply, "It's loud." He looked up at him, eyes flickering.

Francesco frowned, "Do you want to leave?"

He bit his lip, "Yes. Please."

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀