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Perth Tanapon lives for the thrill.
It drives him just as he drives the car beneath him, a constant pressure in his veins that has carried him to the top and kept him there for five years now.
He owns the circuit in the way only someone borderline obsessive can. A precision that borders on surgical, nerves that refuse to fray under pressure, and a throttle foot that seems fundamentally incapable of understanding fear.
His name is plastered across pit walls and championship banners, printed in sleek metallic font beside the logo of Vortex Apex Racing, the reigning champions of South East Asia. Commentators say it with a kind of reverence now, the same way people say the names of legends who have become fixtures of the sport rather than just competitors within it.
The media calls him the hottest sportsman under thirty. The king of the Asian Circuit. The driver built for speed, the one who thrives on asphalt the way some people thrive on air. He’s on too many magazine covers.
The latest one shows him in his matte black suit, his signature color, cut close through the arms and torso, the fabric stitched tight beneath studio lighting. The zipper sits halfway down his chest the way he likes it, collar loose, sleeves hugging the lines of his forearms like the suit was molded for him rather than tailored.
Black gloves hang loosely from one hand. His helmet rests tucked beneath the other arm. He looks good in it like he does on all of them. So they never stop photographing him, recording his comments, asking him to hold still long enough to make the shot perfect.
As if he needs to pose.
Even standing still, Perth owns the space. His dark hair is always slightly messy, over thick brows that give his resting expression a permanent edge, the kind that suggests indifference rather than impatience. His jaw is sharp and skin permanently tanned from endless afternoons beneath the brutal sun of outdoor circuits.
He isn’t tall, not towering like some of the European drivers who appear occasionally for exhibition races, but he’s broad where it matters. Wide shoulders and a strong back. Compact strength packed into a body built for a cockpit rather than a runway.
A racer’s build. Lean muscle and brutal endurance.
An actress once told him he looked like a supervillain in that black suit.
Perth had said thank you.
A reporter once asked how many championships were enough.
Perth had said he doesn't race for those. That he's in it for the thrill.
Or at least he used to be.
The circuit used to feel electric beneath him, every apex clean, every downshift screaming through the gearbox. The moment the lights went out, adrenaline would flood his veins and the world would turn razor sharp.
Now the thrill arrives late. Or sometimes not at all.
He still dominates the track, still posts the fastest sectors, still breaks records commentators pretend to be surprised by even though they expect it now. But somewhere along the way the adrenaline has dulled, like replaying a song you once loved until the melody no longer surprises you.
The parties are worse.
VIP lounges full of champagne towers and neon lights, models draped over velvet couches, other drivers slapping his back while asking for advice they’ll ignore the next time they race. Perth usually stays twenty minutes before slipping out, his bed at home more enticing.
Which is exactly why the last thing he wants to do today is train a rookie.
A rookie who apparently impressed management. A rookie who, according to Terry, the crew chief of Vortex, “shows promise.” A rookie who supposedly needs guidance from the best driver on the roster.
Perth thinks that’s bullshit.
Because every rookie he has ever met falls into the same category: wide eyed and overconfident, someone who won a handful of little league circuits and suddenly thinks they’re destined to be the next king of the track. Big egos and flashy sponsors, but no real instinct once the pressure starts pushing back.
So Perth does what he always does when something irritates him.
He ignores it.
He ghosts the scheduled meeting entirely, lets Terry’s calls ring unanswered, lets the faceless kid sit around waiting. By the time Perth finally pulls on his suit after two solid weeks of saying no, the sun has already started sinking toward late afternoon and he’s hours late.
The practice uniform is simpler than his race gear. Grey and stripped down, without the parade of sponsor logos stitched across every inch of fabric. Just the team emblem across the chest and lightweight material designed to survive heat and long training sessions on the track.
It fits just as well regardless, the fabric hugging his shoulders and clinging to the line of his back as he stretches his arms once before leaving the locker room. He rolls his neck slowly, irritation settling into his bones, already planning how quickly he can end this session.
Because if he embarrasses the kid badly enough, Terry will stop asking.
Simple.
The circuit owned by Vortex sprawls like a serpent across the dry landscape outside the main city, asphalt shimmering beneath the heat of the afternoon sun. Long straightaways tempt reckless acceleration while tight corners punish anyone who doesn’t respect them.
Perth knows every inch of it. He grew up on it, learned to drive here. Memorized every braking marker, every uneven ripple in the ground, every apex capable of making or breaking a lap. When he steps onto the gravel edge beside pit lane, he spots them immediately.
Terry. And the rookie.
The crew chief stands with his usual posture, arms crossed over his chest, baseball cap pulled low over greying hair, the permanent scowl of a man who has spent twenty years babysitting drivers that think speed makes them invincible.
Beside him stands the kid, already suited up in the same grey racing suit and fastening his helmet before Perth even reaches them. Without pause, he turns and climbs into the car behind him, quick and efficient, clearly not interested in greetings before the race.
Perth slows slightly. His head tilts, eyes narrowing as he watches the move. He pulls his black gloves on, the leather stretching tight over his fingers before he stops beside Terry and raises a single eyebrow.
“What kind of rude asshole doesn’t even say hello to their senior?”
Terry snorts.
“That’d be the asshole who’s been waiting two hours,” he replies flatly. “You’re late.”
Perth shrugs. “You should be grateful I showed up at all. It’s my day off.”
Terry points toward the track. “Get in the damn car.”
“So hostile.”
“Perth…”
“Fine.”
The cars sit side by side at the pit exit. Perth’s is unmistakable, low and brutal, a deep metallic red that looks almost black in shadow. Sleek and sculpted for speed, a rear wing that slices through the air, and an engine beneath that snarls so fiercely the frame hums even while idle.
Next to it sits the rookie’s car. White and clean. New. Fresh decals still gleaming beneath the sun.
Perth walks toward his car and rolls his shoulders once before sliding a hand along the roofline, the metal warm beneath his gloved palm. He opens the door and lowers himself into the cockpit, everything inside it cramped perfection.
The carbon fiber seat molds against his frame perfectly. The steering wheel bristles with switches and toggles: traction maps, brake bias adjustments, radio controls, while the digital dashboard glows faintly as the systems wake to life.
He pulls the harness straps over his shoulders and clicks them into place, tightening them until the belt digs firmly into his chest. The cabin smells like fuel, rubber and hot electronics. Comforting in its own way.
But it doesn’t spark much excitement.
Perth leans his head back against the seat briefly, already bored, already thinking about his apartment and the massive bed that technically fits three people but almost always holds just him. Maybe he’ll order takeout later, Pad kra pao from that place down the street. Watch something mindless before sleeping.
His gloved fingers tap lazily against the steering wheel. Outside, Terry signals from the pit wall. One lap, that’s all they’re doing. A quick timing run with both cars on the track to see how the rookie handles pressure beside a big time professional driver. Perth appreciates the simplicity of it. Quick and painless.
Well, painless for him.
He starts the engine and the car roars to life instantly. The rookie’s white car ignites beside him a second later, vibration punching through the seat and up his spine. The pit light flickers. Yellow. Then green.
Both cars launch.
Tires scream against asphalt as they explode out of pit lane, Perth shifting instantly, second and then third, the engine screaming as he merges onto the main straight. Wind roars around the frame and the track stretches ahead in familiar curves.
For the first time all afternoon, his focus sharpens.
The white car is still beside him, holding pace. Perth glances sideways through the edge of his visor and catches a flash of grey helmet, steady hands gripping the wheel. Still right there.
“Huh.”
Maybe the kid isn’t complete dead weight.
Perth shifts cleanly, gears snapping into place with practiced precision as his car grips the track like it's made for it. Suspension eats the ripples in the asphalt as the circuit opens ahead and he edges forward half a car length before the first braking marker.
Not surprising.
He slams the brakes into the first corner, downshifting smoothly, fifth to third to second, the engine snarling and the car diving toward the apex with surgical precision. The steering wheel vibrates beneath his gloves as the tires bite into the track.
Out of the corner of his eye he watches the white car. Most rookies crumble here. Brake too late. Oversteer. Lose the line the moment they realize they’re racing someone who actually knows what they’re doing.
This one doesn’t. The white car holds the gap through the next set of corners, a fast left-right portion that punishes sloppy steering. Perth glides through it, the car responding like an extension of his body.
Brake. Downshift. Apex. Throttle. Repeat.
His hands move lightly across the wheel while his feet work the pedals without conscious thought, years of racing burned into muscle memory. The track is a rhythm he knows by heart. And because of that… his mind drifts. Just a little.
The roar of the engine fades slightly beneath the helmet as his thoughts wander to the quiet hum of his apartment, the cold air conditioning, the glow of his phone screen as he scrolls through Netflix for a new show to binge.
The white car lingers behind him. Nothing threatening, just a shadow tucked into his wake as the final sector approaches. Two tight corners followed by the long sweeping turn leading to the finish line.
Perth prepares automatically, easing the throttle and adjusting brake bias with his thumb. Then, out of nowhere, something flashes in the corner of his vision. White and fast. Very fast.
The rookie dives wide on the outside line entering the final turn. The white car isn’t trailing anymore, it’s beside him. Taking the outside line at a speed that shouldn’t work, holding the throttle longer than any sane driver would before braking late and hard, trusting the grip of the tires and the physics of the machine beneath him.
The maneuver is reckless. Brilliant.
And Perth feels it immediately. That jolt. The thing he’s been missing. His attention snaps back instantly, adrenaline flooding his veins so violently it almost makes him dizzy, fingers tightening around the wheel as his body tenses against the harness.
“Oh, you little-”
The white car edges forward as they sweep through the turn, and for half a second Perth sees the finish line approaching with someone else in front of him.
Perth downshifts brutally and cuts tighter toward the inside line, his car surging forward as experience calculates speed and angle faster than thought. He blocks the overtake and forces the white car wider.
The rookie hesitates. Just enough. Both cars blast across the finish line almost together.
Red first. White right behind.
Perth lifts off the throttle, his heart still hammering against his ribs. His breathing echoes inside the helmet as the car rolls down the cool-down lane and the engine finally settles. Sweat clings his undershirt to his spine, but the rush in his blood hasn’t faded yet.
He knows exactly what that finish means. He only won because the rookie didn’t anticipate the block. One heartbeat slower, one slightly different angle through that final corner, and Perth would have been staring at someone else’s rear wing crossing the line first.
Perth Tanapon hates losing.
He exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his pulse down as the car glides back into pit lane and the engines around him wind down into lower growls. The white car rolls in beside him and cuts its engine almost immediately.
The kid climbs out with the same efficient speed he showed getting in earlier, movements quick and precise like he can't stand being in the car any longer. His helmet comes off with his back turned toward Perth, dark hair damp with sweat as he shakes it loose.
He exchanges a few quick words with Terry. Perth watches through the windshield as the crew chief’s face splits into a grin so wide it looks borderline ridiculous. The old man claps the rookie hard on the back like he just witnessed a miracle instead of a training lap.
The kid’s shoulders shake, in laughter maybe, and then he jogs toward the pit building without another word or glance back. Perth watches him go and something in his jaw tightens.
He kills the engine and pulls off his helmet slowly, running a hand through his damp hair while cooler air hits the back of his neck. His gloves come off next, peeled away finger by finger as the adrenaline continues to burn low and sharp beneath his skin.
When he climbs out of the car, Terry is already waiting with his arms crossed, looking smug as hell. Perth wipes a streak of sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist while Terry stands there, clearly waiting for confirmation of something he already knows.
Perth sighs. “He’s not… completely lousy.”
Terry’s grin widens even further in response. A clear I told you so. Perth rolls his eyes and walks away before the old man can open his mouth and start talking about talent or potential or whatever nonsense he’s undoubtedly about to spew.
Once inside, the familiar concrete hallway stretches ahead, walls lined with framed photos from years of races. Perth’s own face stares back at him from more than half of them: victory shots, podium finishes, magazine spreads. He barely looks anymore.
The locker rooms sit at the end of the main pit building, tucked behind a heavy door that creaks slightly when he pushes it open. Inside, the space is exactly how he remembers it from twenty minutes ago.
Concrete floors. Fluorescent lights humming overhead. Rows of dented metal lockers that have survived decades of angry racers slamming them shut after bad laps. The air smells faintly of soap, sweat, and the lingering grease that never quite washes off even after hours in the shower.
The only unfamiliar sight is the rookie sitting on a bench inside. But now he finally has a face.
The kid is… pretty. A lot prettier than anyone Perth has ever raced against. It has him starting for a second longer than he means to.
Pale skin flushed lightly from the heat of the run. A slim face with sharp lines and high cheekbones. Big dark eyes framed by damp strands of hair stuck to his temples and the back of his neck. A set of full lips parted slightly as he catches his breath.
When he notices Perth, the rookie straightens immediately and gets to his feet. They look about the same height, but standing close enough now, Perth can tell he has at least ten kilos on the kid without trying.
His grey racing suit is unzipped down to his waist, sleeves hanging loose around his hips. Underneath, he's in a black tank top soaked completely through with sweat, clinging tightly enough to show off a firm chest and long lines of muscle across his shoulders.
When the silence between them stretches, the rookie finally presses his palms together in greeting. Almost like an afterthought. Perth leans his shoulder against the wall, folding his arms across his chest.
“A bit late for politeness, don’t you reckon?”
Most rookies flinch when he talks like that. This one doesn’t. He just drops his hands and looks Perth directly in the eye.
“It was a good race."
His voice isn’t what Perth expected. It’s rougher than he thought it would be, slightly raspy from the strain, but lighter than Perth’s own, the words rolling out almost melodically.
“... I had fun.”
Perth smirks. “Don’t lie. Only winners have fun.”
The rookie tilts his head slightly, studying him with open curiosity.
“That can’t always be true,” he says.
Perth lifts an eyebrow. The kid gestures loosely toward him.
“You don’t look like you’re having much fun,” he explains calmly. “Even though you just won.”
Perth lets out a quiet huff of amusement before pushing himself off the wall.
“You’re not too bad,” he admits, tone dismissive. “Maybe in a couple of years you’ll be something close to an actual threat to someone like me.”
He stops a few steps away. “If you train hard enough.”
The rookie’s mouth curves. “I plan to beat someone like you way sooner than that.”
Perth’s jaw tightens despite himself. The kid notices, and smiles wider. Perth isn't too happy that the first thing his brain registers about it is that it’s a pretty smile.
“I could tell that much from today’s race,” the rookie ends.
Perth sighs. “This is exactly why I don’t race newbies.”
The rookie shrugs. “I didn’t ask for this either.”
Perth pauses. The kid continues, voice still annoyingly calm.
“The crew chief's idea. My contract says to do what he advises, so I did.”
Perth steps closer, just enough that the space between them tightens. His dark eyes narrow slightly as his voice dips lower.
“You should know how lucky you are to get a chance to race me.”
The rookie’s gaze sharpens. “Don’t assume everyone’s a fan.”
Perth’s glare hardens.
“I only respect racers who respect the sport,” the smart mouthed rookie adds.
For a moment neither of them moves. The space between them turns thick, heavy with something rough and electric. But the tension dissipates almost as quickly as it forms when the rookie shifts.
He grabs the hem of his tank top and pulls it over his head in one quick motion before tossing it aside. It musses his hair further but Perth doesn't get a proper look because he's already turning toward the showers without another word.
Perth stays exactly where he is, hands clenched and jaw tight. Watching the pale line of the rookie’s back disappear through the steam filled doorway. And for the first time in months, Perth Tanapon feels something dangerously close to excitement again.
_…🏁…_
Finding the rookie’s name is easy enough now that they're racing for the same team.
Santa Pongsapak. Twenty years old. Fresh out of the rookie league and Vortex’s newest signing, the name already starting to circulate through forums and commentary threads. The kind of early hype that tends to build quickly around drivers who show promise before they’ve had the chance to prove anything yet.
Perth tells himself it isn’t even mild curiosity the first time he opens the kid’s footage on his laptop a couple nights after their race. He’s bored, that’s all, and boredom has always been a dangerous thing for someone like him. It leaves too much empty space in his head for thoughts to start circling things he normally wouldn’t waste time on.
His apartment is quiet around him the way it always is. Too big for one person and too clean for someone who spends most of his days covered in grease and rubber dust. The large windows reflect the glow of the city skyline back into the room, neon lights blinking lazily against the glass.
Perth sits in his pajamas on the couch, one leg stretched across the coffee table, laptop balanced against his thigh, takeaway containers scattered nearby from a dinner he barely remembers eating. On the screen flashes the title of the video.
Santa Pongsapak – Junior League Championship Final 2024.
Perth snorts softly. “Let’s see what the hype’s about.”
The race begins the moment he presses play.
The circuit is smaller than anything Perth has raced on in years, cramped stands packed with amateur fans and cheap sponsor banners whipping around in the wind. The cars themselves aren’t nearly as powerful as the machines used in the national circuit either, but the rookie's in white still, looking at ease behind the wheel.
Santa drives aggressively, but not sloppily. Late braking into corners, razor tight apex lines, smooth throttle control that wastes almost no motion at all. There’s none of the nervous overcorrection tryhards usually fall into when they push a car too hard.
Every movement looks deliberate. Like the kid already understands the machine beneath him completely. It has Perth leaning forward without noticing.
Halfway through one corner he pauses the video, rewinds and watches it again. The car ahead of Santa fishtails unexpectedly, the driver clearly losing control for a split second. Santa has already adjusted his line, two seconds before the spin even happens.
Perth raises an eyebrow slowly. “Huh.”
The rest of the race unfolds loudly on the screen while the city lights flicker behind him, Santa slipping through to victory with a precision that feels almost irritatingly natural. Perth finishes that race, then clicks the next video without thinking much about it.
Then another. And another.
By the time he finally shuts his laptop, the clock on the kitchen counter reads well past three in the morning and the food on the coffee table has long since gone cold.
The kid is good. Really good.
Too good for junior leagues.
The thought lingers in the back of Perth’s mind over the next few days, resurfacing occasionally in quiet moments when he finds himself scrolling through videos again, until one evening he ends up clicking on an interview without really remembering how he got there.
Santa sits beneath the bright studio lights looking faintly uncomfortable, dressed in dark leather with his fingers loosely linked in his lap as he answers questions in short, careful sentences. He looks younger here, dark hair falling into his eyes and long lashes casting shadows across pale skin under the lights.
Still pretty.
“What does it feel like being one of the most promising drivers of your generation?” the interviewer asks brightly.
Santa shifts in his chair. “I’m just trying to get faster.”
“Do you think you could compete with the top drivers already?”
“I’ll find out when I race them.”
No arrogance or flashy answers. Just quiet focus. It reminds Perth of the things he used to say when reporters first started sticking microphones in his face years ago. But Santa's more filtered, more controlled. Professional despite his young age.
The interviewer keeps trying to steer the conversation toward endorsements and celebrity attention, but Santa dodges every attempt with polite, clipped answers that leave very little room to continue the topic. He smiles when he needs to, looks at the cameras sparsely.
Perth leans back into the couch.
“Weird kid,” he mutters under his breath before clicking the next interview anyway.
By the time the next practice week rolls around, Perth tells himself he’s heading to the circuit because he needs the track time. Which is technically true, but just not the whole truth.
The early morning sun burns bright yellow across the asphalt when Santa’s white car tears down the straight, the engine screaming loud enough to make the empty stands tremble. Perth leans against the pit wall with his arms folded across his chest, sunglasses hiding his eyes while the car rockets toward the first corner.
Santa takes it too fast. Or at least it looks that way. But the car holds the line perfectly. The tires grip, and the younger racer exits the corner clean. Perth feels his pulse kick slightly faster just from watching.
The kid’s instincts are ridiculous.
Santa rockets through the next sector, gravel spraying behind the tires as he pushes the limits again and again, the car dancing dangerously close to losing traction but never quite tipping over the edge.
Perth watches the entire run. Then the next one, two days later. Then another. Week after week. He tells himself he’s studying the competition, preparing for whatever stunt Terry might pull next. But the truth is simpler than that.
Watching Santa race is the first interesting thing that’s happened to him in months. The accidental run-ins between their schedules and brief conversations turn out to be even more interesting.
And more irritating.
Because the kid barely acknowledges him.
After one practice run Perth offers a backhanded compliment while Santa pulls off his gloves.
“You didn’t embarrass yourself today.”
Santa shrugs casually. “Good to know you approve.”
Then he walks away.
Another afternoon Perth calls out from the pit wall.
“Your corner entry’s still sloppy.”
Santa doesn’t even stop walking. “I’ll have it corrected by the next run.”
Polite but dismissive. It irritates Perth more than it should. Gets under his skin and stays there like a splinter he can’t quite dig out. And yet, somehow, it makes him want to race the kid even more.
Late one afternoon the circuit is nearly empty, the sun hanging low over the horizon, long shadows stretch across the pit lane. Perth stands beside Terry and a few other crew members while Santa’s white car tears down the final straight, the engine roaring like distant thunder.
Terry whistles softly. “He’s really got that something, doesn’t he?”
Perth watches the car slice through the final sector.
“He’s got… something.”
“It pulls you in,” Terry mutters thoughtfully before glancing sideways at him. “The way he drives.”
Then the old man’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer.
“You can tell too. That's why you’ve been watching him for weeks, ain't it?”
It is. Perth doesn’t answer.
“You know the kid beat your all-time practice record two days ago, right?” Terry questions with a grin.
Perth already knows that too. But he doesn’t react immediately. He watches Santa carve through the final corner again. Clean, precise, brutally fast. Then he shrugs.
“Practice runs don’t mean shit.”
Terry snorts loudly, amused.
“Races aren’t won on empty roads,” Perth continues flatly. “You need opponents. A million eyes watching. Something actually at stake. Until he proves himself on the big stage, he's just another faceless racer.”
He’s already turning away as he adds, “It’s what separates champions from wannabes.”
Terry laughs loudly behind him. “Didn’t know I raised a poet!”
Perth walks away but doesn’t leave. Not really.
Instead he drifts toward the locker rooms. The concrete floors echo faintly under his sneakers while fluorescent lights hum overhead, rows of dented lockers lining the walls like silent witnesses. He leans against the far wall and waits. Ten minutes later, the door swings open.
Santa walks in with his helmet tucked beneath one arm, flushed while sweat dampens the edges of his hair. His grey practice suit is half unzipped again, sleeves tied loosely around his waist this time. The smile on his face disappears the moment his eyes land on Perth.
Perth pushes himself off the wall. “What’s so funny?”
Santa shrugs. “Got praised.”
Perth snorts. But the rookie isn’t finished.
“According to the crew chief, I’ll definitely give you a run for your money next time we race.”
Perth doesn't hesitate. “I have no intention of racing you again, kid.”
A blatant lie to incite a reaction. And it works. Because when he turns toward the door, Santa's already there, stepping directly into his path. Blocking it.
Perth’s gaze drops to a thin line of sweat sliding down Santa’s jawline, catching the bright lighting before trailing along his throat and finally disappearing beneath the lining of his tank. When he forces his attention back up, he sees Santa watching him closely.
“Then why have you been watching me so much lately?” he asks plainly. “If you aren’t interested?”
Perth tilts his head.
“And you?” he counters. “Why do you want to race me so badly?”
His gaze narrows slightly. “Was that whole I’m not a fan thing a lie?”
That actually flusters the rookie, just for a moment. But Perth notices immediately. The hesitation. The faint color rising across Santa’s cheeks that definitely isn’t from the heat. His eyebrows lift fractionally.
“I want to be the best,” Santa finally says, voice quieter now but still steady. His eyes lock onto Perth’s.
“To do that, I need to beat the best.”
The air between them shifts again. Turns into something heavy and charged just like that first meeting. Perth studies him openly and Santa lets him, standing his ground without looking away. Slowly, Perth steps closer. Close enough that the space between them disappears entirely.
His voice drops. “You really think you can beat me?”
Santa’s breathing is uneven again. But he nods without hesitation. “I know I can.”
“That's big talk.”
“Let me back it up.”
Perth smiles. “Okay.”
Santa blinks. “Okay?”
“But I don’t race without stakes,” Perth adds, the words leaving his mouth before he’s fully thought them through. “What's in it for me?”
Santa answers instantly. “If I lose, anything you want.”
Perth’s smile sharpens into a smirk. He extends his hand.
“I’m busy this week. How bout next Friday?”
Santa studies his hand for a moment before looking back up again, dark eyes bright with something dangerously close to excitement.
“But if I win?”
“You won’t,” Perth replies instantly.
“But if I do?” he presses.
Perth sighs.
“Same thing,” he drawls. “Whatever you want.”
Santa nods once. Then he clasps Perth’s hand. The handshake is firm. Warm, even.
“Okay,” the younger racer says, his smile more genuine than anything he's ever given Perth before.
“Deal.”
_…🏁…_
The hallway feels too narrow for the way Perth is moving through it.
His boots strike the concrete hard and fast, each step echoing sharply off the walls as he stalks toward the locker rooms with a restless energy that has nowhere else to go. Not yet anyway.
The sounds of the circuit are already beginning to fade behind him: engines ticking as they cool, crew members shouting across the pit lane, the distant clank of tools and metal. But inside his head the race is still roaring.
His heart is pounding so violently in his chest that it almost hurts, each beat slamming against his ribs with a singular purpose. The adrenaline hasn’t left his bloodstream yet, flooding every nerve under his skin, lighting him up from the inside until his entire body feels wired and awake in a way it hasn’t in months.
Years, maybe.
Perth yanks his gloves off as he walks, teeth tugging at the leather when sweat makes them cling. The first glove hits the floor without a glance back, the second a moment later. He can still see the race vividly when he closes his eyes.
Santa’s white car diving into the last corner. The way the kid held the line. The way Perth had to fight for it, really fight, to keep the lead. For the first time in years the finish line didn’t feel guaranteed. For the first time in longer than he can remember, Perth Tanapon crossed it with the raw, electric realization that he might actually lose.
It had been exhilarating. And equally terrifying.
It was everything racing is supposed to feel like. But it wasn’t the grandstands that did it. Not the roaring crowd or the trophies or the cameras or the magazine covers that normally came with a win. Not even the usual lineup of elite drivers with legacies and championships breathing down his neck.
This time it had been more basic. Perth simply hadn’t wanted to lose the wager he made a week ago. In a beat up locker room against a rookie with bright eyes and a future so bright, it almost felt inevitable.
Santa Pongsapak…
The locker room door slams open beneath Perth’s hand.
Santa is already there.
His racing suit is half unzipped like always, grey fabric hanging loose around his hips with the sleeves dangling from his waist. His skin gleams faintly with sweat beneath the bright lights, dark strands of hair clinging damply to his temples and neck. His face is still flushed from the race, his eyes still wide. And they lock onto Perth the second he walks in.
Santa doesn’t smile but he straightens where he stands, something instinctive in the movement. Like he already knows something is about to happen. Maybe he sees it in the way Perth is looking at him: eyes dark and fixed, jaw tight with a tension that hasn’t gone anywhere since the moment the checkered flag dropped.
Perth shuts the door behind him. The click of the lock echoes through the room. Santa’s brows draw together.
“You won,” he mutters softly. “So what do you-”
He never gets to finish.
Perth closes the distance between them in two long strides and shoves him back against the lockers. Hard enough that the metal rings out loudly as Santa’s back collides with it, the sharp clang bouncing off the concrete walls. The younger racer's eyes widen just a fraction in surprise before Perth leans in.
And kisses him.
It isn’t soft or careful. There’s nothing tentative about it at all.
It’s heat and adrenaline and weeks of pent up frustration Perth didn’t even realize had been building inside him until now, all crashing together at once the moment their mouths meet. Santa gasps in surprise and Perth swallows the sound immediately.
One hand slides up to grip the rookie’s jaw, fingers firm against the line of his face as he tilts Santa’s head back and presses closer, harder, chasing the taste of him before the other man can even catch his breath.
The kiss turns messy almost instantly. Tongue and teeth and the sharp rush of breath that still hasn’t steadied from the race. Perth tastes sweat and heat and something electric that shoots straight down his spine, tightening low in his stomach. Santa makes a choked sound against his mouth, and Perth can’t even begin to decide whether it’s protest or something else.
He doesn’t stop to figure it out. There’s no space for second thoughts.
Perth just wants.
The kind of want that hits fast and hard and reckless, the kind he hasn’t felt in a long time. Not even the most beautiful people who’ve ended up in his bed recently have managed to spark anything close to this sharp and dizzying rush.
Santa recovers faster than Perth expects. His hands come up quickly, grabbing the front of Perth’s racing suit like he might shove him away. But he doesn’t. Instead his fingers tighten in the fabric and pull.
The material bunches beneath the rookie’s fists as Perth’s already loosened zipper shifts lower, the sudden pressure dragging them closer together while Santa leans into the kiss. His lips part willingly now, his head tipping back against the lockers with another dull clang that sounds suspiciously like surrender.
Perth growls into his mouth.
His tongue pushes deeper, tasting and claiming and chasing every ragged breath Santa manages to pull in between kisses. The rookie’s lips are hot and soft and stubborn, kissing back harder than someone caught off guard should. That alone sends another hot rush through Perth’s veins.
He wants more. Needs it.
Perth’s hand slides down from Santa’s jaw, gripping and squeezing, down to the zipper at the younger man's stomach. His mouth trails away to drag across the line of Santa’s jaw, teeth grazing the flushed skin there before he presses another bruising kiss to the side of his throat.
Santa’s breathing stutters in response. His chest rises and falls harder with each inhale. Perth shifts closer, nipping lightly at the sensitive spot beneath his ear before soothing it with a slow swipe of his tongue.
“If you’re gonna punch me,” Perth murmurs roughly, voice already strained, “do it now.”
His fingers curl around the zipper.
“Because I’m not stopping.”
The rookie doesn’t punch him.
Instead, a quiet sound slips from his throat, soft and a little wrecked, as his hands slide down to Perth’s hips. His grip tightens, tugging Perth closer until their bodies press flush together through the thick racing suits, lining up in a way that sends heat flaring between them.
Perth lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. The zipper slides down as far as it will go, exposing more of the flimsy layers beneath Santa’s suit. Layers Perth suddenly has absolutely no patience for. The locker room seems to shrink around them as he shoves the tight fabric down past the rookie’s hips, bunching it around the curve of his ass, and then lower.
Santa sucks in a sharp breath, the sudden rush of cooler air across sweaty skin making his shoulders tense beneath Perth’s hands. The fireproof lining bunches awkwardly around his thighs, trapping him half in and half out of the suit, and the position leaves him looking completely at Perth's mercy.
And he notices everything.
The way Santa’s stomach tightens under his gaze. The way his chest rises and falls hard enough that the hollow beneath his collarbones deepens with every inhale. The way his lips already look swollen from their kisses. Perth’s fingers drag slowly across the exposed skin at Santa’s waist, feeling the warmth of it.
Santa shivers at the touch. His lids hang heavy as he locks eyes with Perth again, his movements almost languid as though the adrenaline still running through his body has turned liquid and thick in his veins. He reaches down, fingers hooking beneath the hem of the undershirt still clinging damply to his torso, and pulls it over his head in one quick motion before tossing it carelessly across the locker room floor.
Perth’s gaze drops immediately.
The younger racer’s build is lean and defined, long lines of muscle across narrow shoulders and strong arms, his smooth and firm chest rising steadily. Drops of sweat trace down his collarbones, down his torso and small waist before disappearing beneath the line of his underwear.
The sight alone has Perth straining painfully inside his own suit. But he forces his focus lower, toward the bulge at the center of Santa’s body, still concealed beneath the tight black fabric of his briefs.
Perth wets his lips slowly. His hand drifts down with a single, deliberate purpose. But Santa catches his wrist before he can reach it. The rookie holds him there with both hands, grip strong despite the tremor running through his fingers.
“We’re in the locker room,” Santa reminds him, voice barely a whisper, eyes wide and searching.
“I know,” Perth answers. Even to his own ears his voice sounds gruff and pained. Santa studies him for a moment.
“What’re you planning to do?”
Perth leans closer instead of answering. His mouth brushes Santa’s collarbone, teeth sinking down just hard enough to make the younger racer jerk beneath him.
“Whatever I want,” Perth murmurs against his marked skin. “I won. Remember?”
Santa’s response comes out as a choked breath when Perth slides his hand down into the front of his underwear.
He’s already half hard, hot and heavy when Perth’s fingers close around him. With his other hand, Perth shoves the fabric down impatiently to pull him free. His cock is flushed and pretty, just like the rest of him, the heat of it pulsing against Perth’s palm.
A low hum escapes Santa’s chest as Perth grips the base of it, testing the weight before lifting his palm briefly to his own mouth and spitting into it. When he grips him again, the slick pressure makes Santa’s body jolt.
“F-fuck…” the rookie breathes.
His head tips back against the metal lockers with a hollow clang, shoulders pressed firmly against the cold surface while the rest of his body arches forward, hips almost instinctively pushing closer to Perth. His eyes flutter shut as he drags in a ragged breath.
“You like that, rookie?”
Perth works him steadily, his grip tightening just enough as his hand slides from tip to base in a fast, relentless rhythm that never quite slows long enough for Santa to catch his breath. He watches the effect with a kind of dark fascination.
The veins along Santa’s neck stand out sharply beneath flushed skin. His face deepens to a darker red with every passing second, and when his eyes open again his pupils are blown wide. Curses slip from between parted lips, tangled with small, helpless sounds he clearly isn’t trying to hold back.
Perth lowers his face to the crook of the other racer's shoulder as his hand quickens. He inhales deeply there, greedy for the scent of sweat and heat clinging to the younger man’s skin, the sharp musk of exertion now laced with something heavier. Something unmistakably like sex.
“You close, rookie?” he mutters against bruising skin, his voice low and almost cruel.
His thumb presses hard into the leaking tip, spreading the moisture there just enough to drag another strangled sound from Santa’s throat. His fingers dig into Perth’s shoulders as he swears under his breath again, before a hoarse please slips out.
The sound sends a dangerous jolt straight through Perth’s spine. It’s so desperately hot he thinks he might come just from hearing it. His own need is beginning to ache, sharp and insistent, balls tightening with it.
Which is exactly why he pulls his hand away.
Santa’s hips jerk forward instinctively, chasing the touch before he can stop himself. When the contact disappears completely, he looks up at Perth with wide, confused eyes, his brows pulled together and lips parted as he drags air back into his lungs.
“Why’d you stop?” he asks, voice laced in frustration.
Perth straightens slightly and grabs Santa by the back of his neck, yanking him into another kiss.
Quick, bruising, all teeth and heat, more a clash than anything careful. Perth’s mouth presses against Santa’s just long enough to steal the breath right out of him again, the lockers rattling faintly behind him. Then he lets go again, just as abruptly.
“I changed my mind,” he says into Santa's mouth, sounding far more composed than he actually feels. His pulls back, gaze darkening.
“Get on your knees.”
Perth doesn’t wait for an answer. He grabs Santa by the hips and spins them until his back meets the lockers, the metal cold even through the fabric of his grey suit. His hands rise to Santa’s shoulders and shove him down, firm and commanding.
The rookie goes willingly.
His knees hit the tiled floor with a dull, hollow thud that echoes faintly through the locker room. Immediately, his eyes lift again. And the expression on his face sends another sharp thrill racing down Perth’s body.
It’s raw and unfiltered. Hungry.
Perth’s mouth tilts into a slow, satisfied smirk.
He drags the zipper of his own suit open further. The fabric parts as he peels it off his shoulders, the muscles in his arms and chest flexing with every movement. The suit slides down his torso, revealing the ink that curls along his upper arms and across his ribs.
Santa watches every second of it.
The rookie's breathing has steadied again, but his eyes are fixed on Perth with a focus that almost feels like he's about to race again. When Perth finally shoves the suit down enough to free himself, pulling his cock out, Santa’s gaze trails down to it instantly.
“You’ve done this before, right?” Perth asks, stroking himself once.
He reaches down with his free hand and curls his fingers into the hair at the back of Santa’s neck, tilting his head just enough so their eyes meet.
“Don’t bite my dick off because you lost, hmm?”
Santa doesn’t answer. He just stares up at him, something stubborn and defiant flashing in his eyes before he finally leans in.
Perth feels his breath first, hot and heavy against sensitive skin, before Santa’s mouth brushes the head in slow, teasing touches. Small nips, barely there licks. The contact alone makes Perth’s body jerk, his fingers tightening in Santa’s hair as he fights the instinct to push forward.
Santa takes his time, testing and tasting, dragging the moment out. And when his lips finally part wide enough to take cock into his mouth, the sudden moist heat and tightness pulls a groan from Perth’s chest before he can stop it.
Santa starts with shallow bobs, like he’s figuring out how much he’s willing to take. Perth’s hand drifts to his jaw, thumb pressing lightly as he tilts his head back a little further, guiding and coaxing. Santa relents pretty quickly.
More of Perth's length slips past his lips, lips stretched thin now. His tongue flattens along the underside as he pulls back once before sinking down again, further this time. Perth moans softly when he nudges the back of Santa’s mouth.
“Just like that,” he murmurs raggedly, brushing the hair away from Santa’s eyes. “A little more.”
Santa makes a soft sound around him, and then the pace changes.
Faster and more confident. More reckless.
The rhythm grows messy and desperate, the rookie's hands sliding from where they were gripping the base of Perth’s cock to wrap around his hips instead. His fingers dig into the flesh of Perth’s ass hard enough to sting.
Perth hisses. “F-fuck, mmh- rookie…”
He forces himself to keep his head from tipping back, to keep his eyes open. Because the sight in front of him is far too good to miss.
Santa on his knees. His usually immaculate racing suit crumpled and forgotten around his thighs, his own cock hard and leaking between his legs. His face flushed deep red, saliva slipping down the line of his jaw. His eyes glassy with tears as his cheeks hollow around Perth's girth while he moves faster and faster.
It’s loud and messy and wet. Borderline painful.
And Perth absolutely loves it.
The pressure in his stomach starts building far too quickly than he wants, pulse quickening and breathing turning rough as the edge creeps closer. Santa chooses that exact moment to push further.
His throat opens and suddenly Perth is deep enough to make him gag. The sound sends a shock through his system as Santa chokes softly, nose pressing into the dark hair at the base of Perth's pelvis as he takes him deeper.
“Sa- Santa-!”
Perth’s whole frame goes rigid like a drawn bowstring a moment before he's coming harder than he's ever come in his life. He grabs at Santa’s head reflexively, fingers tightening in his hair as he spills down the other racer's throat, his body shaking with the force of it.
The rush is unbelievable. Almost blinding. For a split second it feels exactly like crossing a finish line at full speed, adrenaline exploding through Perth's chest. When it finally fades, his grip loosens.
Santa pulls back with a rough coughing fit, breathing hard as he braces against the floor, on his hands and knees. A bit of Perth’s release slips from the corner of his mouth and drips onto the tiles below.
Perth’s legs give out next, sliding him down against the lockers until he’s sitting on the floor, chest heaving, limbs heavy and spent. He manages to drag a hand across his face before laughing, the sound bubbling up raw and unrestrained.
“We made a mess.”
The rookie studies him quietly for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he scoffs.
“Next time, I’m definitely finishing ahead of you.”
Perth snorts and looks down at the floor between them. There’s more than just his own cum there. Apparently the rookie hadn’t been idle while he was giving Perth his prize.
“I think you already did that.”
Santa's eyes narrow and Perth loves how there's not a single hint of shame or regret. Only a fierce determination.
“In a race, I mean,” he says.
Perth’s grin spreads, slow and smug.
“Fine. But when I win, again, you’re gonna let me take you back to my place,” he says, eyes lingering on exposed skin he has yet to sample, “let me fuck you properly.”
Perth also loves how Santa doesn’t even try to hide how much the idea excites him: his pupils dilating, the faint tremor that ripples down his spine.
“And if I win?” Santa asks quietly, still a little breathless.
“You won’t.”
“But if I do?”
That familiar thrill stirs in Perth’s chest again. The same one that made him fall in love with racing in the first place. He meets the rookie's gaze without blinking.
“Same thing,” he offers easily. “You get to fuck me.”
Santa smiles then.
Wide and pretty. Even prettier with his swollen lips and flushed face.
“Okay, deal.”
_…🏁…_