Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Tyler
Cole doesn't say much on the drive.
Which is good, because if he did, I'd probably snap at him.
The pain in my shoulder pulses with every bump in the road, sharp and annoying, my ribs not feeling much better, my whole body buzzing with leftover adrenaline that has nowhere to go now that the race is over for me.
Over because I screwed up.
Because I lost control for half a second.
Because I fell.
My jaw tightens as I stare out the window, watching the dark blur of the road pass by.
I hate this.
Not just the pain.
Not just the fact that my bike is probably wrecked.
But the way it ended.
Out of control.
Out of my hands.
"Could've been worse," Cole mutters from the driver's seat, one hand resting on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against it.
I don't answer.
"Ty," he tries again, glancing at me. "You good?"
I let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
"Do I look good?"
He huffs. "You look like you got your ass handed to you by the ground."
"Yeah, well," I mutter, shifting slightly and instantly regretting it when pain shoots through my side, "ground started it."
That earns a small smirk from him, but it fades quickly.
"You sure nothing's broken?" he asks.
"I'm fine," I say, sharper than I mean to.
Silence.
Cole doesn't push.
He just nods slightly and keeps driving.
Good.
Because I don't want to talk.
Not about the crash.
Not about the race.
And definitely not about Aaron.
We pull up outside my place a few minutes later, headlights cutting through the darkness, and the second the car stops, I'm already reaching for the door.
"I got it," I mutter, even though he hasn't said anything yet.
Cole sighs but doesn't argue.
"Text me if you need anything," he says instead. "Or if you start dying or whatever."
"I won't," I reply, pushing the door open.
He snorts. "Yeah, you will."
I don't bother answering.
I step out, shutting the door behind me a little harder than necessary, then stand there for a second, staring at the house.
Lights are on.
Of course they are.
I exhale slowly, already feeling the tension creeping back in.
I should've known.
I make my way towards the front door, every movement reminding me exactly how hard I hit the ground earlier, and push the door open.
The smell hits me first.
Alcohol.
Of course.
"She's home," I mutter under my breath.
"Tyler?"
Her voice comes from the living room, slurred, uneven.
I close my eyes for a second.
Yeah.
She's home.
I step inside, shutting the door behind me, and there she is—on the couch, a half-empty bottle in her hand, eyes glassy, movements slow as she turns toward me.
And then she sees me.
The way I'm holding myself.
The way I'm limping slightly.
The dirt, the bruises already forming.
Her expression changes instantly.
Fear.
Pure, raw fear.
"Oh my God—" she breathes, pushing herself up too quickly, nearly stumbling as she crosses the room. "Tyler—what happened? What—what did you do?"
I tense immediately.
"I'm fine," I say, already trying to move past her.
She grabs my arm.
"Don't—don't say that," she snaps, voice shaking. "Don't you dare say that to me like it's nothing—look at you!"
"I said I'm fine," I repeat, pulling my arm free.
"You're not fine!" she fires back, her voice rising now, panic bleeding into anger. "You're hurt—you're hurt, Tyler, just like—"
She stops.
But it's too late.
We both know what she was going to say.
Kevin.
My jaw clenches hard enough it hurts.
"I'm not him," I say, my voice low, controlled in a way that's barely holding.
Her face crumples slightly, but she shakes her head.
"No—no, but you're doing the same thing," she insists, stepping closer again. "You're on that bike, taking those risks, acting like nothing can happen, and then one day—one day you won't walk through that door again and I—" her voice breaks. "I can't lose you too."
Something inside me breaks.
Because she's not helping.
She's never helping.
"You're not losing me," I say sharply. "It was a crash. That's it."
"That's how it starts!" she cries. "That's exactly how it starts—first it's nothing, then it's—"
"Stop," I cut in, my voice harder now.
"You think I can just sit here and watch you do this to yourself?" she keeps going, tears in her eyes now, anger mixing with fear and alcohol and grief until it's all tangled together into something messy and suffocating. "After what happened to your brother? After what I already lost?"
"I said stop!" I snap, louder this time.
Silence crashes down between us.
My chest is rising fast now, pain flaring with every breath, but I barely feel it over everything else boiling under my skin.
"You don't get to do this," I say, my voice shaking now, anger slipping through the cracks. "You don't get to act like you fucking care now."
Her expression falters.
"What is that supposed to mean?" she asks, quieter.
"It means," I continue, stepping back, shaking my head, "you don't get to sit there, drunk out of your mind every night, barely noticing I exist, and then suddenly freak out when I get hurt like you've been here the whole time."
"Tyler—"
"No," I cut her off. "You don't get to say his name every time something happens to me like I'm just some replacement you're waiting to lose again."
Her face goes pale.
"That's not fair," she whispers.
I laugh bitterly.
"Yeah?" I shoot back. "Neither is growing up with a fucking ghost in the house."
Well, fuck it, I guess.
She flinches, her grip tightens around the bottle in her hand.
But I don't stop.
Because I'm too far gone now.
Too pissed.
Too tired.
"I'm not Kevin," I say again, quieter but sharper. "And I'm not gonna stop living my life because you're stuck in the past."
Tears slip down her cheeks now, but I don't feel bad.
Not right now.
"I'm trying to protect you," she says weakly.
"No," I reply flatly. "You're trying to control something you already lost."
She doesn't have anything left to say after that.
Good.
Because neither do I.
I shake my head once, turning away from her, ignoring the way my body protests as I head down the hallway.
"Tyler, wait—" she calls after me.
I don't.
I reach my room, shove the door open—
And slam it shut behind me hard enough the walls of the trailer shake.
The silence that follows is loud.
Too loud.
I stand there for a second, breathing hard, every part of me tense, aching, burning with leftover anger that has nowhere to go.
Then I move.
Pacing once.
Twice.
Before I grab the nearest thing—a helmet sitting on my desk—and shove it off, sending it crashing to the floor.
"Shit—!" I curse under my breath, running a hand through my hair, wincing as my shoulder protests again.
Everything hurts.
My body.
My head.
My chest.
I sink down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
And for a second my mind flashes back to the track.
To the crash.
To the moment right before it happened.
To—
Him.
Aaron.
The way he looked at me earlier.
The way he—
I shut my eyes tightly, shaking my head like I can force the thought out.
No.
Not dealing with that.
Not tonight.
I lean back against the wall instead, staring at the ceiling now, breathing slowly, trying to calm the storm still raging inside me.
It doesn't work.
Because everything—
everything—
feels like it's crashing down at the same time.
And there's nowhere to run from it now.
The silence doesn't last. It never does.
At first it's just my breathing—too loud, too uneven, filling up the room like there's not enough air left for anything else.
Then it's everything else.
All at once.
My mom's voice.
Kevin's name.
The crash.
The sound of metal scraping the ground.
Aaron's voice.
Aaron's face.
The way he looked at me before the race.
The way he looked at me after—
I push myself up too fast, pacing the room again, hands dragging through my hair, tugging hard enough it almost hurts.
"Stop—" I mutter under my breath. "Just—stop—"
But it doesn't.
It gets worse.
Because now it's not just thoughts.
It's feelings.
Everything I've been ignoring, shoving down, pretending wasn't there—
It all comes crashing in at once.
The anger.
The frustration.
The guilt.
The fear.
My chest tightens suddenly, sharp and suffocating, like something's squeezing the air right out of me.
I suck in a breath—
It doesn't feel like enough.
Another.
Still not enough.
"Shit—" I choke out, pressing a hand flat against my chest like that's gonna fix it.
My heart is racing now, too fast, too hard, like it's trying to break out.
My thoughts spiral faster.
What if I messed up the bike completely—
What if I can't race—
What if she's right—
What if I end up like Kevin—
"No," I snap, shaking my head hard. "No, no, no—"
But the name sticks.
Kevin.
The crash.
The funeral.
The way my mom looked that day—
My breath stutters.
I can't—
I can't breathe.
I stumble back slightly, knocking into the edge of the desk, barely registering the pain that shoots through my already bruised side.
"Get it together," I mutter, but my voice sounds wrong—tight, shaky, like it's not even mine.
Aaron.
Out of nowhere.
The memory of him hits like a punch.
His hands on me.
The way he looked at me.
The way he kissed and touched me like he was angry, like he was fighting something—
Like I was something to fight.
My stomach twists.
Because I don't even know what that means.
I don't know what any of this means.
I laugh suddenly, breathless and sharp and way too close to breaking.
"This is so messed up," I whisper.
Because it is.
Everything is.
I feel like I'm going to throw up.
My mom in the living room, drunk and crying over someone who isn't even here anymore.
My body aching from a crash I can still feel.
My bike probably wrecked.
My head spinning with things I don't understand.
And him.
Always him now.
I drag my hands down my face, breathing uneven, trying—failing—to get a grip.
I can't stay here.
The thought hits clear and sudden.
I can't stay here.
Not with her in the other room.
Not with the walls closing in.
Not with everything pressing down on me like this.
I need air.
I need space.
I need to get out.
I grab my jacket without thinking, shrugging it on with a wince as my shoulder protests sharply.
"Don't care," I mutter through my teeth.
I just need to go.
I reach for my phone but pause.
Cole.
I could call him, he'd come. I know he would.
But the thought of explaining this—of talking—of him hearing my voice like this—
"No," I decide quickly, shaking my head.
Not him.
Not tonight.
I shove the phone into my pocket anyway, heading for the door, ignoring the way my pulse is still racing, the way my chest still feels too tight.
I open it,
pause again.
Because suddenly I don't know where I'm going.
I can't drive.
My bike's gone.
There's nowhere open this late.
Nowhere that makes sense.
Nowhere that feels safe.
My brain supplies the worst possible answer.
Aaron.
I freeze.
"...No," I whisper immediately.
That's a bad idea. A terrible idea. The worst idea I've had all night.
I let out a shaky breath, leaning my head back against the door for a second.
Anywhere but there.
Right?
But my mind doesn't offer another option.
Because as much as I don't want to admit it—
He's the only one who feels...
I squeeze my eyes shut.
No.
Don't finish that thought.
Don't even go there.
But it's already too late.
Because my feet are moving before I can stop them.
Out the door.
Down the steps.
Into the night air that hits my lungs sharp and cold, but still not enough.
Walking faster than I should, ignoring the pain, ignoring the way my body protests every step, like if I slow down, I'll start thinking again—and I can't handle that right now.
The streets blur around me.
I don't even remember the turns.
Just the destination.
Just the one place my brain locked onto and refused to let go of.
By the time I get there, my breathing is still uneven, my chest still tight, my whole body buzzing with too much everything.
I stop in front of his place.
Stare at the door.
"What are you doing..." I mutter under my breath.
This is stupid.
He's the last person I should be here for.
But my hand lifts anyway.
Hovers.
I almost turn around.
Almost leave.
My chest tightens again.
My thoughts start spiraling again.
I knock.
Harder than I mean to.
Then I step back slightly, running a hand through my hair, breathing uneven, heart still racing as I stare at the door like I might regret this any second now.
But I don't leave.
The door opens fast.
Like he was already halfway there.
Aaron stands in the doorway, shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes already sharp—
And the second he sees me it gets worse.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he snaps, irritation immediate, automatic, like it's the only reaction he knows how to have when it comes to me.
Fair.
I probably look like a mess.
Actually—no.
I know I do.
My breathing's still uneven, too fast, my chest rising and falling like I just ran a mile, my hands not quite steady at my sides, and I can feel the dried dirt still on my clothes, the ache in my ribs, the sharp pull in my shoulder every time I move.
But it's not even that.
It's everything else.
And he sees it.
Because his expression shifts.
Not completely.
But enough.
The anger cracks just slightly, something else slipping through—something sharper, quieter—
Concern.
"...What happened?" he asks, voice lower now, eyes scanning me properly, taking in the way I'm standing, the way I'm breathing.
I shake my head quickly.
"I just—" My voice comes out wrong, rough, breath catching halfway through. "I need—"
Air.
Space
Words don't come out right.
Aaron frowns, stepping out onto the small porch, the door still half open behind him.
"You're hurt," he says, like he's just putting it together.
"I'm fine," I snap automatically, then immediately shake my head again. "No—I'm not—I just—"
My chest tightens again.
Not now.
Not here.
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once, like I can shake it off, like I can force my body to calm down.
It doesn't work.
"Tyler—" Aaron starts, more serious now.
"I need a ride," I cut in suddenly, the words coming out fast, desperate in a way I don't even try to hide. "Just—don't ask questions, okay? I just need you to drive."
He blinks at me.
"...A ride?" he repeats.
"Yeah," I say quickly, nodding too many times. "My bike's gone, Cole dropped me off, I can't— I just—" I stop, exhaling sharply. "Please."
The word hangs there.
Heavy.
Because I don't say that.
Not to him.
Not to anyone.
Aaron goes still.
For a second, I think he's gonna say no.
Tell me to get lost.
Remind me of every reason this is a bad idea.
Instead—
He swears quietly under his breath.
"Hold on," he mutters, turning back inside.
Relief hits so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
I don't move from the porch, just stand there, trying to get my breathing under control, staring at nothing, focusing on anything that isn't the way my chest still feels too tight.
A minute later, he's back.
Keys in hand.
"Let's go."
No questions.
Not yet.
I nod quickly, following him to the truck, climbing in carefully, biting back a wince as my ribs protest again.
He notices.
Of course he does.
But he doesn't say anything.
Just starts the engine.
Pulls out onto the road.
Silence fills the space between us, thick but not suffocating—just... there.
He glances at me once.
"Where?" he asks.
I stare ahead.
"Just drive," I say quietly. "I'll tell you."
He hesitates for half a second.
Then nods.
And drives.
I give directions in pieces.
Left.
Right.
Straight.
My voice steadier now, even if everything inside me still feels like it's barely holding together.
He doesn't question it.
Doesn't comment.
Just follows.
Street after street.
Turn after turn.
He slows slightly.
Because he recognizes it.
I can tell.
The shift in the way he sits.
The way his hands tighten just a little on the wheel.
"Tyler..." he starts, slower now.
I don't let him finish.
"Keep going."
My voice is quieter now, tired.
He doesn't argue.
A few seconds later, he pulls into the gravel lot.
The tires crunch softly under us as the truck rolls to a stop.
Silence settles in.
Heavy.
Still.
Aaron doesn't turn off the engine right away.
But he doesn't need to say it.
We both know where we are.
The cemetery.
I open the door before he can say anything, stepping out into the cool night air, the quiet wrapping around me instantly, different from before—less suffocating, more... still.
Grounding.
I don't look back.
I just walk.
I know the path without thinking.
I reach it.
For a second, I don't move.
Don't breathe.
Then I lower myself down slowly, ignoring the way my body protests, sitting in the grass in front of the headstone like I've done a hundred times before.
Like I always do when everything gets too loud.
Kevin.
The name hits differently here. Heavier.
I stare at it, my chest finally starting to slow, my breathing evening out just a little, like being here pulls me back together piece by piece.
I hear the truck door shut behind me.
Footsteps.
Aaron.
He doesn't come too close.
Just stops a few feet back.
Giving space.
Of course he does.
For a while neither of us says anything.
Just the sound of the wind moving softly through the trees, the quiet stretching out around us.
"...You always come here?" he asks, voice low.
I nod slightly, eyes still on the stone.
"Yeah."
Another silence.
He shifts behind me.
"I didn't know," he says.
I shrug a little.
"Not something I talk about."
"Yeah," he mutters. "I figured."
The whole town knows about Kevin, about what happened to him.
But no one talks about it.
Not really.
I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand over my face.
"My mom saw me tonight," I say suddenly, the words coming out quieter than I expect. "After the crash."
Aaron doesn't interrupt.
"She freaked out," I continue. "Started talking about him like—" I shake my head. "Like it's happening all over again."
My throat tightens slightly, but I push through it.
"I couldn't stay there," I admit. "I just... couldn't."
Silence again.
"...So you came to me," Aaron finally says..
I glance back at him.
"Yeah," I say, then I turn my gaze back to my brother's grave.