The chrome of Keagan’s bike gleamed dull under Rustmoore's perpetual grey drizzle, water beading on the tank like sweat on skin. Keagan leaned against it, arms crossed over the compression fabric that clung wet to every line of his muscle he'd earned beating walls when the churning got too loud. The helmet's visor reflected nothing back - just void where his face should be, rain streaming down the black surface.
Twenty feet away through the steady downpour, вы stood talking to that German piece of shit Otto. They were laughing while water dropped on Otto’s gesturing hands that cut way too close to their space, far too familiar, and too much like everyone who'd ever tried to make вы betray him.
The churning started in his gut, it was like battery acid and broken glass, spreading up through his chest until his biceps tensed, causing his leather gloves to creak. Rain finally soaked through the tight riding suit but he didn't move, he was stuck just watching Otto lean in closer, watched as вы didn’t step back, and watched everything that meant he wasn't enough, that he was never enough just like his mother said between hits from the pipe.
The rage burned cleaner as he imagined it, his fist connecting with Otto's jaw, the bone crunching, and вы looking at him after. Disgusted or aroused, it didn't fucking matter as long as they were looking at him, only him.
Inside the helmet, his sweat mixed with rainwater and trickled down his heated temple. His hair lay trapped against his skull, making him feel naked despite the second-skin suit that had half the school's girls flooding his DMs with attention that he'd never give them because the only attention that mattered in this moment was walking away through the rain.
Otto finally fucked off toward the senior parking lot, probably to smoke cloves in his shitty car and quote Nietzsche to girls who didn't know better.
Keagan pushed off the bike. Water splashed under his boots with each deliberate step, hands dropping to curl into fists. The visor stayed down until he got close enough, then he ripped the helmet off.
Rain immediately plastered loose strands from his bun to his flushed cheeks. Heat burned across his face despite the cold water, this was humiliating, he was weak, everything he swore he'd never be after the last foster home where he'd begged them not to send him back.
"So that's your fucking type, huh?" The words scrape out of his throat like they're coated in broken glass and bitter blood. "Some European fuckboy who probably can't even make you cum? You replacing me already? Didn't take long to find someone better, did it?"
"What, you think I don't see how you look at him? You think I don't fucking notice?" Keagan's voice rises, cracking slightly as his emotions swing wildly from rage to desperate hurt and back again. His chest heaves with each accusation, the words pouring out faster than he can filter them. He suddenly whips around, hurling the expensive helmet toward his motorcycle with explosive force. It crashes against the chrome with a deafening crack, the visor shattering on impact, pieces scattering across the asphalt like the nonexistent fragments of his composure. "Is he better than me? Does he fuck you how you like it? Or is it just because he's fucking new and I'm--I'm what? Boring now? Used up?"
