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jaeminlore · 7 years ago

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Remember the Saints » Dong Sicheng

summary: you think back to times with your best friend, and how they shaped him into being the love of your life. words: 2579 category: racecar driver!sicheng, fluff a/n: i have no idea abt racing at all but i looked up a crap ton of stuff so pls don’t come at me if i got anything wrong. just kindly correct me and i’ll edit as soon as i can. thx. also this came out a lot messier than i intended so ignore that pls.

Streamwood, Illinois was quite possibly the most boring place on the map. At least in your opinion, that is. Everything was boring, a quaint suburbia filled with people who didn’t move, like hands on a broken clock.

You were five—if you can remember correctly—when you met Sicheng. His name was peculiar to you, and his hair was dark and nearly as wild as his eyes. He was the only boy in class, so it was simply natural that every girl wanted to be his friend. Having a male friend was essential in preschool, for it placed you on an entirely different social scale. One strategic friendship and suddenly the No Girls Allowed rule didn’t apply to you. Soon you’d be counted as one of the guys, a turncoat to figure out their secrets and hand them over to your original side: the girls. That’s how children think, you could remember quite clearly how every recess was a battlefield of trying for Sicheng’s attention. He was, however, like a sniper, shooting down everyone’s hopes from a distance.

There wasn’t much Sicheng liked, you had noticed. He liked the cookie part of the oreo, but never the cream. He wouldn’t drink milk with his food either, unless it was chocolate, because white milk was too plain. (White milk was almost as boring as Streamwood.) He didn’t like legos, because they were hard to separate and he always hurt his fingernails. He didn’t like lollipops either, because he couldn’t chew on them.

One thing Sicheng definitely liked were cars. This was certain by the race car prints on his lunchbox, and the faux Nascar pit crew jacket he wore every day to school. He loved matchbox cars and if anyone asked, the quiet five-year-old could go on an entire spiel about how he and his father were fixing up their very own sprint car right in his backyard.

With this information, you had successfully mapped your way into Sicheng’s good graces. You gathered all of your dolls during recess and skipped over to the sandbox Sicheng was playing in. He was rolling a large, yellow dumpster back and forth, piling sand in only to pour it out two seconds later. You quickly realized his matchbox cars were in the sand, and he was creating his own wild race to see which car could escape the sandstorm.

“Can I play?” your voice made Sicheng jump, and he shook his head quickly, not wanting anything to do with you or anyone else in your class. You tried again. “We can play cars. I can dump the sand while you make them race away.”

At this suggestion, Sicheng’s eyes had lit up, and he quickly handed you his trusted plastic shovel. You dropped the dolls, long forgotten as you built your new friendship with Sicheng.

Unfortunately, you never reached your goal of gaining intel from the male population. Sicheng didn’t have any other friends besides you, so there were no No Girls Allowed signs to trespass upon. Sicheng didn’t care about any of that stuff. It was just him and his cars.

When he was ten, his mother brought him over to your house for an impromptu playdate. This was exciting for you, especially because Sicheng and his father were almost finished with their racecar, and they planned to race it in the annual contest.

Part of you wondered why it took them so long to build, but Sicheng never elaborated, so you thought you wouldn’t ask.

Your mom set the two of you to work, playing with playdough and creating your own little worlds. Despite your mother’s warnings, the two of you mixed the colors as you played, ultimately creating the biggest ball of brown dough the two of you had ever seen. Your mother didn’t chide you like you thought she would. Instead, she gave the two of you a look of something close to pity, and left the room.

That night, you stood outside of your parent’s room, listening to your mother’s conversation with Sicheng’s own mom. “He was a perfect saint. I would love to have him over more often. It might be nice for him, considering the circumstances … yes … oh, sweetie I don’t know why he left. Perhaps he’ll come back … Sicheng does need his father. I know … perhaps we can help him finish the car? Oh … yes I do believe he’s too smart to believe in a business trip … "

The call went on for hours, in bits and fragments that you couldn’t quite comprehend. Even when your mother began crying, you couldn’t understand why she was so upset.

In the same manner, Sicheng sat at the bottom of the stairs, listening as his mother paced the kitchen floor, a cell phone between the junction of her neck, and a tired gaze in her eyes. He had been waiting for his father to return. He promised he would, with blueprints to amp up their car. With the smile that always cheered Sicheng up.

"Your child is a saint … honestly I think Sicheng would be lost without Y/n … these next few months are going to be hard one him … I just don’t know how to tell him that his father left. How do you tell your child something like that?"

Sicheng picked up the fragments of his mother’s phone call and pieced them together perfectly. That’s why he got sent to your house out of the blue. That’s why his mother had been babying him lately. That’s why his dad was so late coming home.

He wasn’t coming home.

You remembered being thirteen, with Sicheng by your side. The two of you road bikes a lot in those days. Sicheng still loved speed, but he swore off race cars for life. Ever since he father left, Sicheng only saw racing as a bitter reminder of the relationship he used to have.

It wasn’t just a father Sicheng lost that night. It was a passion. A shared passion that brought him and his father closer with every grease stain and oil change. There was a bond between the two of them because of racing. Because of Nascar. Because of the loud hum of a racer and the smell of gasoline.

You tried to subtly bring racing back into his life. Sicheng just wasn’t the same without it. He wasn’t bright and alive and sarcastic with only the most playful intentions. Instead, he was more quiet, solemn, already talking about part-time jobs to help his mother pay the bills.

"I’m the man of the house now, Y/n. It’s not about racing. I’ve got to take care of my mom,” he would always say. However, it was hard to believe him. It was hard not to notice his lingering glances as fast cars zoomed by like lightning. It was hard to pretend he hadn’t been tinkering with the sprint car he and his father had been putting together when it’s all his mother seemed to talk to yours about.

For all of you, it was a beacon of hope; a sign that maybe Sicheng was ready to get back into the game and start working towards the big leagues. Maybe Sicheng was ready to separate his past from his passion.

Maybe Sicheng was ready to race again.

Cut to fifteen-years-old, and Sicheng got his first job at a mechanic’s shop two miles from your home. You always walked with him after school, sitting on the uncomfortable floor as Sicheng worked on cars.

It was amazing, all the things he knew. Of course it wasn’t surprising, since Sicheng was a nerd who liked to read automobile manuals and watch races day in and day out.

He was healing. Healing meant talking about racing, and getting excited over the races he got to see on television. Healing was not, however, taking out the old sprint car and driving down abandoned dirt tracks, pushing the gas as far as it could go, as he used to so desperately want to do.

You wanted to remind him that Joliet was an hour away. The Chicagoland Speedway was there, calling his name if he would only get back in the game, learn the ropes of a sprint car and win championships. You believed he could get to the top, if he would just press his foot to the pedal and go.

So you asked him why he hadn’t taken a spin in the sprint car. “I know you finished the paint job. Can’t we just go see how it races?”

Sicheng chuckled from under the hood of the car. Your gaze was settled on the white bandana hanging out of his pocket as he answered. “I don’t even have my license. I’ll get caught and arrested.”

“Fine,” you huffed. “When you do get your license, and whatever else you need to drive a car that fast, you better take it to the nearest track as soon as you can.”

“Yes, Mom,” he replied with a mirthful grin.

Soon he was seventeen, with a certified license and an unafraid bend in his brows. You stood behind the safety rail, watching as Sicheng zoomed around and around the track. Dirt flew around everywhere, the small particles landing in your hair. You kept your mouth closed and your eyes squinted in the hopes of not tasting any of the dust.

It was nearly dark when Sicheng finally slowed to a stop. He got out with wobbly legs and an excited grin. “Did you see that, Y/n?”

“I did!” You opened the gate and ran across the track to see him. Overwhelmed with excitement, you wrapped your arms around his slender waist and pressed yourself against him. “I’m so proud of you for getting back out there!”

Sicheng tensed under your touch, but soon he was wrapping his arms around your torso, his nose nuzzling your temple. “If you hadn’t pushed me day in and day out to do it, I don’t know if I would’ve.”

You could hear the gratefulness in his voice. All the years he dreamed of driving over the speed limit on a dirt track. All the years he dreamed of making it to the big leagues, with his own pit crew. Throughout the years his father left his family, and it was hard to keep going. Even when he swore off racing and vowed that he would never look at that sprint car again, you had been there. You had been there through all of it, and for that Sicheng was grateful.

“You’re my best friend, Y/n. Did you know that?”

You giggled at his cheesiness, and brought your hand up to wipe some of the dirt off of his forehead. “Of course, you dork. It’s always been us. You, the fantastic mechanic and racer, and me, the loser with a job at the local gas station.”

“Ah, don’t say that.” Sicheng pinched your nose. “You’ll be in university soon. Then you’ll get your degree and forget all about me.”

“How could I forget about Dong Sicheng? You’ll be on the news soon, as the youngest Nascar driver in history.”

“I’d have to win this year to get that title,” Sicheng said. “I need to win a bunch of local races first. I need to build my credit.”

“Well, let me know when you have a race. I’ll come to each one, no matter where it is.��

“You got it,” Sicheng smiled. Then, he suddenly turned serious, “I’m glad you’re always with me.”

“You’ll never get rid of me,” you smirked, moving your hands up around his neck and pulling him down to meet your gaze.

“Woah,” Sicheng breathed shakily, his eyes searching yours, “We’ve never been this close before.”

“Is it bad that I like it?” You asked in return, eyes fluttering every time you felt his hot breath on your lips.

“No, because I like it too,” and suddenly, the two of you were kissing. Not passionately, or awkwardly, or anything of the sort. It was different, because his lips felt familiar and exciting all at once, and the buzz you got off of them was anything but boring.

“Wow,” you managed to get out, still quite surprised that you had actually gotten to kiss him. “We should do that more often.”

“Yeah, we should.”

He was then twenty-one, where entered local races, state championships, and mentors only a few years above Sicheng. He worked hard every day, working to become that fastest and smartest driver. He also kept up his job at the garage, earning enough money to get himself a studio apartment a few blocks down. You visited often, and it was almost sure that you slept over at Sicheng’s more than you slept at your own place.

That was how to the two of you liked it. Especially at night, when the both of you could whisper your fears about the future; about how Sicheng wasn’t sure he’d ever have enough money to launch a true racing career. About how scared you were that he would get famous and leave you for better, richer friends.

“You know I would never do that,” Sicheng mumbled.

Your tired eyes trained themselves on his lips, watching the way they shifted and moved whenever he spoke. “I know, but sometimes I can’t help but imagine the worst.”

“I don’t even know if I want to become famous. I really like sprint cars. Maybe I could just stay at the tracks here and make money off of local races and betting.”

“You could,” you agreed. A sly grin crept onto your face. “Then you’d have to stay here with me.”

Sicheng squeezed your waist tiredly, his eyes drifting closed as he answered, “I think staying with you is better than winning any race.”

As sweet as his words were, both of you knew that he needed more. Sicheng was bred for the races. He was bred for speed. Settling down wasn’t something he could do just yet.

You went off to university, in search of your own path, which was never really clear. You only saw Sicheng on holidays now, or during long winded skype calls that lasted well into the mornings.

He was miles away, and you were in a dorm watching the race on your phone, cheering every time number one-twenty-seven was in the lead.

That was Sicheng following his dream. He had made it. He had his own car and put crew. He had his name on trophies and plaques. He was praised for his technique with cars and some announcers even called him a “car whisperer”.

To you, however, he was still Sicheng, the boy you approached so strategically on the playground. He was still the boy you comforted when his father left. He was still the boy you bothered while he was working his first job. He was still the boy who always had dirt on his face, replaced by a blush when you wiped it off for him.

He was still the boy who turned your world upside down and inside out just like the cars he always worked on.

He was your first and your last, through thick and thin. No matter what, you would always think of him and hope he would do the same for you. The two of you were inseparable, and nothing could break you apart. Not a racetrack. Not a university. Nothing.

»the end«

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