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The first thing Ruben noticed was the smell. It was thicker, oilier, laced with the unmistakable tang of unburnt fuel that modern engines had long since learned to suppress. The second was the light. A grey, drizzly English afternoon that seemed to seep into his bones.
He stood near a chain link fence, the noise of a snarling engine tearing apart the quiet of the pit lane. A Lotus. His breath hitched. He knew that car. He’d studied every line as a guy. And the man leaning against the pit wall, watching it, was the reason.
He was younger. So much younger. The slicked-back hair, the confident slouch, the flash of a smile as he chatted with a mechanic. That was the other Ruben Cervantes.
Cervantes shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the anachronistic pants he’d arrived in.
He felt a presence beside him before he saw it.
“You’re staring,” a voice said, light and amused. “Most people stare at the car. You’re staring at the man.”
Cervantes’s heart performed a clumsy downshift in his chest. He turned. Sonny. Young Sonny, with his eyes sparkling with a mischievous intelligence and none of the weary lines that time would eventually carve around them. He was holding two paper cups of coffee, offering one.
“Sorry,” Cervantes managed, his voice gruffer than he intended. He took the coffee. “The car, the driver. It’s a good combination.”
Sonny’s grin widened. “It is, isn’t it? I’m Sonny.” He didn’t offer a handshake, just continued to lean against the fence, his shoulder a few inches from Cervantes’s own.
“Joshua,” Cervantes said, the name feeling like ash on his tongue. He wasn't Ruben. He was Joshua.
“So, Joshua,” Sonny said, his gaze travelling over Cervantes’s face with an open appreciation that made the older man’s stomach flip. “You don’t look like a journalist and you’re too old to be a hopeful in a go-kart.”
“Just a fan,” Cervantes said, his eyes drawn back to the young man in the cockpit of the Lotus.
“A fan of the driver, or the team?” Sonny pressed, stepping a little closer.
Cervantes looked at him then, really looked. Into the eyes of the man he’d spend the next decades loving, losing, and finding again in a thousand different ways. The man who was now a stranger, flirting with him at a racetrack.
“Both,” he said, his voice dropping. “But I think I’m becoming a fan of the other driver.”
Sonny laughed, a bright, genuine sound that cut through the rumble of the engine. “Smooth, Joshua. Very smooth for a guy just watching from the fence.” He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving Cervantes’s. “What’s your story? You’ve got a look about you. Like you’ve seen a few things. And I would love to see a few things…”
Cervantes almost laughed. If only he knew. “Something like that. I’ve been around.”
“Around where? Spain, by the accent?”
“Yeah. Canarias.”
“Ah, a long way from home. What brings you to a damp and cold test track?”
“History,” he said instead. “I like the history of the sport. The old cars. The old spirits.”
“You’re a romantic, Joshua.”
“Maybe.”
The rain began to fall, a soft, persistent drizzle. Without a word, Sonny shifted, angling his body to shield Cervantes from the worst of it. It was a small, unconscious gesture of protection, and it broke something loose inside Cervantes.
He turned, and Sonny was right there. So close. His eyes were on his mouth, then back up to his eyes, a question hanging in the damp air. Cervantes answered it. He leaned in and kissed him.
It was soft at first.Then Sonny’s hand came up, cupping the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in his greying hair, and the kiss deepened.
Then, a furious shout cut through the moment like a wrench through glass.
“Qué cojones está pasando aquí?!”*
They broke apart. Sonny’s hand lingered on Cervantes’s neck for a second before dropping, his expression one of surprise and mild affront at being interrupted.
Striding towards them from the direction of the Lotus garage was a young man, his face contorted with a rage. It was Ruben. Young Ruben, still in his race suit, his helmet under his arm, his eyes wide with disbelief and fury as they locked onto Cervantes.
He stormed right up to them, chest heaving, and pointed a trembling finger at Cervantes. “You! You old fucker! What do you think you’re doing?!”
Sonny stepped forward, a placating hand raised. “Ruben, calm down. This is Joshua, he’s a friend–”
“Friend?!” Ruben spat, his gaze flicking from Sonny’s flushed face to Cervantes’s stoic one. “I saw what kind of friend! I saw you kissing him!” He turned his full fury back on Cervantes. “Who are you? Some old pervert who hangs around racetracks? Kissing him like that? Fucking pervert! Since when you have been planing this?!”
Cervantes looked at the young man he used to be. The fire in his eyes. The unspoken feelings for Sonny that he himself was only just beginning to grapple with at that age. He saw it all, the jealousy, the confusion, the raw and undiluted emotion of being twenty years old and seeing the object of your secret affections kissing a stranger.
He didn’t flinch. He couldn’t tell him. What could he possibly say? I’m you, you idiot. I’m kissing the man you’re going to spend your life with, the man I’ve just lost, and I wanted to feel him alive one more time.
Instead, he just looked at his younger self with an expression of profound, weary sadness. An old man’s pity for the boy he’d been.
That look seemed to enrage Ruben even more. With a wordless cry, he drew back his fist and swung. Cervantes could have dodged. He’d had enough fights in karting, knew how to move. But he didn’t. He stood there and took it.
The punch connected with his jaw, a sharp, satisfying crack of bone on bone that sent a shock of pain through him. It was a good, solid hit. He stumbled back a step, his hand going to his face, tasting blood.
“Ruben!” Sonny shouted, grabbing the younger man’s arm. “Stop it! What’s gotten into you?”
Ruben was breathing hard, his fists still clenched, his eyes blazing. “He had no right!” he yelled, pointing again at Cervantes. “Stay away from him, you hear me? Stay away!”
Cervantes wiped a trickle of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He looked at Ruben, then past him, to Sonny, who was watching him with concern. He met Sonny’s eyes for a long, final moment. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.
He heard Sonny call after him. “Joshua! Wait!”
But he didn’t hear him.