#thread: jax3

[danteleept]

Dante was rarely nervous about his training sessions with Jax. Even at the beginning of their time together, when the other man had made it clear that he’d rather be anywhere on Earth than in the gym with Dante, he’d only viewed these sessions with a healthy sort of mild trepidation. He’d had Annie’s blind encouragement and the motivation to try and get on Jax’s good side. Eventually, it had paid off but had just as quickly fallen apart.

He walked down the corridor towards the weight room he’d booked out for them. The strap of his duffel bag dug uncomfortably into his shoulder, the weight of its content banging off his hip with every step he took in a way he’d have been able to ignore had he been in a better mood. Instead, he felt every light thunk of the bag against his upper thigh and grimaced. It was still full of all the hastily packed clothes he’d haphazardly shoved in there before he’d gone to London. He’d have taken them all out before meeting Jax, literally and figuratively lightening his load, but he’d slept through his first alarm and had had no time to do anything more than stuff a clean towel and fresh tank top in there, amongst the balled up socks and creased shirts he’d spent the weekend pitifully crying into.

It would have been easier for him to acknowledge how much he’d fucked over Jax if his visit to Bash had been in any way successful. If anything, he felt like he’d ruined two relationships that he held dear to his heart. One friend who’d needed Dante in ways Dante couldn’t give him and another… Well. Dante wouldn’t do Jax the disservice of calling them friends. He wasn’t sure the other man would react to that favourably right now.

All of this felt terribly self-pitying, Dante could admit. He could argue that he had good intentions, but he wasn’t sure Jax (or even Annie) saw it that way. Sephy had been a saving grace, but the memory of forcing the woman to relive some of her own darkest memories weighed heavily on his heart.

In the end, he was forced to reckon with the reality of letting down the handful of people he was closest to in life. He half wanted to pick up the phone and call Marcus and Viola, just to check if he’d done something to piss them off as well.

He wasn’t used to people being mad at him. It was a horrible feeling. He only had himself to blame though which made him feel worse.

The impact of it all showed quite plainly on his face as he looked at his reflection in the mirror outside the gym. He had prominent bags under his eyes from the red-eye he’d eventually managed to catch to Miami, a day too late, and a five o’clock shadow on his jaw; shaving hadn’t been a priority for him over the course of the weekend. He raked a hand through his hair, noting how limp and flat it looked. Hardly living up to the ‘annoyingly sexy’ label Jax had kindly given him.

With a sigh, he pushed the door to the gym open, surprised to find Jax already there. He quickly glanced at his watch and winced. It was only a few minutes after the hour but given the other man’s uncharitable feelings towards him, he knew that Jax was likely to hold each and every second against him.

“You’re here before me. That’s a first,” Dante commented, dropping his bag on the floor with a dull thud. Out of the two of them, Jax was the one who loved to sleep-in. Normally, Dante had everything set up for their session by the time Jax was roused from his bed. This was the first time he’d ever arrived at the gym before Dante. Hardly a promising start.

“Suppose you wanted to make sure I actually showed up, hm?” he joked feebly, internally wincing. It was hardly a joking matter and he knew that a horribly unimpressed look was due to cross Jax’s otherwise devastatingly handsome features any second now.

[danteleept]

From the off, it was clear that Jax was not pleased to see him. Dante should have been used to that given their rocky start, but over the course of the past year, Jax’s scowl had lightened a little. He would still complain about early starts and not wanting to do split squats, but there was never any bite to his tone. He would whine for the sake of whining and Dante would promise to make him a pizza from his own stone bake oven when they were back in New York and then he’d easily win the other man over. 

Right now, he doubted he could convince Jax to come back around, even if he was promising pizza blazed by Jesus and the ghost of Ayrton Senna himself.

He tugged anxiously at the sweatband around his wrist, refusing to flinch at the hard edge of Jax’s voice. He knew the other man needed to be mad at him, and Dante could give him that. He hadn’t been there for Jax when he said he would. Which was the opposite of everything he’d guaranteed the other man when he’d first replaced Asher.

What did give him pause, however, was Jax asking him about London.

He wasn’t asking him conversationally. Jax didn’t care about London. He didn’t care about Dante having to tug Bash away from the hotel bar or how he’d tried to bundle the other man safely into bed without him unravelling completely. So Dante held his tongue. He didn’t utter a word about the brush of Bash’s lips against his own before Dante had gently but firmly pushed him back, about the other man’s declaration, about the way Dante had sat on the floor outside the other man’s bedroom door, the unfamiliar hardwood floor of the hotel room biting at his feet as he sat and listened for any tell that Bash was up again, distressed and in need of a friend.

“Fine,” he said dismissively, aware that his eyes had glazed over. He blinked rapidly and raised his head again, tongue caught between the corner of his lips. He looked at Jax and then away again. “London was fine.”

He inhaled deeply and turned away from Jax, heading towards the weight rack to get what he needed. Almost robotically, he grabbed a kettlebell and a pair of dumbbells. He knew he was going to remain firmly in the doghouse for however long Jax saw fit, but in his head he was still devising a workout that consisted of all of Jax’s favourite exercises. The ones that he eagerly anticipated instead of the sets that had him pouting in Dante’s direction. Maybe he was still foolishly hoping to soften the other man up a little.

“We’ll start with some kettlebell swings to warm up,” he said, setting the weight on the mat. “Ten reps, then take a break and we’ll go for three sets.”

It felt like he was moving underwater. He felt slow and sluggish and it could have everything to do with the late flight he’d taken and the couple next to him that had spent the whole time loudly bickering and preventing him from falling asleep as he’d wedged himself uncomfortably into the window seat. It felt like he was watching Jax move towards the kettlebell through another set of eyes, like everything was a little blurred at the edges and too-bright. The kind of feeling you got when you were the last customer at the mall before it closed or when you ended up at a service station late at night and couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong. A weird, indescribable floaty sensation that was more unpleasant than enjoyable.

He didn’t like it and he wanted it to stop.

Quickly, he walked forward at the same time Jax did, halting the other man in his path with a hand on his chest.

“I’m sorry, Jax,” he said, the words spilling out. He knew that if he tried to sound overly sincere it would just irritate the other man. If that meant his words sounded tired and pained instead, so be it. At least Dante knew he was being genuine. He fixed his gaze on Jax, feeling the steady thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat underneath his fingers, through the thin material of Jax’s shirt. 

“I’m so sorry. I said I’d be there and I wasn’t.” He dropped his voice low. “I let you down.”

In all the years Jax had spent in Formula One, sports journalists and fans alike had been able to trace the undeniable and humiliating downward spiral his career had taken. He'd started his time in the lower formulas, nineteen years old, tanned skin and wide smile, alight with his love of racing and desire to climb the ranks. And he'd been well liked. Loved, even. He'd known by the deafening roar of people screaming his name at the driver's parade, the sponsorship deals, the firm grip of Michael Baxter's hand when he'd been signed for Ferrari.

And then all of a sudden his luck had just, ran out. Spectacularly. He wasn't sure at which point to plot the beginning of his bad luck. Whether it had been Asher, or hitting his thirties, or what. He'd become bad tempered and sullen, he'd withdrawn, he'd blamed the car (And then Elias came, new and shiny and the spitting image of his dead friend. Not to mention fast as hell - and he couldn't really blame the car any longer). He still had a dedicated fanbase, but more often than not his name was left out of the pool of elite drivers.

The past season hadn't been his best. Climbing into the cockpit with a still-throbbing shoulder and the reminder of how it felt to clamber out of a flipped over, burning husk hardly did much to set his nerves at ease. But slowly he'd felt everything start to click into place. He was faster, his body felt stronger. Sure, no-one was really watching him to see which position he pulled into, but he really felt he loved racing again.

All of this to say, Miami 2025 should've been the best weekend of his life. As he clambered onto the podium with shaky legs, disbelief in his eyes and tears thick in his throat, he knew ESPN was reporting in an amazed voice that this was Jackson Otto's first podium since Monza 2019. And it had felt bloody amazing, the sticky-wet spray of champagne and bodies pressing against his own as he moved through the crowd. Annie had screamed unintelligably, his heartbeat too loud in his ears to make out anything she was saying, only her nails digging into the meat of his arm and her elated, glowing smile.

It wasn't until he made his way to the garage after that he slid his hand into Annie's, tugging her close to murmur sidelong in her ear, "He's not here?"

The downturn of her lips and the widening of her eyes had told her all he needed to know. Dante Lee had not made it to Miami.

The thought had reverberated around his head long after he'd showered and crawled into bed that night, persistent and unwelcome, seemingly hammering at the inside of his skull. It had taken him hours to fall asleep, so when his 6am alarm went off in the morning, Jax had felt the nickname 'Mad Jax' had never been more fitting.

Still, he was determined to make it to his morning PT session. And early. Spitefully, he couldn't help but think it was another thing he could lord over Dante. His dedication to exercise sessions he didn't even really like, the only bearable thing about them Dante himself.

He'd been there an hour by the time the other man rocked up, Jax's hair still damp from his shower, hands arching over his head in a stretch. Jax's eyes found him instantly, his stomach roiling in a nervous, fizzy excitement, akin to the whiplash excitement of passing your crush in the school hallway. Simultaneously, he felt weighed down, saddened. And lets face it, a little pissed. The veritable cocktail of emotions warred inside him as he crossed his arms across his chest.

If it was possible for someone as good looking as Dante to look awful, Jax would've said he looked awful. A frown touched the corners of his lips as he took in the downtrodden Brit - so different from his usual happy-go-lucky trainer. Either whatever happened in London had really done a number on him, or he was feeling especially guilty for missing the race.

Good, Jax thought, You said you'd be there.

Ignoring his comment, Jax picked up his water bottle, tilting back his head so he didn't have to look at Dante any longer. When he snapped the nozzle shut, he offered him a quick frown.

"Wasn't entirely sure you would." he huffed, relishing the hard edge to his voice. "But you showed up. Thanks, I guess."

Depositing his water bottle on a nearby bench with a little more force than necessary, Jax straightened up, still scowling.

"How was London?" he asked, cruelty flooding his tone.