[dedicated to my friend ethan's hatred of oil-burning cars.]

“God, I hate rotary engines,” Rally bemoans, waving a hand through the air as he lists against the balcony rail. He feels something snap under the heel of his gear, and he tries to look down, but then he gets really dizzy and it kind of makes him want to throw up. So, instead, he continues, “It’s a Dorito spinning in a tin can, dude. A _tricycle_ has more torque than a car with a rotary engine.”

“Uh huh,” Dallas says, turning his head to stare at Rally. He has zero clue what the hell his driver’s talking about. “Why are you complaining again?” He asks, looking between his friend’s clearly drunk face and the Jägr he’s currently got in a death grip. “What did Mazda ever do to you?” 

“Th- hnph. The Mazda driver who won three times ahead of us. I hate him,” Rally whines. “He’s annoying and stupid and if he won that many times it means my driving was bad that many times. It’s a Miata! It’s got its own dirt-track subgenre for a reason,” He mutters, tossing his head back. The stars look really weird right now, woah. 

Dallas snorts, because Rally had said that out loud. “That’s ‘cause you’re drunk off your ass, stupid,” He says, plucking the bottle out of his hands. “Wouldn’t want to piss yourself in your racing suit, would you?”

Rally quirks an eyebrow. “You call it a _racing suit?”_

__

“What else would I call it?”

Someone else pipes up from behind them, a tiny “Excuse me?” but neither the navigator nor driver hears him.

“A freakin’ fire suit, idiot. They’re called fire suits.”

“Just because they’re fireproof doesn’t mean they should be called fire suits-”

“Well, nobody calls it a racing suit-”

“I call it a racing suit if that’s any help,” the voice says again. Both Rally and Dallas jolt, snapping their heads around to see, of all people, Tyler Voraček. The Mazda driver.

Dallas regains composure far quicker than his friend, so he says, “Rally was talking shit about you,” and just. Walks away. Back into the building.

“Uh,” Rally blurts. “No I wasn’t. I mean. Yeah. I was? But-”

Voraček gives him this sheepish half-smile and waves him off. “It’s ok. You are, uh, standing on my phone, though.”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry, god, do you want me to pay for a new one?” Rally asks, as he takes a wobbly step to his right and Voraček squats down to pick up the mangled black rectangle. “I’m sorry, man.”

But Voraček just looks up at him, smiles for real, and says, “I have others.”

-

“Well damn, Dallas, you’ve managed to make me rethink my thoughts,” Rally says, halfway to a yell, once they’re back in their hotel room.

“Not like you’ve ever had any,” Dallas mutters, then adds, “That’s good. What did you-”

Rally snorts. “I hate him even more.”