Larry Stylinson AU: Illegal Drag Racing
Fast cars. Slow burn. One rule: never stop for anyone... until Harry crashes.
I never fear death or dyin' I only fear never tryin' I am whatever I am Only God can judge me nowOne shot, everything rides on tonight Even if I got three strikes, I'ma go for it This moment, we own it
Louis Tomlinson has been racing illegally since he was sixteen.
Not because he loves cars, but because he loves winning, and winning means money. Money means his mum doesn't have to choose between paying rent or buying groceries for his sisters. But winning also means survival. The police know his Nissan by heart. Half the city does.
Harry Styles wasn't supposed to be here. He's the son of one of the wealthiest men in Cheshire. Private schools, tailored coats, and girls hanging off his arm at every event, with university acceptance letters. Everything planned. Everything perfect.
Except Harry has one addiction his father can never buy him out of...speed.
Every Friday after midnight, the industrial district comes alive. Abandoned warehouses repurposed and breathing for a single night. Burnout smoke leaks from the edges of windows as engines scream. Girls perched on concrete barriers. Cash changing hands. Music echoes between empty buildings.
Nobody uses real names, and nobody asks questions.
If someone crashes... You leave before the cops arrive.
Louis is known as Ghost because nobody ever sees him coming.
Harry is simply... Styles. He is the rich kid everyone assumes won't last a month until he wins his first race. Then another. Then five more.
People start whispering.
"Styles is fast."
"Too fast."
Louis hates him immediately. Not because Harry wins, but because Harry smiles while doing it. Like this is fun. Like losing isn't life or death.
Their first race together ends with both cars crossing the finish line almost simultaneously. Nobody knows who won. The crowd argues for twenty minutes, and more money exchanges hands. People nearly fight.
Louis climbs out of his car as Harry walks over.
"So...,” Harry has his shit-eating grin back on that Louis wants to punch off his face, "You buying me dinner?"
Louis laughs once, "No."
"You scared I'll beat you again?"
"I already did."
"You dreaming?"
"You blinked."
"You stalled."
"You wish."
They race each other again the following week. And the week after. And the week after that. Neither wins consistently. Neither loses gracefully.
And eventually, Louis gives in and takes Harry to dinner because Styles is becoming curious to Ghost. Then dinner turns into a trip to their respective garages, with engines and talking shop as engine oil becomes ingrained under their fingernails. Pizza was lying cold on the workbench behind them.
Somewhere between engine rebuilds... late-night diners...grease-stained hoodies...and bruised knuckles... they become inseparable.
Louis teaches Harry how to drift. Harry teaches Louis how to rebuild an RB26 engine without swearing every thirty seconds.
It doesn't work.
Louis swears anyway.
"You're holding the wrench wrong, Lou."
"I'm holding it fine."
"No."
"I'm literally older than you."
"By?"
"A lot."
"Two years."
"It's still older."
"Ancient."
"I'm pushing you into traffic, Haz."
Nobody notices at first. Not really. They've always stood close. Always leaned against each other's cars. Always stolen cigarettes from one another.
But something changed when Harry walked over after a race. Without thinking, he fixes Louis' collar. Just absentmindedly. Like it's second nature. The entire garage goes silent. Someone whistles. Louis freezes. Harry freezes.
Then Louis mutters, as light pink dusts the top of his cheeks, "Shut up."
The teasing never stops.
Then, the city has another racer. One nobody likes, but everyone adores. His name is Zayn Malik. He's talented, but reckless. Unpredictable. He races like he wants to die, and maybe that’s why Louis hates him -- he races like him.
He starts challenging Harry. Of course, Harry refuses, but Louis doesn't.
Their rivalry gets ugly as cars get keyed, engines sabotaged, and windows smashed. But rumors spread. Someone starts tipping off the police.
One rainy Friday, everything goes wrong. Louis is halfway through the biggest race of the year -- winner takes fifty grand, kind of big race -- enough to finally open his own garage. Enough to stop racing forever.
Halfway through, red and blue lights explode behind them. Someone called the cops, and Louis is cursing Malik up one side and down the other. Every racer scatters, as it is in their blood to react so. Engines screaming. Tires spinning. There are sirens everywhere.
Harry catches up beside Louis and rolls his window down.
"LEFT!"
Louis doesn't question it. He turns.
They're suddenly weaving through abandoned shipping yards at one hundred and twenty miles an hour. It’s raining so hard on the concrete that it looks like the pair is driving on water. Shipping containers become both obstacles and protection as the police try to catch up with them.
Harry's car clips a barrier. Just enough. His rear tire blows. The car spins, and Harry loses control.
Louis slams his brakes, steam rising up behind him.
He watches as Harry’s car slams into a shipping container, smashing the passenger side. Everyone else keeps going through the maze, and Louis knows he should leave. It’s also in every racer’s blood that it is every driver for himself. That's the rule.
Instead, Louis throws his own car sideways. He jumps out and runs through the smoke. He drags Harry from the wreck seconds before a cruiser slams into it.
The underground racing scene watches from hidden rooftops. Nobody has ever broken the rule. Nobody.
Louis carries Harry behind abandoned warehouses while sirens echo through the rain.
Harry laughs. Actually laughs, "You know...,” he coughs, "I think...I owe you dinner."
Louis shakes his head as his eyes rake over Harry’s body, trying to find any wounds, "You absolute idiot."
"You stopped."
"I know."
"You weren't supposed to."
"I know."
"You could've been arrested."
"I know."
Harry looks at him. Really looks. Rain is dripping from both of them. Louis is still gripping the front of Harry's jacket, knuckles white, chest heaving. He can't seem to stop checking him over, brushing trembling hands across Harry's shoulders, his ribs, the side of his face as if expecting him to disappear the second he looks away.
"You alright?" Louis asks, his voice rough.
Harry laughs again, quieter this time. "You askin' because you're worried, or because I wrecked my car?"
"Don't."
"What?"
"Don't joke about it."
Something in Louis's voice cracks. Harry's smile fades. For the first time since the crash, he realizes Louis is shaking. Not from the cold. Not from the rain. From fear.
"You scared the hell out of me," Louis whispers.
The words hang between them.
"You came back,” Harry’s voice is small and soft.
"I wasn't leaving you."
"You were supposed to."
"I know."
"You could've lost everything."
Louis lets out a breath that sounds more like a laugh, "What good's winnin' if you're not there to rub it in afterward?"
Harry stares at him for a heartbeat. Then another. And before either of them can think better of it, Harry catches Louis by the front of his soaked hoodie and pulls him in.
The kiss lands hard.
It's clumsy enough that their noses bump, desperate enough that neither of them cares.
Louis kisses him back instantly, one hand fisting in the back of Harry's jacket while the other cups the side of his jaw like he's trying to convince himself Harry is real—warm, breathing, alive.
Rain runs down their faces, mixing with the taste of adrenaline and smoke. Harry kisses like he races, reckless, all instinct and momentum. Louis kisses like he survived losing him by inches. Weeks of sarcastic comments, stolen glances across crowded garages, grease-stained fingertips brushing over engine parts, cigarettes shared in silence, every challenge at the starting line, it all crashes together in one breathless moment.
When they finally break apart, neither of them goes far. Their foreheads rest together.
Harry's grin is softer now, "You definitely love me."
Louis rolls his eyes, though he can't hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "You're still an arrogant bastard."
"But you kissed me."
"You kissed me, Haz."
"I started it."
"You would've eventually."
Harry hums, "Probably."
For a long second, there's nothing but the rain, distant sirens fading into the night, and the sound of their breathing.
Then Harry brushes one last quick kiss against Louis's mouth, slower this time, almost tender. Louis loves it.
"So, Lou," he murmurs.
"So, Haz?"
"You still owe me dinner."
Louis laughs for what feels like the first time all night, "You're unbelievable."
"And yet," Harry says, bumping their foreheads together again, "you still came back."
Louis doesn't answer. He just takes Harry's hand. And for the first time since they met, Ghost doesn't run.
They make it out okay, as they wait for the sirens to disappear. Harry has a body full of bruises and a nasty line of them across his chest from his safety harness, but he will live.
The underground racing scene becomes quieter after that. People stop taking bets against them. Nobody mocks them anymore. Because everyone saw it -- nobody risks prison for someone they don't love.
Now... they race together. Not against each other. A Black Nissan, and a Silver GT-R -- always side by side. Always impossible to separate.
Whenever someone asks who's faster, Louis shrugs, and Harry grins.
"It depends."
"On what?"
Harry looks at Louis, "Which one of us is trying to keep the other alive."
