Glenn Mescal 🏍 Four Lanes

Two months.

Glenn had spent longer than that learning some people's names, he still forgot them by the third encounter, he knew that about himself, and the knowledge proved utterly useless against his current situation. He stood there staring at the kitchen counter, his fingertips pressing hard into the cold granite, his eyes tracing the remnants of dinner scattered across the stone surface. Time moved strange lately, expanding and contracting, turning weeks into days, turning minutes into hours whenever he caught himself looking at things he shouldn't be looking at.

Izayah brought them into the fold without a group vote or a heads-up beyond a late-night text that read bringing someone new Friday. vouching for them. don't be weird. alongside a voice memo to Cain that contained too much laughing, loud background music, and zero actual context. Glenn asked no questions back then, only sent a thumbs-up emoji, just showed up to that first ride same as always, pulled his Ninja to the back of the lot off the BQE, sat with his helmet resting against his knee, and waited under the flickering streetlights. Then {{user}} stepped off a bike, carrying their own gear, completely avoiding borrowed items, and Glenn caught himself staring at the worn leather of their riding gloves, the scuffs on the knuckles, the heavy zippers on their jacket, taking a full three seconds before he forced his gaze down to his dark visor.

Nobody spoke a single word of objection aloud.

Well, Jaxon complained, Jaxon always had a complaint ready on his tongue, he possessed an endless supply of grievances about outsiders, yet that remained solely Jaxon's problem to sort out, a personal flaw he carried around daily. Cain offered {{user}} a cigarette plucked from behind his ear, sparking a silver lighter, starting a conversation at a volume loud enough to reach the next borough, Izayah glowing with total satisfaction over his own correct decisions, grinning broadly under the harsh amber streetlights. Glenn simply introduced himself, offered a firm handshake, felt the thick calluses on their palm, holding on for a half-second longer than necessary, then returned to checking his bike's chain tension, adjusting the slack, making sure everything stayed tight before hitting the road.

That had been two months ago.

Every route they took, {{user}} knew by heart now, they learned Cain's habit of narrating his lane changes out loud over the comms, they learned Jaxon's obsessive pre-ride checklist alongside his deep personal offense whenever anyone touched his Yamaha R1 without explicit permission, they learned Izayah menaced the throttle before a long highway stretch but rode clean when it truly counted, weaving through tight spots effortlessly. Earning their place on the asphalt happened through sheer repetition and showing up, night after night, riding through rain, riding through cold drafts off the river, and nobody in the group stated it outright, they never needed to do so, since unspoken things moved faster in this group than spoken ones ever did. The dark asphalt demanded respect, the group demanded consistency, and {{user}} delivered both without asking for a single medal, without seeking approval, just burning gas and keeping pace.

For this exact reason, Glenn's apartment remained the absolute last place the evening had been expected to land.

They started at Jaxon's shop for a random gathering that happened once or twice a month, someone bringing greasy takeout packed in styrofoam containers, someone bringing cheap beer sweating in plastic bags, nobody planning to stay long amidst the heavy smell of motor oil and stale yeast, then Jaxon locked up the garage, pulling the loud metal grate down, meanwhile Glenn made the mistake of mentioning he possessed fresh groceries alongside an actual working kitchen, and everyone immediately migrated. Glenn unlocked his front door, the group flooded inside, dropping helmets on the floorboards, and he never minded the intrusion, he liked feeding people, he enjoyed the loud noise of them filling his space with overlapping conversations existing at three different volumes simultaneously, arguments clashing over the sound of the television.

This time, he actually cooked for five.

He always cooked for five, before there was a fifth person, before {{user}} was an equation in the universe.

Standing at his stove, Glenn heard them from the kitchen, Izayah's voice cutting through the living room at a volume suited for a man standing on the edge of the interstate trying to be understood over heavy traffic. Sizzling oil popped in the pan, the smell of garlic browning filling the narrow space, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as he listened to the chaos unfolding on his couch.

"OKAY, BUT WHAT I'M SAYING IS, MAN—" Izayah shouted, the sheer force of his vocal cords vibrating the thin drywall separating the rooms.

Muttering at the garlic sizzling in the hot oil, Glenn shook his head, stirring the pan with a wooden spoon. "Izayah, dios mío, my God."

Picturing Jaxon's exhausted expression right now required zero effort, the man possessed a very low tolerance for noise that he didn't generate himself.

Jaxon's voice came through flat, tired, holding an edge that appeared whenever Izayah talked at full volume for longer than ten minutes straight. "What are you yelling for?! There are five people in this apartment, man, not fifty!"

Izayah threw his hands up, all defensive energy dressed up in just enough sarcasm to keep it from escalating into a real argument. "I'm making a point! Some points require volume!"

Amusement colored Cain's lower tone, carrying the exact inflection he used when he was already laughing a little and trying not to tip into it fully. "What point? What were you even saying? I spaced out after 'okay, but', man."

Izayah pointed an accusing finger across the room. "That's— Cain, I was talking to you!"

Leaning back, Cain smirked, the sound of ice clinking in his glass echoing softly into the kitchen. "I know, I got maybe sixty percent of it."

Glenn let out a breath through his nose, turning the burner down before the garlic caught fire, gliding a flat palm across the counter, finding his eyes drawn through the kitchen doorway toward the living room without fully planning to look. He wiped his hands on a towel, leaning his weight against the edge of the counter, his gaze sliding past Cain's boots resting on the coffee table, past Jaxon's scowling face, landing precisely on the far side of the room.

{{user}} perched on the arm of the couch.

They weren't sprawled on the cushions, they hadn't settled all the way in, they just sat at the absolute edge, as if they still thought they didn't belong, and Glenn watched them for one second, then another, observing the curve of their spine, the tap of their boot against the floorboards, until he noticed the pan clicking against the hot metal grate and he snapped his gaze down fast.

His fingertip drifted dangerously close to the edge of the scorching pan.

"Shit—" he hissed, quiet, breathing out more air than sound, pulling his hand back sharply before the heat could blister the skin.

Izayah's head popped around the doorframe immediately, his hearing oddly sharp whenever someone else cursed. "Glenn needs help?"

Glenn waved him off without taking his eyes off of the pan, a murmured curse veiled in unnecessary education pressing through gritted teeth. "Glenn is fine."

His fingertip glowed barely pink, nothing worth noting, so he pressed the pad of it against his thumb, turned back to the stove, set his jaw, and told himself to finish cooking the food without further distractions. He tossed the chopped onions into the skillet, the hiss of moisture hitting hot oil drowning out the rest of Izayah's argument, his focus narrowing down to the simple mechanics of feeding his friends.

By the time they ate, the apartment smelled heavily of garlic and cumin alongside whatever herb Cain snuck in from the cabinet without asking, and Glenn let it go, too unbothered by it to actually say anything. They ate on the counter stools, on the couch, Izayah sitting cross-legged on the floor balancing his plate on his knee, the conversation moving fast, overlapping, doubling back on itself the entire time, loud laughter echoing off the bare apartment walls, filling the corners of the rooms. Glenn ate standing up at the kitchen counter, resting one elbow on the cold granite, half-inside the conversation, listening far more than he spoke, taking quiet bites of spiced rice while watching the chaotic dynamic of his chosen family play out right inside his living room.

That was normal, that was him entirely.

Jaxon stood up first after finishing his meal, checked his phone, made a grunt meaning he had somewhere to be, grabbed his leather jacket off the hook by the door without any ceremony, leaving his empty plate sitting dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table. "Good food, Mescal."

Glenn pointed a soapy finger, right over his shoulder, toward the living room. "Don't thank me, thank Cain, he seasoned the rice."

Cain turned his head toward the kitchen, blinking. "Did I do that?"

Nodding once, Glenn confirmed it. "You did."

"Huh, well, then." Cain stood up, stretched his arms overhead until his spine popped, taking the credit without further ado, and grabbed his phone, the screen lighting up in response. "It's getting late."

Of course, that was the only cue that they needed. Izayah was already up, sweeping dirty plates into a single pile that looked like it could clatter to the ground at any given moment, dumping them into the sink with a totally unapologetic smile that spoke, without words, I'm not staying around to help with the dishes and that's your problem alone. When he lingered too much by the kitchen, Cain clicked his tongue against his teeth, the sound loud enough to make the youngest guy in the room roll his eyes.

Pulling his jacket sleeves on arm by arm, Izayah marched toward the hallway. "Okay, okay, okay, we're leaving! Don't miss us too much, Glenn!" Cain nudged the bartender towards the door, shot Glenn a thumbs-up with only a single look back, and the sound of the door closing behind them swallowed whatever other noises they could make. Then, there was silence. Comfortable, for a while.

{{user}} remained exactly where they were, and the silence wasn't comfortable anymore.

Glenn hadn't accounted for that outcome at all, not out of blindness, he simply hadn't figured out a solid plan for that option before the heavy door clicked shut, leaving just the two of them alone, staring at a kitchen counter full of dirty plates alongside enough leftovers for three more meals that Glenn made on pure autopilot without adjusting the portions, same as he always did whenever his friends swarmed his place. He stood there, keeping one hand resting flat against the painted door frame of the kitchen, the sudden silence of the empty apartment ringing loud in his ears, replacing the chaotic noise of his friends with a heavy, thick anticipation that made his chest tighten, his breath catching halfway down his throat.

His mouth opened.

Nothing useful came out immediately, no smooth lines, no casual jokes, so he looked down at his heavy boots, tracing the scuff marks on the leather toes, then back up to the counter, staring at the containers of leftovers he had already started portioning out of pure reflex, eyes tracing the pan still sitting on the stove holding enough food to last him most of the week by himself. He swallowed hard, feeling the tight knot in his throat shift, his pulse beating a steady, rapid rhythm against his collarbone, the smell of garlic and cumin suddenly feeling far too intimate for a quiet room.

Finally, he looked directly at {{user}}.

"Do you, uh—" he stopped, clearing his throat, soft, barely audible, pressing his thumb into the side of the door frame before releasing the pressure, his eyes flickering from their face down to the scuffed floorboards and back up again. "There's still a lot of food, if you want to stay for dinner, I mean—" he offered, leaving a pause thin enough to cut through, his knuckles turning slightly white against the painted wood of the door frame. "Actual dinner, sit-down, I've got too much of it, it tastes better when it's hot."

There was a pause, long enough to be too heavy, long enough to feel like he was suffocating in his own words. Truth be told, he would've preferred to chew glass than to face any of whatever the fuck was happening.

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to, I was just... I thought it'd be nice if you did."

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