Parents: John & Soraya Calloway (step-mom), Ashley Brown (bio mom)
Siblings: Chanel & Dior Calloway
Occupation: Street Racer for The Cavalry / Bartender at The Nines
Birthday: November 30th (Sagittarius)
Faceclaim: Jacob Elordi
Hometown: Brooklyn, NY
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Character Inspiration: Brian O'Conner (Fast & Furious), Dean Winchester (Supernatural), Baby (Baby Driver), Steve Harrington (Stranger Things)
tldr;
– YVES CALLOWAY is a Brooklyn-born street racer, the only son raised inside his family’s dive bar, where dockworkers, hustlers, and gearheads taught him engines, loyalty, and how to read a room. Naturally gifted behind the wheel, he fell into street racing young - first for adrenaline, then for money. When a fire nearly destroyed the bar and left his parents hospitalized, racing became survival rather than sport. Responsibility pushed him deeper into the underground, chasing bigger payouts and bigger risks. Only a few months ago, rumors of the Cavalry reached him and he offered his skills before desperation could corner him. Now he balances fresh blood status with the Cavalry and long shifts at The Nines, the family bar that he and his siblings refuse to let go of.
READ BELOW for fun facts, biography, possible connections.
headcanons & random facts
doesn't smoke a lot, but always carries a pack of cigarettes with him
doesn't like planning for anything - he is able to solve problems better on the spot
rarely ever wears jackets, even when it's cold outside - unless he's racing
starts his car twice before every single race that he has ever been in
memorizes every word that others say and it makes his job as a bartender incredibly easy
basically a math genius
loyal to a fault - the kind of person that will drive across town at 3 am because his friend asked him to, no questions asked
very calm but will not hesitate to start a fight if he deems it necessary
drives a 1990 ferrari that he pretty much built himself, little by little
background
Born and raised in Brooklyn. The only son out of 3 children in a merged family
Grew up inside the family dive bar, back in the day it was called Calloway’s, a scrappy spot known as neutral ground for dockworkers, small-time hustlers, and street racers. Parents worked hard and stayed out of the criminal life, but they knew how to keep peace in a rough neighborhood.
His knowledge of cars came through patrons at the bar - a crowd of people that had almost became family, willing to teach him from drifting to intricate mechanic work - mechanics, racers, and gearheads.
Became a natural driver early: fast reflexes, photographic memory for routes, no fear of speed after he started hanging around street racing circles, drawn to the adrenaline and brotherhood.
He started racing for money out of pure boredom, or that adrenaline junkie everyone is at sixteen years old - but then he won for the first time, thousands of dollars, the kind of money he’d never really seen, that was when he knew he couldn’t let it go.
He had been racing when the call came from his sister - the bar was almost gone, both of their parents and multiple regulars laid in hospital beds, unsure if they would survive it.
The next time that Yves raced, it was not for fun, but to help his family with never-ending debt caused by the fire that left only ashes and ruins for people that had never really had much to begin with.
By his mid-twenties, his father and his step-mother were ready to give up on the one thing that had remained the glue to their family - the dive bar. That was when he and his sisters stepped up, with dreams bigger than logic and nothing else to lose.
As good of a racer as he was, Yves knew he needed a faster way to make more money - he doesn’t try to make ends meet, he wants to earn more and more - so when there were rumblings of a new gang that hired street racers, he didn’t hesitate to reach out and offer his services to its higher ups. Initially to show his worth, later with the hopes to score an actual job with them.
Racing comes easy to him - so the job is almost fun despite how tied it is to his livelihood and the promises he made to his younger sisters, an added bonus is feeling like he is starting to belong somewhere.
As for the dive bar, after multiple renovations, it is run by Dior nowadays and it’s called The Nines, with Chanel and Yves helping out where needed. Yves bartends as often as he can, as long it doesn’t affect the steady income that The Cavalry has became for all of them.
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there was always a strange kind of silence after performing. not the absence of sound, new york rarely offered that, but the quiet that settled somewhere beneath your skin once the music stopped. after hours of smiling at strangers, holding eye contact a second longer than necessary, and moving beneath lights bright enough to make everyone look beautiful, leyla found herself craving places where no one expected anything from her. no.12 wasn't exactly that, but it was close enough. she had traded sequins for an oversized leather jacket thrown carelessly over her shoulders, her hair now pinned up in a loose claw clip instead of falling perfectly down her back. the remnants of the night still clung to her — soft glitter catching beneath the low lighting, lipstick faded from countless smiles she'd never actually felt. a glass of whiskey rested untouched in front of her; she wasn't much of a drinker after work, she mostly liked having somewhere to put her hands. the room ebbed and flowed around her, conversations folding into one another until one movement near the entrance pulled her attention away. she watched without meaning to. there was something oddly familiar about people who entered a room already knowing where every exit was. it wasn't fear, it was habit. her gaze lingered for only a moment before she looked away, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “you know, you're making it very difficult for anyone to believe you're here to relax.” the words came lightly, directed toward the man now close enough to hear them. she lifted her glass in acknowledgment before finally taking her first sip of the night. “i could be wrong.” a beat. "...but i don't think you know how."
She had a point. Arms crossed over his chest and hiding behind oversized sunglasses, Yves looked entirely out of place at the white party. It wasn't his outfit, for somehow, despite so much loss in his life, he had found himself not struggling for money since he had joined The Cavalry. It probably helped that he was Charlie's favorite. Regardless, Yves still struggled to be as upbeat as he had been prior to the fires, no amount of alcohol-laced ice cream could make him care about this party. Unfortunately. "It's been a long year." he retorted, followed by a shrug as if that was enough of an answer. His gaze landed on the redhead, offering her the ghost of a smile. "Finally decided to have some fun? Our timing seems to be terrible."
Tell Gianna ten years ago she'd be standing within The Mob's annual Fourth of July in the Hamptons and she'd have erupted into a snort of a laugh at the mere thought. Fast forward to present tense, she stood at Yves' side at what amounted to the most elegant criminal gathering she had ever had the misfortune of attending professionally. The urge to itch at her own skin had existed within the first twenty minutes as she was caught between the clients who hired her and the ongoing, largely inconclusive exercise of attempting to determine which of the remaining guests were gang affiliated and which were simply exceedingly wealthy.
She was also, for the record, an hour and a half into the evening with a half eaten cone of ice cream in one hand and a spoon in the other. This was, she was reasonably certain, not the Villa Aurelia experience that Celestina del Castillo and Camilla Caravelli had envisioned when they planned the thing. Though in her defense, The Sweet Spot was famous, and she had no reliable set date on when she'd ever experience this again. She had also asked every member of waitstaff who passed within a five foot radius whether chocolate swirl ice cream was available, and each had delivered the same answer - which was no. Therefore, she was left with no other choice but to drag Yves away and speed race down the little town streets to get her coveted cone and reluctantly return to the midst of the event. "You think champagne goes well with ice cream?"
Yves had no clue what the event was about or for whom. Well, he did, but he was there for the sole reason of fear of missing out. See, he had gotten it into his head that he could discover who Pantheon was next time they pulled off one of their fucked stunts. Another part of him was almost glued to Gianna's side - she was family in so many ways, and recently, their family kept shrinking. Randy and Soraya were ghosts around their Brooklyn home, so Yves had almost stationed himself at what now was supposed to be Gianna's apartment. Dior's bedroom remained untouched, so he slept on the couch, still; quite the feat for a six feet, five inches tall man. It was better than his own tiny apartment and the silence in it.
"I think alcohol goes well with everything, you ever had rum and raisins ice cream?" He admitted, though champagne was far from being rum. He wasn't even a big fan of the drink, but it was around them given the servers that walked around and offered them. Speaking of, Yves smiled at another server, taking two champagne flutes as if theyw ere for Gigi and himself, only to dump them in the tub of ice cream he had bought from The Sweet Spot, instead of a regular sized portion. "With how expensive this champagne is, I expect it to go spectacularly with cereal." He had wanted cookies & cream, but then thought better and grabbed a vanilla flavor. "Do you want to try it first or me?"
“𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬,” 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐝, 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 they were personally responsible for whatever times square had become. “used to see them and get real confused. like why people want to visit here. but i never really got what my sister saw in this city when she dragged us here. if it were up to me, we woulda wound up in a cabin up north somewhere.” but that would have been harder. harder to blend in, harder to find work, harder to find cheap housing. when rosa died, romy had found herself stuck here, tethered by the cavalry and by the apartment she couldn’t bring herself to leave. all their stuff and memories were still there. “mmm.” she considered his question for a few seconds. “sure. i’ll tell him someone bigger and taller moved ’em. he’ll make that funny little face he does.” the how dare you one. she was glad to hear, at least, that yves was eating. “like garfield,” she remarked, with a crooked little smile. “do you also hate mondays?” romy, like some boomer, loved newspaper comics. especially ones that featured talking animals. she let his words sit there a moment before she answered. “i reckon people always say she wouldn’t want you to be sad, but that doesn’t help much. you…talk to anyone about it? about her?”
"I blame Jay-Z." Yves mumbled as more of an after thought than anything else, though it was more of a joke than a belief. He had made a very famous song about the concrete jungle where dreams are made of. Yves had only known New York most of his life, he and his family had traveled a few places for vacation growing up, but Brooklyn had been home forever. He was curious about Romy's take on the city. "A cabin up in the mountains or something like that?" It was a genuine question, maybe escaping New York was the answer, who knew. These days all he could feel was the heavy weight of losing his sister and every single aspect of his life reminded him of her. He was moving on, he just wondered how long it would take. Then, Yves made that face that Francis did, or tried to mimick it at least, no offense at the other man though, he thought he was cool.
Yves grinned, "All days are kinda the same to me, we had a bar, you know? Open everyday. Weekends were busy," so no need to hate on a Monday when it was probably one of their less busy days. "This is the most I've talked about it, so...thank you." He admitted slowly, followed by a shrug. The pain hadn't disappeared but it was muffled by time, at least. "Sometimes I think I should just leave, you know? Take my parents and go, I don't know. Start somewhere new."
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Cleo has made a slight superficial attempt to fit in with the crowd Yves hangs with, donning a leather jacket, boys’ jeans sutured to her hips with a black belt. She saunters through the crowd with a ballerina’s haughty grace, flashes an ‘eat your heart out’ grin to faces she has only ever encountered through Yves. The two of them come from opposite worlds, and nobody would peg them as friends. But they are, united by a love of coasting along midnight streets, driving so fast the world blurs. At his words, she gasps, hand pressed to her chest as she walks over. “Untrue. I also hang out with you when you’re driving a Ferrari or a McLaren.” She sips from a flask, silver as a vampire hunter’s blade, tips it his direction in offering. Unwise, considering he’s the one who will be driving. “The truth? Well, the truth is that I only tell the truth when it sounds like an interesting lie.” She laughs, eyes the Porsche in question. “You’d find it sacrilegious anyway. Because truthfully, I don’t particularly care about cars. Porsche, Ferrari, Aston Martin, all the same to me. None of them can compare to riding a horse.” Then she holds up a finger, the way a professor might. “In fact, I think we should bring back horse-drawn carriages. You think you could still win a race?”
Yves actually smiled, see distraction. Cleo was someone that, no matter their differences, had a way with people. He could only assume just how successful she was at life in general, for she was as persuasive of a person as he had ever met. "To be fair, everything you say sounds interesting." It was his way of teasing her, but also a compliment in a way. As a fan of cars, Yves couldn't agree with her, but something he had learned as he was able to drive many different cars was just how important for the driver to know what they were doing. A Ferrari could be nothing if in the wrong hands. "You certainly know all the brands though." He mumbled teasingly, before tilting his head to the side and gesturing for her to join him. Races were nothing but a way for people to show off their precious cars, he doubted Cleo saw cars like this on the daily. "I have won a few horse races. You into the Kentucky Derby and things like that?" Yves was genuinely curious now, if she didn't like cars, what made her show up. He began leading her around, showing her the tuned up cars that some of the racers had almost made from scratch.
Unfortunately, Charlie couldn’t understand grief in the way most people probably did. His grandparents had been dead before he was born and both of his parents were still alive, which meant the concept had always existed somewhere beyond him rather than within reach. That wasn’t to say he couldn’t recognize what loss looked like when it hit somone, but that the full shape of it remained something he'd never been forced to face himself. In Yves' case, he'd lost a sibling which was a pain that Charlie couldn't even begin to understand. But, somewhere between proving himself useful to The Calvary and becoming one of the few people he didn't immediately find exhausting after prolonged exposure, the kid had worked his way into something dangerously close to favoritism. Which, in his opinion, was a reward system more businesses should consider implementing. “It’s red because I already called dibs on blue.” Was all he said at first as he tossed the keys onto the bar between them, the black Bugatti emblem catching against the low light. His gaze lingered there only briefly before lifting back to Yves again. “It’s yours.” The clarification came a second later, only offered in case that hadn't been obvious.
Everything that the Calloway's were started and ended in family. For as much as they had tried, Randy and Soraya had given their kids everything that they could afford and more with a very modest business that the built from the ground up. They hadn't lost many things as they just weren't lucky enough to have them until recently when Yves joined The Cavalry. He was never prepared for the loss of his sister, therefore he couldn't say he had been handling it all properly nowadays. He perked up when Charlie stepped in, moving his attention away from rearranging the bottles behind the bar - something he did at The Nines almost every shift. Old habits. Yves arched an eyebrow as the keys landed on the bar, clearly confused. "Mine?" A Bugatti. A car he had never even bothered to dream of ever having. Charlie had already gifted him a helicopter, but a Bugatti seemed even bigger. He offered the other man a small smile, despite his confusion. "My birthday isn't for a few months, you know?"
𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 the oldest in her family, she’d always felt some duty to protect her sister. rosa was older, sure, but she was also more troubled. more impulsive in certain ways and marked by a past that romy had somehow walked away from intact. and while rosa had protected her plenty of times too, street-smart and cunning, romy had still spent most of her life trying to look out for her. now rosa was gone, but that sense of duty had stayed. it had just morphed. be useful. fix something. help someone. maybe that was why she liked yves. she felt he could relate on some level. romy looked up from the mess of parts spread across her table. wires, screws, three batteries, a half-eaten bag of gummy worms. “soccer i think.” she said. her gaze dropped back to the table, then lifted again. “i try to avoid times square. no one’s got any spatial awareness. always takin’ pictures like a bunch of light pollution is impressive.”
she nudged the bag of gummy worms toward him with two fingers. her eyes stayed on yves for a second longer than most people’s would have. not staring, exactly, just looking. she understood why he wanted to keep busy. “you wanna help me?” she asked finally. “you can move those bags of fertilizer. francis’ll thank you, ‘cause i was gonna make him do it.” romy had learned the hard way that it exceeded her strength. then she paused. “you been eatin’ and all?” it was her way of asking if he’d been taking care of himself.
"Tourists." Yves let out with a small shrug. Truthfully, he was so used to them due to living in the city since he was born, that he barely noticed them. Seeing as Romy didn't stop him from invading her workspace, and instead encouraged him, Yves stepped further into the room and offered her a genuine, small smile at her offer. "Can you tell him someone bigger and taller moved them for you?" Yves asked playfully as he began to do just that; moving the bags of fertilizer almost effortlessly, one-by-one as if that was the answer to all of his problems. Everyone knew about his sister's death, so the question from Romy wasn't surprising. It was better than condolences, or words of encouragement. He still didn't know how to respond to those. "Yeah, lots of lasagna." Yves sat near her once again, finally raking her up on the offer of gummy worms, debating his next words in his head. "I'm...okay, I think. I don't know, it's kind of hard not to feel guilty about smiling or feeling not sad, even if it's for just a few seconds, you know?"
Nan had still not visited The Nines since the fire. It hurt too much for Yves and his family. She was devastated for him. But seeing it now in front of them, the weight on her chest, she couldn't imagine all the emotions he was going through. In this moment she needed to be the rock. She could already hear Francis' voice teasing her about how she could never be someone's emotional support because she was too emotional, but for Yves she put that shit aside. Especially right now, when everything about his life was in limbo.
"You don't need to thank me, Yves. I'm here in a heartbeat." Nan shared, not wanting to get mushy about it. She remembered many a time just strutting through the place in after him, taking a shot for whatever bet she'd lost more than likely on purpose. "It's kinda hard to tell where everything was." Nan confessed as she walked slowly and carefully. "Did they find anything as far as personal belongings?" Nan was thinking of all the different pictures and trinkets that were on the walls and made you feel like you'd stepped into an institution which really was what it was. An institution. A legacy.
"Pretty much everything is gone, and since the authorities already called foul play on the fires, insurance will cover everything." At least that was something the Calloway's didn't have to worry about. Between that payment and Yves and Gianna's efforts to cover all the costs of the funeral with their not-so-honest jobs. His parents needed a break and they were getting one, as much as one could get after the loss of their youngest daughter. He looked back at Nan with a small shrug. "This is the last time that I'll ever come here." Hopefully, that was. He had nothing else to think about when it came to the bar, except moving on; something that was proving quite a task for the street racer. "I don't think I want to hold onto anything - all of it will always remind me of Dior."
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Without even trying to find her, Yves could have spot her from over a mile away. He would like to say that it helped that he had 20/20 vision, but he couldn't fool anyone - Cleo stuck out like a sore thumb. She always had. And yet, she continued to show up. The street racer stepped away from his car as other surrounded it to admire the build; this particular model wasn't his usual 1990 Ferrari, but rather one from The Cavalry's collection and one of his new favorites. It had secret spots everywhere that hid everything he was to deliver after the race, right under the cops' noses, when they least expected him to. "You know, I'm starting to think you only hang out with me when I'm driving a Porsche." He murmured as he approached Cleo, a laid-back smile on his face. Racing had became a safe haven again for him, he held onto them to avoid thinking about his family. About everything that he couldn't fix. Cleo added to the distraction. "What is the truth?"
His last visit to the hospital had finally arrived. An exaggeration, if you asked him as he had been doing fine the day after the fires happened. Still, due to the number of injured and people who had succumbed to their injuries days after them, he wasn't surprised by how careful the doctors were being. He felt fine, even if a new layer of grieving covered his being in a way that was hard to shake to this day. Yves' gaze found Lola as he stepped out after getting cleared by the doctor, an eyebrow raised. "Guess we won't see much of each other after this," he teased lightly, though most of their interactions were the woman taking notes and asking about his health. She was a good nurse, great even. But he wasn't unhappy about avoiding the hospital after this. "Has my dad been showing up to his appointments?"
He had avoided the building like the plague, failing to look past. everything that it had been once and everything that he had to give up on. The Nines, once Calloway's, had only came back due to Dior's longing to keep something that was theirs. He had been supportive, or rather, felt guilty enough to keep working there and to be there for his sister and family, no questions asked. Yves didn't have any fight left in him when it came to the establishment, and in a weird change of events had allowed Randy to deal with insurance and whatever nonsense came with it; deciding his parents deserve whatever payoff that came from it.
Having Nan there for his first time coming back seemed fitting as she was one of his closest friends, and for what it was worth, he knew she wouldn't ask too many questions. Or maybe she would, which would only help distract him from every dark thought in his head. "Thanks for...coming with me. Not a lot left to look at, I guess."
It felt as if the purpose that Yves had carried from a young age - that of the oldest child of the Calloway's - had all but evaporated along with his sisters. Dior was in a better place, that he was sure of, and Chanel had left again, he couldn't blame her for that. His safe space now was Gianna's apartment, where he mostly pestered her and tried to find things to do. His responsibilities were completed almost mechanically, without his usual wish to always do better. Randy and Zoraya weren't around, and it hurt to even think about going to their home when so much of it reminded him of his youngest sister.
The Cavalry, somehow, had felt close to a second home despite how new he was, but he failed to belong anywhere nowadays. Stepping into Romy's spot, Yves wasn't searching for a job or to talk about his feelings, rather to offer a helping hand; anything to get his mind off how helpless he felt nowadays. "Did you know that Times Square has been taken over by Brazilian fans? I hope they win whatever sport they're playing." He mumbled as his gaze found Romy's.
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Yves had carried an immense amount of guilt since he was sixteen; the first fire at The Nines, back then with a different name, had been caused by him. By his street races, for the way a race made him feel. He had lost many times back then. Enough to make it matter to people that were on the other side. The price that he'd paid was that of a family that had no clue he was to blame for it, that still supported him.
That pain - the guilt, the sorrow - was nothing compared to the realization that now he was expected to continue existing in a world where his sister no longer did. That there would be never be another phone call, another text, another night spent watching a movie with Dior and Gianna, or family dinner with Chanel and their parents. That in some many aspects of his life, there would always be an empty seat.
For that reason, Yves had no answer to her question. Optimistically, he imagined they would both be okay at one point, but when that would happen was an entirely different thing. The pain in his body was non-existent, despite the raspy voice, and the coughing, and the face mask. It was incomparable when put next to how broken he was where it truly mattered, exactly what he found in Gianna's eyes too.
"I'll be fine." Physically, all he needed was a few hours. He knew she understood the other side though, so he did not clarify. If anyone in his room understood it, was the woman that had stayed by Dior's side through it all for almost their entire lives. He turned his head to watch his parents through the glass doors that separated them as the older couple stood outside, grieving in their own way as they broke the news to other relatives - staying busy.
Keeping the oxygen mask around his neck, Yves ignored the way his voice almost broke as he spoke up and then he squeezed her shoulder, his gaze still following his parents'. "We're gonna find out who did this, G." And while that wouldn't fix things, nor would it bring Dior back, it would keep him sane - the idea that someday, they would pay.
Loss was a daily risk. She'd come to terms with that long ago. Yet, as her brown eyes followed his line of sight through the glass to find Randy and Soraya, the words that flooded her brain currently were that parents weren't meant to outlive their children. It brought another pang of guilt to surface within her chest with the thought of them fighting a loss that would never heal.
Yves pulled her attention back when he spoke again, with a statement that prompted a nod of her head in confirmation. "Yeah." Despite how softly it emitted, despite the sniffle that punctuated it, there was a certainty that lived beneath it. "We are."
What she failed to voice aloud was what she suspected. That this was no accident. It wouldn't be said here, not tonight, not with his parents on the other side of that door and his oxygen mask still hanging around his neck and both of them barely keeping themselves intact. Gianna always kept up a brave face for her family. Even on the days it felt like it might finally break her. But today it did break her.
But she meant it. And whatever it cost her to find out, whatever it led back to, whatever suspicions it confirmed - she'd already decided it had to be done.
