Chapter Text
The car glides along the road, headlights scything their way through the veil of dark before him. Every corner is blind, lined by trees and pock-marked by drops into nothingness, the barrier between life and death reified as sheets of steel at the roadside. Akira’s eyes dance left to the mirror at the middle of the corner, and seeing no other car’s lights reflected; he stamps on the throttle. The Nissan beneath him roars at the dark as his hands pirouette around the wheel, coaxing the vibrating metal carcass into a slide.
It complies, and Akira’s smile spreads as the front wheels tip into the inner road’s camber, the rear following to a chorus of squealing rubber. The turbo gulps at the air as the corner’s exit comes into view. Akira realigns the wheel, barely having had to counter-steer at all, and fires back onto the straight.
The gear shifts sync up with the thudding baseline of his CD, the energy transmitted from the song through his body, making him want to keep the good drifts going.
Well, maybe only one on the road there, one on the road back. It’s all he should allow himself if he wants to have any rubber left for what he’s planned tonight. The car feels lighter now he’s finally got all those parts Sojiro dumped on him out of the back seats.
The S13 is getting old now, about as old as its actual owner. But it’s not like he’s getting a new ride any time soon, especially on his wage. It’ll just have to stick around a little longer, and if he’s lucky he can steal a few hundred thousand from some eager-to-prove idiots tonight. The big event is the perfect trap, the one he’s sure half the customers he’s seen in the last week are attending.
It’s all Akira’s been hearing about.
The Red Prince is coming.
Akira first heard it a couple weeks ago, paying for gas on the highway just outside of Kaisei, about halfway between Yokohama and Fuji Speedway. Two guys, within touching distance of high school age, crowded around a new flip phone and giggling excitedly.
“Finally! I’ve been waiting all this time for him to finish his Gunma campaign...” One said, clutching the phone aloft and scrolling down a slowly loading web-page.
“And now he’s headed here!” The other replied, shaking his friend’s shoulder. “I just hope we can fight as well as Gunma did. Four whole months, they held him off!”
Akira hadn’t paid it any mind back then. Sojiro was on his ass about getting to the speedway before the guys at the gate started refusing entry to the pit lane. In fact, Akira was more concerned with spitefully staring at his shitty-but-indestructible Nokia and wishing he earned more money.
But when he got to the circuit and heard it again, he paid a little more attention. Two mechanics, one arm-deep in the engine bay, the other spinning a wrench and staring off into the middle distance. Both nodded sagely as they discussed this ‘Red Prince.’
“He’s past the tallest hurdle now, I reckon. Gunma is full of prospects, always has been. Don’t you remember Akagi’s White Comet?”
“Course I do. Who could forget him?” The first mechanic had grunted, tugging up part of the transmission and examining it between oil slicked fingers. “Well, Saitama isn’t even gonna be a speed-bump. But what can Kanagawa do?”
At the time, Akira had to keep moving components out of the car and into the garage, so he hadn’t got to hear the rest. But it stuck with him the rest of that day.
The Akira of the now eases the S13’s revs down to a nice steady hum, reaching into his pockets for a pack of smokes. Better to smoke 'em before the meet, get nicotine in his veins and his focus steady. One hand flicks the lighter to life, fire igniting the end. He snaps it closed and tosses it back onto his passenger seat with the cigarettes, blowing the smoke out of his window.
It was a few days later, when he was busy adjusting some guy’s wheel cambers in the shop that he got the next nugget of information. One that started the gears turning in his own head. That the Red Prince was all done with Saitama. That he was coming to Mt. Hakone next week. His very first stop in Kanagawa was Akira’s backyard.
His mountain.
A plan had started to form in Akira’s head. Use the hype of this so-called ‘Legendary racer’ to challenge some overconfident idiots. Rich kids with too much money and not enough seat time. Even if he only hooks small fry, maybe he can even buy a few new sets of tires. It’s starting to run rough by now, and he was getting tired of scrounging for scrubbed second hand sets from the circuit.
Besides, how can this idiot say he’s challenging the best drivers in Kanagawa? Akira hasn’t been invited. Good thing he had a kink for gatecrashing.
He takes another drag and adjusts the fit of his accessorized jeans, checking that the newly added patches aren’t coming off. The foot that isn’t on the accelerator lightly bounces to the beat of his favorite driving mix. Fifty-fifty, rock and emo, the other Eurobeat. For energy and dizzying contrast.
It’s not that he cares about the Princeling and his quest, really. Bringing the end to some street racing legend really isn’t high up in his list of things to do on a weekend. What is, though—is taking a portion of that money and buying himself a few good drinks. Getting new tires, taking them to the Tsubaki Line, trying to defeat his white whale for the thirtieth time this season.
2007’s autumn is dying fast. It’s still sticky warm some days, but on others a cold wind creeps up and makes him shiver. The trees are already faded to tawny, green vigor drained as the leaves rain down upon the tarmac.
Reminds him of home, of pine needles cascaded over the road in a blanket of gold.
Akira finishes his smoke and flicks the stub out the window, sighing out his last cloud and taking a firm grip of the wheel. It’s almost time for the show. Might even be a few old friends there, from his one and only frenzied year of high school in this city. Through the window, he can hear the thudding of music clawing in over the engine tone, light pollution starting to give the blackness a silvery edge.
The observation deck is packed. Akira checks the time as he rolls toward the parking lot. 2:35am and the place looks busier than it does most days. A simple glance tells him there’s no spots left for him to pull into. A few eyes follow him as he slows to a stop at the side of the road. Two cars are already lined up ahead of him in single file, pointed towards the rest of the turnpike—a silver 350z and a red 97’ Honda NSX behind it.
Akira kills the engine and his music dies with it. He climbs out, stretching up high and shaking his hair out, his shape reflected in the glossy black paint. A few pairs of eyes catch his, then roll and quickly move away. Locking the car up, he wanders off towards the main lot, eyeing up the competition.
Civics, AE86s, an array of Silvia’s, one MR2. The usual crowd, of which he fits right into with his S13. Picking on the turbo-less cars wasn’t going to endear him to anyone, but he’d already punched that card long ago by sniping newbies. Akira sniffles and moves deeper into the lot, dodging dark looks.
“Oh, no—look who’s here,” a familiar voice half-groans.
Akira lazily turns to the source, stifling a yawn. Ryuji Sakamoto, of course—leaning against the hood of his bright yellow Honda Integra R.
“Yo,” Akira says, firing a half-hearted salute and walking over. “Picked tonight to lose some more money, Sakamoto? Didn’t you spend it all on that thing?” He gestures at the Integra and rocks back and forth on his heels.
Sakamoto clicks his tongue and swats the air. “Knock it off, Kurusu. At least it’s my ride.”
Akira gives him a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks back to the start line and wonders whether he summoned Sakamoto with his daydreaming earlier. Then again, that might be his mother’s superstitious bullshit talking through him, even after two years peace. Managing his attitude wasn’t what he wanted to be doing, either. It's tiring, like putting on another layer of makeup—as if he didn’t agonize enough over the winged liner and eyeshadow.
“Yeah, well.” Akira pauses, reaching for cigarettes he suddenly remembers he left in the fucking car. “It’s working out for me so far. Last race you paid for my new steering knuckles. Sure you don’t wanna try again?”
Sakamoto snorts and scoots his ass up onto his hood, raking fingertips through his hair. He looks more put together than he did in high school, but the dyed blond is a forever thing. Clipped on the sides, long and spiked on the top, into the punk look he's never truly given up on. It makes him stand out. “Right, still an asshole,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m good. Road’s occupied.”
Akira rolls his eyes and sighs. It was worth a shot.
Some people are crowding around the driver’s side of the NSX, now. The tires are shiny, in fact he can almost see the vent spews on the tire wall, little rubber hairs that reveal how brand new they are. Someone’s well off—if the Type-S NSX didn’t tell him that already. Rare to see them anywhere but the circuit, decked out in sponsors, racing the other big manufacturers for more money than he’ll ever see.
“I’ll get you grandstand seats for my debut, kiddo. That’ll be me down there, you’ll see.”
He shakes the memory free, picking at a nail until he accidentally chips a corner.
“So, gonna point me at the fresh meat tonight?” He switches conversational lanes, twisting his sneakers around on the tarmac, facing the packed lot.
“Why, so you can go bankrupt ‘em?”
“For old times’ sake,” he smirks. “Baby needs some new tires,” he playfully whines, grinning at Sakamoto’s wince. “C’moooon, a lil' bit of hazing is good for them.”
“Pretty sure you didn’t think that back in school,” his sorta-half-used-to-be-friend fires back, with eyes that look a bit too clear for Akira’s liking.
“Sorry, what was that?” He shouts, pointing to his ears and smirking. “Can’t hear you over the music!”
Sakamoto sighs tiredly, not buying Akira’s little performance at all. “Uh-huh. Everyone’s gonna be too busy watching him to deal with your needy ass.” His eyes flick back to the NSX at the start line.
Akira’s follow. The car does look great, actually. So great, he isn’t even going to make the obvious joke Sakamoto set him up for. It’s painted formula red, punctuated by a glossy black that coats the rear wing, roof and rims. It’s staggered, lower to the ground at the front than the rear. The whole thing paints an aggressive but understated image—there’s more body mods around the fenders, pieces of swooping carbon to direct the airflow.
“This our guest of honor?” Akira mutters, slowly leaning against Sakamoto’s car. The NSX’s lights are dark, but Akira can imagine the purr of that engine. It’s a car practically made for the race track, up here on his mountain road. A weapon of a vehicle. No wonder he’s dominated most of the other idiots.
Sakamoto cracks open a can of soda and takes a slurp. “Mmm-hm. He’s never even scratched it—guy's a clean runner.”
Akira smiles, turning back to him. “It’s a nice car, yeah. Won't beat technique, though. Why, you don’t think I could take him?” He adds, injecting a well-practiced goading lilt.
He’s not really asking. He could, if he cared to.
Which he doesn’t.
Sakamoto just snorts and shakes his head. “Stick to roasting 80’s cars on the straights. That guy’s outta your league.”
Akira laughs through the taste of derision. He could remind Sakamoto that the S13 is a goddamn 80’s car, but he’s got a better idea. “Got a crush, Sakamoto? Must get lonely with Takamaki in Europe—”
“Do me a favor—shut the fuck up about her, alright?” Sakamoto barks, gesturing with the can. His lip curls as he looks away, picking aimlessly at the ring-pull. “We ain’t together anymore.”
Yikes. Akira sucks his teeth and glances away too. Must be still raw, then. “Sorry. That sucks.”
“Please dude, don’t embarrass us both by pretending you actually give a shit.” He takes another slurp.
“Mm.” Akira pushes himself upright and sighs. “You’ll work it out. You two always fit together."
It’s at least half true, anyway. Lies are kinder, sometimes.
Akira can feel Sakamoto’s eyes lingering on him, analyzing—it’s uncomfortable. He clears his throat and pats his pockets. “Shit, I left my—”
His rushed excuse to leave is suddenly cut short by a scream and a chorus of whoops. Akira finds himself staring at the source of the noise, the driver of the NSX has just stepped out. He doesn't look anything like Akira thought he might. In fact, as he stares at the mane of honey brown hair that cascades halfway down his back, Akira isn’t thinking much of anything else.
It stops just short of where his leather jacket is cropped, revealing a back and waist clad in form-fitting mesh, sheer enough to allow just enough of his glowing skin to pass through. By now, Akira is thinking of several things, and none of them have to do with cars.
His back to Akira, he walks confidently over to a crowd of onlookers at the side of the road, his hips ever so slightly swaying with utter confidence. Akira swallows as he keeps staring. The distressed grey skinny jeans he’s wearing hug his ass so well; nothing is left to imagination—and Akira’s imagination is running on overdrive by now. Conjuring images of sliding his fingers under the mesh, controlling his waist, grinding against him.
The tears on the back of his thighs don’t help. Fuck.
Another girl screams as he leans over the barrier to pose for photos. Akira’s problem gets worse when the guy shifts his weight from one hip to the other. He’s never been so jealous of denim in his entire fucking life.
“Oh yeeeaaah, I’m the one with the crush,” Sakamoto crows darkly from his left, shattering the reverie he’s been lost in for about a solid minute and a half.
Akira hurries to collect himself, adjusting his stance a little. “Just not used to seeing well-dressed people here. Could be ugly as fuck when he turns around.”
Please, don’t be, Akira prays in his head, chewing on his lip ring.
Two more photos hold him in desperate suspense, disposable camera lenses snapping. Sakamoto slides off the hood and zips up his jacket. The temperature has hit its coldest, but Akira honestly can’t feel it at all, even just in the old band t-shirt he’s wearing. The NSX driver makes devil horns for just one more instant photo with a desperate fan. Bracelets dangle from his right wrist, gold set against his almost porcelain skin.
“Almost 3am,” Sakamoto says to himself, crushing the can and tossing it back into his car. “It’s ‘bout to go down.”
At the start line, the head spotter puts his walkie-talkie to his ear, nods and then gives a thumbs up to the crowd. The road’s clear. The race is on.
Almost on cue, the goddamn beautiful NSX driver turns, revealing burgundy eyes rimmed with thick-set liner that drag across the crowd on Akira’s side. As they pass over him, Akira’s stomach lurches, his heart stops.
Suddenly, he’s fifteen again. Suddenly, he’s sitting on a park bench in the middle of summer, shoulder to shoulder with a friend dabbing at his bleeding nose. Suddenly, he’s watching the friend walk home alone. Suddenly, he’s knocking on his door.
There’s no answer.
He’s alone again. Mourning that same friend who vanished, who burned another hole into the scar tissue that made up half his heart.
Now, he’s looking at Goro Akechi, five years later.
Akira starts shoving his way to the front as Goro turns, already on the way back to his car.
“D-dude!” Sakamoto shouts as Akira shoves a pair of gawping idiots out his goddamn way.
“G-Goro!” he yells at the top of his voice.
The now nineteen-year-old Goro Akechi stops walking and snaps his gaze toward him, one fingerless glove on the roof of his car. His eyes find Akira’s, and they linger.
And linger.
And linger.
Akira can’t breathe. The moment doesn’t allow for thought as it stretches out around him, like the Earth has slowed its spin for just the two of them. It’s all he can do to pour everything into his gaze, to hold it and not look away.
Goro Akechi stares for another two seconds. Only his eyes betray anything in their intensity. Startling in their stillness, their almost magnetic lock-on. As quickly as it began, it ends. He breaks contact, opens his car door and gets inside without a word. The engine ignites and revs, lights ablaze, red glow drizzling across the blacktop.
What?
Didn’t he recognize him? He hasn’t changed that much. No, he definitely recognized him. He must’ve. Which means he just... ignored him. After everything.
After all this time.
“Hey asshole, you pushed me,” One of the idiots he shoved out of the way seethes, stabbing a finger into his chest, hard. “Apologize.”
Akira headbutts him instead.
The crowd around him spreads as the guy crashes to the ground, clutching his nose as it starts weeping blood between his fingers. The NSX’s engine screams beside him, revving against his opponent.
“What the fuck, Akira?!” Sakamoto yells, running forward to help scrape the bleeding prick off the ground.
Akira turns back to the start line, just in time to watch the 350z and NSX burn rubber and fire into the dark, one chasing the other. The crowd cheers.
No, you don’t get to do this to me again.
He’s already moving, forcing his way back through the circle of people, back to his car. Throwing himself back into the driver’s seat, he twists the key and floors the accelerator. Out into the darkness he chases them, heart thudding in his ears, breaths sharp and staccato.
He’s fucking fine! Better than fine! Thriving!
The S13 climbs the gears as he flies up the small hill, then accelerates down the other side into the turnpike proper. The road widens, but there is no sign of Goro or his opponent in the curtain of night before him.
But Akira knows he can catch them.
The turbo whine sings through his ears, engine howling as it approaches the redline of fourth. Akira hits the clutch, shifting up into the final gear. He isn’t paying attention to anything but what his headlights illuminate, he knows it’s a straight shot to the first corner. He’ll take everything the car can give him, every ounce of power.
He’s not dead or lost, not homeless or suicidal, not sick, not abandoned, not any of the other fucking things Akira dreamt up in the days, weeks, months and years after he disappeared.
The revs spike as he crests the second hill and begins his descent. It’s all high speed to start, which’ll probably prevent him from making up any goddamn ground. The corners will come in the middle, and no matter what, he can take those quicker than any Prince could.
Not a single word in five years. No letters, no calls. Nothing!
Akira slams his fist against the wheel, then grips it like he’s trying to choke it. The first corner comes and goes without him lifting at all. The engine hits the limiter, revs dropping down a few thousand and then starting to climb again.
Fucking ECU should’ve had a stage two upgrade years ago. Too slow!
He’s moving so fast the trees and bushes have merged into solid lines of greyscale in his periphery. Even with the high beams on, the darkness feels impenetrable. How far are they ahead? He has no way of knowing. If the NSX is still behind, it’ll only be because he wants to be.
The Goro he once knew wouldn’t ignore him. But the Goro he knew wouldn’t have disappeared without a word, either.
Akira feels strange. Like someone’s tickling him from the inside. He wants to laugh, but also to scream so loud his voice breaks. The road straightens up and the barriers start to fall away in chunks, leaving dark sky and canyon in their wake. Wind whips at the car as the camber changes, trying to unbalance the steering as the next turn comes up. Like a rollercoaster, the road pitches left, then hooks right and down. The S13’s over-worn rubber complains about the forces he’s putting through them, but he hasn’t got time to let off the gas.
No barriers remain now on the left—if he misjudges the amount of grip these tires have left to give, he’ll be wrapped around a tree before he can say oops. Likewise, on the right he’ll be a tumbling maelstrom of shattering glass and warping metal, and then a fireball. Neither seem like good ways to end a Friday night.
His eyes remain fixed forwards, searching the horizon for the tail-lights he’s waiting for. Nothing else matters. Once more, the revs climb as he starts another plunge into a blind left.
They did say the road was clear, right?
Akira cuts to the apex from the outside, using both lanes on entry and exit to keep all the speed he can. When he arrives at the outer edge and isn’t immediately pancaked, his fingers relax on the wheel ever so slightly.
Ahead of him, the mountain road delves down and hooks right again, straddling the peaks. On it, just about to crest a hill and disappear behind the trees, two glowing blotches of red mar the darkness.
Found you.
The car beneath him growls in agreement. Akira stabs the accelerator down again. This marks the beginning of the more technical section of the road. High speed sections into tighter, blind corners. But he's found them now, and is getting closer.
Following the tail-lights’ path, the road narrows. Concrete bricks tower high on the inside, designed to stop the hillside from eroding across the road. It makes it difficult to keep his speed high, but he needs to. This is where he’ll make up the most time, not having to worry about hitting a car in front of him.
He shifts down to fourth, then third, hooking the left side wheels into the gutter and following the turn. The S13 rumbles, turbo whining as the boost pressure goes up. Whatever the car has left must be used to attack.
The front left tire hits a loose slab, the shock travelling through the car and up through his arms, forcing him to catch a sudden spike of oversteer as it jumps back onto the road. The rear complains, squirming as it tries to find any grip it can.
Suspension is too hard. Doesn’t matter. Gotta push.
He straightens the wheel and coasts towards the outside, pinning the throttle again for the small straight. In the distance, the red glow of his prey soaks through the tree line, like a flag to a bull. He’s getting closer. S-bends are up next. If they go side-by-side into them, fighting for the lead and slowing themselves up? Even better.
The trees finally break, pushed back from the edges of the road to allow him a clear view. At the entry to the bends ahead, he sees two sets of brake-lights, side by side. Perfect. They disappear and Akira takes a deep breath. Maintaining momentum through these curves will be the difference between being in a position to attack into the first sharp corner, or not.
Right’s up first.
He positions his car all the way beside the barrier on the left, as close as he dares. A thin, grasping branch of a tree shatters against his windshield, but he holds his nerve. Meters from the entry, a road sign desperately pleads him to be careful of overheating brakes.
Akira won’t be using them yet, so there’s no need to worry.
Twisting the wheel and letting off the gas, the car tenses around him as the g-forces take hold, wheels digging into the cracked and worn tarmac. The turn holds, and holds—but the car gives, a moment of terrifying lightness in the wheel forcing him to counter-steer to catch the spin before it starts. He’s now a few meters wider than he wants to be. Akira hisses through a set jaw, forced to let up the accelerator, slowing to correct.
Finally, the right turn ends, and his tight line sets him perfectly up for a wide entry into the next left hander. Akira eases the wheel from right to left, trying to float the car into the turn, trying to minimize any more losses of control and the wear on his tires. In the back of his head, somewhere buried beneath all the desperation, he knows the car is not in any state to be pushed this hard.
Another big sign warns him about cars in the other lane. The front left tire bites in, but it won’t be enough—he quickly stamps the clutch, downshifting to third. The revs spike, howling in discomfort, but it’s quicker to let the engine slow him down than touch the brakes. Even so, he’s starting to slide wide. If there's a family saloon in the opposite lane, he’s gonna be getting to know them intimately very soon.
The white lines in the center spread into a crosshatched pattern, marking an area he should absolutely not cross.
He’s two wheels into the middle of it when he has that thought. Across from him, through the barrier, down the mountainside and across the hills, the coastal town of Odawara twinkles in the night. Lights shimmer on the water, early morning fishing boats starting to leave the harbor.
This fucking corner goes on forever.
Understeer is taking over now, the overheating front tires not giving him any more grip to work with. The car is still creeping over the divide, inching into the other lane as the exit comes into view. A hundred meters down the road—less, even—he can see shape of the 350z’s lights clearly now.
Of course, Goro’s overtaken him. How could he not? But there’s good news—they know someone’s chasing them now. Pressure’s on.
The outside barrier suddenly rushes up to greet him, forcing him to come off the throttle completely and coast to stability, wheel shaking when he runs out of road at the very edge. Akira lets out an adrenaline filled laugh. He judged it perfectly, he thinks—just as the right wing mirror is sliced off by a sign.
Fuck. Too close. How did he end up that wide? No time to think about it now—the chase is still on.
Once more, he starts to climb the gears back to fifth, switching back to the correct lane and bolting down towards the last curve of the section. It’s another right hander. It leads onto the last straight before the hairpin—the best spot to start his attack. He needs to have caught them before it, or the NSX will gallop away into the distance.
Still, if all his tires are overheated by the time he gets there, he won’t be passing anything. Akira forces himself to breathe out, to try and let go of some of the tension that’s still trying to strangle him. It comes out shakily, fingertips trembling on the leather. His forehead hurts from where that guy’s nose broke against it earlier.
A breath in, then he swoops the car over to the left side, taking the right turn at a slightly lower speed than the last three. The tires don’t scream, and the wheel doesn’t tremble under his hands. It’s under control. He’s under control.
Five fucking years.
Akira had cradled hope for over half of them. Cupped the sputtering flame between his hands and turned his back to the storms, tried to keep it lit for so long. When it went out, it was almost a relief.
The mountainside looms over him, the black obelisks of trees and shape of sheer cliff cast across the indigo sky. The road starts to lean, half-cambered like an American oval circuit. It helps the car stay planted as he ups the speed in the mid-corner, then dives into the trench-run.
A shallow valley on a mountain side, a scar carved into the earth—it rises on either side as the road keeps sloping downward. His speed picking up, higher and higher as the wings of gravity give him an extra push. He hears it, just beyond this tiny curve in the straight—an engine tone that isn’t his own.
The 350z is mere meters away as he blows around the bend. What he doesn’t expect is that Goro is still in sight, too. He's not even pulling away—not really. There are maybe two car lengths between both of them—the 350z caught up? The NSX should be way further ahead. Out of sight, even. A static thrill travels up Akira’s spine as he ducks in line with the other car’s wing. It punches a hole in the air for him, letting him close in quicker and quicker.
The two lanes stretch on and disappear over another precipice, another step on their long downhill journey. At the bottom lies the tightest turn so far, and they’ll all be arriving at speed. It’s time.
His first opponent shifts from side to side ahead of him, trying to break the slipstream he’s using or trying to follow the NSX’s wake, he can’t tell—it won’t matter anyway. Inside, outside, Akira will pass anywhere there’s a gap. Whoever this guy is, he isn’t cut out to stand between him and Goro.
Akira moves his car to the right, seeing a glimpse of their destination in the moment it takes the car ahead to react and block his path. Signs blur past him as he closes right in to the rear of the 350z, his headlights blasting light through their rear window.
The signs tell him there’s an emergency lay-by in four-hundred meters. That if he thinks his brakes have failed, he should bail out. They’re both travelling towards it in the oncoming lane.
His fingers tighten around the wheel.
‘50 KPH! Frequent accidents! Don’t speed!’ The next sign pleads, a little louder, a little more red.
There’s no next gear to shift into, so he lets off the accelerator a little, staying behind—the last thing he wants to do is bounce off the limiter as he tries to overtake. He has to time this right.
‘200M! Emergency escape!’
Akira’s mouth is dry, but he’s focused. Through the Z’s window, he can see the glow of Goro’s taillights, ten meters ahead.
He’ll be there soon.
‘30 KPH! Corner! Steep slope!’
Akira floors the gas again, surging beyond 200 kph, bumper to bumper with the Z before he pulls to the outside, into the correct lane. His overspeed carries him past the rear quarter-panel of his opponent. To his left, splitting away, a high slope reaches off the road, illuminated by flashing emergency lights. The last point of escape before the corner takes them both.
He blazes past it, drawing halfway alongside the other car. It’s all a challenge, one he can’t afford to lose.
C’mon, give up! Brake already!
The Z disappears from his inside with a tearing screech of locked brakes and a cloud of smoke. A fraction of a second later, the NSX ahead brakes. Akira matches Goro. The brakes scream, cold and barely used so far tonight. His wheel shudders under the forces, tires threatening to lock as he tries to turn. A snake of tire smoke blossoms from under his front right.
Hilariously, on the outside of this death dive, the authorities have chosen to remove the barriers. If he can’t stop or can’t turn, at least it’ll be a clean launch, Evel Knieval style.
Akira kicks the clutch and goes down to fourth, again, to third, then second—the speedometer tumbles before his eyes, trying to ease off the brakes to turn better. Ahead of him, the NSX’s brake-lights go dark, already starting to glide around the corner. Meanwhile, Akira’s still struggling with the overspeed and lack of control.
The S13 tries to squirm away to the outside, the front forced down under the strain as the rear goes light, kicking out to the side—Akira pulses the accelerator to try and transfer some weight back. It half works, the front tires finally grip up. He twists the wheel, counter-steering and not letting the car’s ass get away from him.
The NSX has already pulled away when he finally gets the slide under control, winding off the steering, hands trembling.
Akira lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, heart hammering in his chest so hard it feels like it's trying to jump out of his skin. Meanwhile, ahead? The NSX remains unshakeable as it finishes the corner, almost lazily positioning itself for the next.
Akira steels himself and follows, eyes flicking to his rear-view mirror as he speeds up. The 350z has careened to a stop, nose pointing inches from the edge; forest and death.
Lucky boy.
The next turn is already upon them, but his target isn’t even fifty meters ahead. Akira can taste victory, taste superiority, taste payback. He’ll tear his legend down just for crossing his path. Force him to see.
As he flies into the next turn, the land begins to fall away on both sides of him, becoming a bridge over the void for the two of them, bathed in fading moonlight. Akira plans on closing the distance. Strangely enough, Goro’s car isn’t disappearing like it should be—his exit from the death-dive was much smoother than Akira’s. He should be halfway down the road, but he isn’t.
His jaw clenches, grip tightening. Already back to fourth gear, he closes the gap to about five car lengths and Goro sharply accelerates. The moonlight snaps off as they disappear back between the rows of trees. Akira’s headlights burn as he closes in, flashing them.
“Surprise! I’m still here, fucker!” He yells from the driver’s seat, as if the man can hear him.
Maybe he did, because the NSX is going fast, now. They tear down the canyon, the cliff-side netting shivering at their sheer speed. The timbre of their engines reverberates off the stone and crashes against the trees, chasing their wake down the mountain.
‘Steep slope! 200M to next emergency exit!’
The road twists right, behind the wall of rocks—Goro takes it quicker than Akira expects, no hesitance on entry, no tap of the brakes, nothing. It’s so fast he’s not sure his tires will let him match it—and the NSX is starting to inch away again. A constant to and fro, a tug of war in the space between them. Akira hates it. Throwing caution to the wind, he traces Goro’s line, keeping focused on the road and not his tail-lights.
It feels like they’re in their own world. Nobody can get between them, now. Even the moon can’t reach them here, in this shrouded valley of stone and dirt and hurt. The NSX moves differently now, Akira can feel it, instinctively. He's started pushing the car hard. It’s written all over for someone with the eyes to see; the suspension’s strain, the lack of brake taps, the adjustments on his line in the mid-corner.
But Akira already learned what the Red Prince’s races are known for. He watched a few of them. Clean and controlled. Taking the lead with precision and securing the win with utter domination, all to create unimpeachable victories. He also knows who Goro Akechi is. How he used to race, how he used to follow Akira on the kart track. It’s been long time since Goro tried to copy one of his moves, and he’s picked up a few new ones in that time.
Akira did always have his number.
The NSX digs into the next left corner, the body leaning as it grips up. Akira needs to get close, now. Even with the stage one upgrades Sojiro bolted into this old bucket, it doesn’t have the steam to go toe-to-toe with a real racing heavyweight. There are four corners left before the road becomes a speed trap again, flowing curves followed by straights. He can't compete with the high-speed cornering of that thing. If he lets it roam free, it’ll drop the slipstream in two turns, and in three it’ll be gone.
There’s no time to let the tires rest again. It’s now or never.
Akira doggedly pursues him through the turn—bystanders watch them, talking feverishly into walkie-talkies, standing beneath cherry trees. If it were spring, they would be in full bloom—a fleeting flash of color and life, all for them. But here they are, bare, skeletal and raw, just trying to stay alive for another winter. Akira’s car screams through them, an enraged howl that stretches back five years. Violence is their language now, and Akira will make his voice heard.
His overdriving pays off, still in touching distance as the road straightens. Akira tucks back into his slipstream, drawing closer, closer, closer. He can almost feel it through his fingers, the urge to dig his claws in and hold on. Breath caught in his throat, the car bays under him, giving him everything. The redline draws in, and Akira attacks.
Alongside he creeps, inch by desperate inch. The turn waits for their arrival. Right-handed. Exclusion cross hatching in the middle. No mirrors on the outside to warn him of a car coming, and he can’t even see the exit from here.
Something he hates about himself makes him look toward Goro.
Goro is not looking back.
The NSX brakes a half second before him, and Akira kicks the clutch and slams the accelerator to the floor, throwing the car into a slide. The S13 pitches sideways, the hood and front wheels veering over into Goro’s lane, blocking him. Akira’s heart beats too fast—a constant thrum he can feel just beneath the skin. He controls the throttle, holding the slide, tires screaming in his ears, smoke billowing up from the front.
Akira can’t help but look again.
Now, Goro is staring at him.
Through the smoke and the two panes of glass, his eyes pierce through it and him in a glance.
Who are you?
Akira breaks away, breathing hard, looking for the exit. Once more, it feels like the world has slowed—he can see the end of the turn now, where it swaps and becomes a left turn, one he’ll have control of the line for, the one where he'll take charge.
The S13 shakes beneath him, trying to break free, bucking under his reins, snapping and twisting. He won’t let it go. Another glance right. Goro is still staring at him—closer, and... sideways? In a sickening twist, Akira realizes what’s happening, but far too late. The NSX is drifting now too, almost door-to-door with Akira’s S13.
And Goro will not stop fucking staring at him.
Akira starts to steer out, opening the angle, trying to hold his position even if he’s getting pushed wider every second. The NSX keeps coming. If he can just hold on for a few more seconds, keep Goro boxed in, he’ll be able to take the lead. He’s pushed wider, wider—closer to the barriers on the outside with every passing instant.
He won’t do it. I’ve got this, I can hold on!
About ten meters from the switch-back and two from the barrier, the wheel goes light. He tries to lean into the spin, catch it, stop it before it starts, but the rear just steps further and further away. It won’t grip—there's nothing left for the car to give him. In that instant of fear and realization, he looks back to Goro.
The man is now focusing forwards, already slipping from his grasp. Akira can only watch him go, another moment to sear into him. Every detail. The way his hair is tied back into a low pony now, the clench in his jaw, the way pale moonlight finds its way through the leaves overhead, cascading across the glass in pearl tears. The moment stretches, a few more heartbeats of blissful numbness.
Akira lets go of the wheel.
His rear-wing catches the steel barrier first. With a sound of shearing metal, it digs in and pulls the rear of the car with it. Akira is a passenger. In the next second, the back-end slams into the barrier. The bodywork snaps and crumples, emitting pops and cracks like a cheap birthday party, and he’s the only guest. Akira’s last full-blooded thought is that he hopes the barrier holds better than it did for his dad.
The car spins, momentum still too high to be absorbed by just one impact. His foot is jammed on the brake, but it doesn’t matter. He watches the NSX’s lights disappear around the bend as he’s wrenched around in the opposite direction next. The nose of the S13 clatters into the railings and Akira’s thrown forwards, arm tangling with the spinning wheel that’s desperate to find a north star to follow.
Both driver and passenger window shatter, showering him in jewels of broken glass.
“Nh!” He winces, breath driven out of him.
The car scrapes down the barrier, nails on chalkboard, knives on glass, screaming in his ears. It bounces once more, wheel yanking and wrenching on his arm before finally grinding to a stop.
He hears the NSX’s engine fade into the distance, echoing around him like a mirage. Now it’s just him, his breaths, the sound of the engine ticking as it cools and the groaning of warped metal.
Akira starts to draw his right arm back from between the gaps in the wheel. His shoulder screams, a stab of pain that appears in an instant, freezing him in place. It chokes him, forcing him to grit his teeth as he leans back.
A chunk of glass falls from the rear windshield and shatters.
“Fuck!” Akira screams, punching the wheel over and over and over with the other arm, through the pain. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck you! I hate you!” He snatches air in hissing gasps, teeth bared in the dark. “Die, just die!”
A choked sob breaks free, followed by another. He tries to strangle it with every second, not daring to breathe lest he cry more. He wants the world to swallow him whole. He destroyed the car and he didn’t even beat him. He’s a fucking failure, always has been.
Akira breaths. A gasp of icy air under his bruised ribs, pushing his head back up. His shoulder throbs. He tries not to breathe. His shoulder throbs. His knuckles ache and sting.
Akira hears an engine approaching. People are already coming to find him like this. He drags his forearm over his face, trying to hide the traces of his tears. What it actually does is smudge the eyeliner all over his cheeks, making it even more obvious. Fuck, it’s stuck to his goddamn arm now, too.
The arriving car gets louder as he unclips the seatbelt, wincing as it whips back. Who’s it going to be? Not that it matters. Word’ll reach everyone soon enough.
Uncomfortably, he inches his hip up and fumbles in his pocket for his phone. Not a scratch. Indestructible.
Enjoy telling Sojiro you wrecked his ride.
The approaching car stops beside his right window. Akira glances sidelong. It’s a silver 350z.
“Stupid prick!” the driver shouts. “All that bullshit, and you wreck out anyway? You’re a waste of space, and that car—well, whatever’s left of it!”
Akira smiles, turns and spits at him through the broken window.
The guy looks him up and down, probably wondering whether to get out and start swinging at him. But instead, he just shakes his head. “Freak. Enjoy the ride home, black cat.”
It’s in the way his lips curl around the nickname, the sneer etched into his face.
“Will do. Enjoy out-braking yourself at the next red light, fuckwad!” Akira yells back, as is expected.
The man floors it and disappears around the bend, leaving Akira breathing in tire-smoke and exhaling humiliation. Not that he’ll ever admit it.
The engine ticks are slower now. Noises of the mountain start to creep up around him, birds, the rustle of leaves and sigh of the wind. All while he sits in his ruined metal cage, hoping it’ll hide him. The phone screen is entirely too dark to read, what with its shitty backlight. Squinting and painfully stretching, he paws for the overhead light switch. It strains into life, a weary, dour yellow filtering through the cabin.
His phone reads 03:10AM, and he has two missed messages. Seven minutes of the chase, three of the fall. Akira swallows thickly, casting his eyes to the seat beside him. The cabin light flickers again as he shifts in his seat. His cigarettes are waiting for him in the passenger footwell, the lighter is nowhere to be found.
Groaning with the pain of what he hopes is just a bad strain, he leans over the gearstick and handbrake, fumbling for the pack in the thin light. As he settles back into his seat, he hears another engine approaching. Slowly pulling a smoke free with shaking fingers, he places it between his lips and sinks further down into his seat. A bright yellow car appears in the rear-view mirror, and Akira scoffs in disbelief. He’s not sure why he’s surprised—it’s just been one of those nights. That charm painted into the back of his neck, doing what he expected.
It pulls to a stop beside his wreck with a squeak of brakes. A heavy sigh comes from the open passenger window.
“Hey, Sakamoto—got a light?”
**
Sojiro again tugs at a corner of the bumper that’s barely hanging on, trying to get it to detach cleanly. He’s been trying for fifteen minutes. Akira shifts uncomfortably on a stack of spare tires, trying to ignore the hole-like feeling in his stomach. The silence is goddamn deafening.
“Need help?” Akira asks.
Sojiro pulls hard, and once again the buckled section fails to detach. He lets it fall back to the ground, sighs and rubs his brow.
“No,” he replies curtly, stepping back from the damaged car and crossing his arms.
Akira stands, palms up in an over-exaggerated shrug. “Right. Better I just sit here and feel scolded.”
The old man slowly turns to look at him, stone-faced. “Do you?”
“If I say yes, will I get to help try and fix this quicker? You can take it from my wages.”
Sojiro turns back to the S13 and crouches down, running his fingers over what remains of the front right tire. “I thought you were better than this,” he says, and the disapproval reminds him of home. “They’re not even tires anymore. Hell, I’m surprised you managed to get that far down the mountain in the first place.”
Akira examines his shoes.
“Maybe that’s the problem—tire whispering always was one of your strong suits,” Sojiro continues in the silence, tearing a shred of stuck rubber off from under the wheel arch.
He looks up. “I saved some in the S-bends, before. Had to. I still caught up before—”
“You really think I’m praising you?” Sojiro interjects, incredulity threaded into the words.
A wry smile appears on Akira’s lips before he can smother it. No, obviously not. Back down to his shoes.
“Trust me, the last thing you need is a bigger head.”
Has he got one of those? It doesn’t feel like it. It’s never felt like anything but coin-flipping on survival, and tonight he had to.
“... Must have realized they weren’t in any shape to be pushed, but screw it, yeah? That’s a new level of stupid, even for someone as pig-headed as you.”
God, but when will this fucking sermon end?
“Yeah?” Akira ignites. But he bites it back, swallows it down, breaths out only the fumes. “I thought I could win enough cash for some new tires. I’m sorry.”
Sojiro slowly rises and walks around the car again. What remains of the rear wing is laying forlorn in the back seats. One tail-light is entirely gone, that side’s bumper is also crushed inward and yet somehow also hanging off. The front is warped, grill pushed in, a headlight out. Sides scuffed, rear and side windows shattered—the list goes on and on.
Akira isn't even going to point out the missing wing mirror. It’s kinda an afterthought.
The old man’s eyes flick back to him from behind his glasses, and linger for just a little longer than Akira likes.
“That’s what all this was about, huh? Just earning money?”
Akira makes himself hold eye contact. “Yup. Wanted them for Tsubaki. Keep getting half-cooked sets from the speedway, and they’re shit.”
Sojiro offers no response as he turns back to the car, jaw working, the lines in his forehead deeper than ever. As they stand in an awkward silence, an engine rumbles to a stop behind the shutters, out front of the garage.
“Customer,” Akira remarks, clearing his throat. “I’ll handle it.”
“You should just go to bed,” Sojiro instructs, without looking up.
He shrugs, the hand with bruised knuckles in his pocket as he moves through the workshop, stepping around loose tools and a couple oil stains. “Not tired yet,” he lies.
His once-guardian doesn’t protest.
It’s a bit early for a customer on a Saturday, but handling it meant he wasn’t stuck alone with Sojiro, feeling like he was about to choke. He wanders over to the shutter controls and leans his fist against the button. It slowly starts to rise with a rattle. His injured arm is already improving—more than enough to wave off Sakamoto trying to get him to go to the hospital. It’s just a little stiff and a little sore.
It was awkward enough getting driven back here in the guy’s car, managing to lie enough with the how’s and why’s and what for’s—let alone surviving a trip to the hospital.
“Hey, how can I... help—” Akira’s voice drains away into the brittle early morning air.
A red NSX is waiting for him.
“You...”
Akira’s brain immediately demands adrenaline, and his weary body complies. His hands prickle as the blood leaves them and crashes into his swooping chest. None of this helps him speak. The man steps free of his car and pushes the door shut with one hand, eyes locked onto Akira as he moves around the hood, toward him.
“Good,” he says simply. “They didn't lie.”
Goro’s voice is entirely different from what his mind tells him it should be. Deeper and sharper, the childlike wonder he used to have, evaporated. Akira can’t quite explain how, but it hurts. His snakebites catch the early morning light, glittering on his skin like dark marble. Akira can’t quite tell what expression he wears. In fact, he can’t read him at all.
Akira’s hand limply slides off the button as he steps out of the garage, through the door and into the light that this man basks in. Again, Akira strains to read anything on his face, but he can’t find anything to latch onto. No strong emotion betrays him, not sadness, not anger, certainly not fucking happiness. He’s just... there.
“It seems your injuries aren’t severe,” Goro continues, standing two meters away, for the first time in five years. “I’m glad.”
A spike travels up Akira's throat, faster than he can think.
“Are you? Why? Worried you’d lose your chance to gloat?”
Maybe he should’ve taken Sakamoto’s fucking advice.
Something wrinkles the man’s perfect brow.
“Is that what you think?” Goro asks in reply, quietly. His searching eyes flit over Akira’s shoulder, trying to penetrate into the garage.
Akira takes two steps to the left, aiming to fill all of his vision. “Why the hell else would you come here?” He snorts, darkly. “It can't be to see me. Had a long time for that.”
Goro’s sharp eyes flick downward and then rake slowly back up his body, meeting Akira's gaze again. At this proximity, the thick liner makes him even more magnetic, even more gorgeous.
“I’m here to see...” he hesitates, leaning back a half-step. His dark lips remain flat, but his head turns away, back down the small street that Leblanc lies on. “Who you are. I shouldn’t have come.”
Akira feels like he’s trying to swallow an explosion. It’s not going down smoothly. “And?” He asks, voice climbing. “Got your answers? ‘Cause I got mine.”
“What the hell is going on over there?” Sojiro yells from the garage. Back by what this man he used to know caused.
Bitter amusement suddenly appears on Goro’s face. Steps are approaching from behind, along with the steel clunk of a tool being laid down.
“I’m sure you do,” Goro replies, growing steel in his voice, head tilting ever so slightly. “I can see it in your eyes, along with the delusions of self-importance you’ve consoled yourself with all this time.” He pauses and then smiles, rust-and-blood flecked eyes narrowing. “Go on then, get it over with.”
Akira takes another step towards the man, his voice peaking as he speaks. “Do you even hear yourself? You were fucking preening in front of the crowd—could you project any harder?”
Goro barks a harsh, single note of laughter as he folds his forearms and bows his head, listening through a grit-teeth smirk on his face.
A lightness fills Akira’s chest as he sees it, spurring him on.
“Oh yeah, Goro—it's all totally me. I’m the one who disappeared five years ago without a word, I’m the one who never tried to find you!” He snarls, fists balling. “I’m the one who drove me into a fucking wall—!”
“I suppose one for three is accurate, by your standards.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Sojiro asks, sliding into the conversation, peering out at the man wearing his friend’s face.
“I’m the one who ruined his car, yeah!” Akira’s anger has a life of its own now, seething out of his mouth, turning into hot steam and disappearing into the early morning October wind. “Five years? I remember you telling me I mattered!”
That one snags on him, Akira can see it does, but not enough to stop him. Goro stiffens, then turns and nods respectfully at Sojiro. “I apologize for this. He needs to get it out of his system.”
The condescension is like a pint of napalm, upended over him, sticking to his skin and instantly aflame.
“Look at me, you soulless prick!”
Goro’s eyes snap right back, flaring. “I am looking, Akira. I’m not liking what I see.”
Akira laughs hysterically.
“Cool it, Akira,” Sojiro urges, putting a hand on his shoulder.
He flinches and tries to shrug him off. Another step forward. Sojiro moves with him, not letting go.
“I’m amazed you even remember my name!” He spits, voice breaking. “You think I like what I see when I look at you?!”
Goro simply shrugs. “Probably, judging by your expression earlier tonight. You wouldn't be the first.”
Akira just stands there, the life beaten out of him. His fists are tight and his stomach sick. There are spots in his vision. Something within him gave, and now he can feel every ounce of venom he’s ever felt in his entire life flooding him. It’s like a suffocating tsunami pushed up from his core, collecting every other feeling in its path as it rolls forwards.
Sojiro squeezes his shoulder gently.
“So, they were right. Not only did you get involved in someone else’s race, but it wasn’t even with your own car?” Goro laughs. “Racing so recklessly with something that isn’t even yours. I didn’t believe it, but I suppose I should’ve. You always did like taking things you felt owed.”
“You pushed me wide! You! Into the goddamn barrier!”
“No, I didn’t. You spun.”
“Why do you think I spun?! Can't see past all that goddamn hair?”
“Because you destroyed the tires in that suicidal lunge against my real opponent,” he states, as though it were indisputable fact. “Because you chased us down from a twenty second head-start before half distance, because the move was never on in the first place! I can’t believe you still race that way.”
“And it would’ve worked,” Akira rasps, throat sandpaper-like from all the screaming. “I think that’s what you can’t stand. Even with your goddamn flashy car.”
Goro sneers, adjusts the fit of one of his gloves, tugging it back down his palm. “Delusion is, as ever, your strong suit.”
“And being a cowardly cunt is yours! Gonna run away again?”
Goro’s jaw clenches. “If you had just waited, you would’ve still been racing. You would’ve still had a chance,” He locks eyes with him again, and Sojiro’s hand tightens on Akira's shoulder. “But no, you thought I’d just surrender the racing line to your bullshit, half-hearted block? Stupid! Cocky! Self-important!”
His tongue dances over that damn last word. It’s practically purred.
“Alright, I think you’ve made your point,” Sojiro says, half stepping between them.
“Yes, I suppose I have seen enough,” he breathes in, then out, closing his eyes. Long dark lashes mesh together as he does so, resting against his luminous skin. Beneath his tightly pressed lips, a thin band of leather sits flush against his neck. It moves with his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Akira wants to wrap his hands around it.
“I hope you’ll accept this, sir,” he says only to Sojiro, reaching into his back pocket.
“What the fuck—” Akira starts, then freezes when he sees Goro is holding out a stack of notes to Sojiro. It’s about as thick as a medium-sized book.
“For the car,” he says, not even looking at Akira anymore. “My winnings for the night.”
Sojiro blinks, then rubs at his chinstrap. “Really? You didn’t crash it.”
Ha-ha! Hahaha!
“No,” He smiles, giving a shrug that rolls off his shoulders, zips shivering on his jacket, bracelet glittering as sunlight spreads eastwards across him. “Even so, it’s bad form. Reparations are necessary.” Goro's bloodstained eyes crawl to Akira’s. “At least by somebody.”
Akira lunges for him. In that instant, he sees Goro’s mouth split into a fanged grin.
He swings over Sojiro’s outstretched arm, not reaching his target by a long shot. He’s quickly grabbed and dragged backwards into the garage. Even so, he keeps pulling, trying to claw his way forwards.
“Easy, son—easy,” Sojiro says, over and over as he yanks him firmly back inside, then tries to cover it with both arms outstretched.
“I’ll leave this here,” Goro says simply, placing the stack of cash on the nearby letterbox. “Once again, I apologize. I hope it’s enough.”
He turns and walks back to his car, boots rapping off the concrete.
Akira watches him go, and his damn chest flutters again, like he’s still losing him—it's all a storm in his chest, tearing up the landscape.
“Akira,” Goro calls, turning back to him. His face is awash with sun, catching his hair and making his eyes almost glow. “Is this really all you are?”
They share a look. Akira hopes he doesn't look as ruined as he feels. Goro climbs into the NSX, fires it up and disappears down the street.
Sojiro’s arms sag down from the doorway, and Akira turns and walks back into the center of the garage. He sags down onto a stack of tires, running both hands up and through his hair.
“God,” he whispers, only to himself.
“You’ve got a hell of a punch, kid,” Sojiro groans, rubbing at his upper chest as he walks back toward him.
“S-sorry,” Akira mumbles in reply. “Sorry.”
It’s like he’s only just stopped tumbling down the rabbit-hole. Now he’s at the bottom, crumpled in a heap, in a new reality he never quite believed could exist. One where Goro Akechi is back in his life again. His body aches and his head is throbbing. None of what he said came out like he’d imagined, in his many, many fantasies over the years. In the dreams of this moment, the little mental chess games he’d play with himself on the lonely nights.
In them, he would always come out the other side standing taller, more resolved, more... more...
Lost than ever.
Akira’s eyes sting.
Sojiro clicks his fingers right in front of his face and he jolts, blinking rapidly.
“You’re miles away. Go shower and sleep.”
“What? N-no, I’m alright,” he sniffs, wiping his hands on the ass of his jeans and standing.
“Shower and sleep, Akira,” he urges again, taking Akira by the shoulders and guiding him toward the stairs at the back of the garage. The old man’s face says that this isn’t a negotiation, but his voice is warmer than he expected. “I’ll check out the car.”
Akira just nods numbly, then walks towards the stairs. His limbs feel heavy as he climbs them, and unsurprisingly his injured arm is now aching again. Pushing the door open to the repurposed double office, transformed into a small studio apartment, Akira is greeted by a most perturbed meow. It’s about three hours past his usual breakfast time.
Morgana hops down from his bed and stretches out, padding his way over.
“Sorry, Mona,” Akira croaks, crouching down and letting the door swing shut behind him. The cat wanders over, big blue eyes fixed on his mess of a face. His fingertips find the cat’s fur, and he lets out a shaky breath. “Been a hell of a night,” he says to the only living thing he knows won't quit on him.
“Mow,” replies the cat, looking as bright as he did the night he found him.
As he stands, he suddenly feels the exhaustion hit him. What remained of the adrenaline is exiting stage left. Grimacing, he tries to slowly stretch out his injured shoulder again, then fills Mona’s bowl and wanders towards the bathroom, shedding layers onto the floor as he goes.
His mind won’t shut off though, even as the hot water hits his face and rolls down his back. Even as he leans against the tile and breathes out, now separated from the world by a vinyl curtain. Now allowed to just be, and what does he do? He lets his mind fly back to the start line, he watches Goro’s back as he walks—he follows the curve of his waist, the swell of his ass, the sway of his hips. He wants more.
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
Akira turns around and presses his forehead into the tiles next, screwing his eyes shut and trying to wrench his mind away. Why the fuck is it doing this to him?
‘Okay,’ his brain says, happily taking him back to the crash, back to Goro’s eyes as he watched him spin. Back to his fanged smirk, back—
“Leave me alone,” he commands through half-clenched teeth, hoping it'll finally listen to him as he blindly reaches for the shampoo. Slowly, Akira works it into a lather in his hair. Every circular motion makes his arm ache, and it demands he glance down. There are large blotches of bruises across his collarbone, shoulder and bicep, already nice and purple. He’s lucky he didn’t actually break anything.
Ducking his head back into the stream, he rubs his face and tries to relax. The water cascades over him, into his ears, blocking out all the sound. It’s a little bubble for him to exist in as the water runs down his skin and streams off his fingertips. Makeup and dirt circle the drain before being sucked down. He watches it, other thoughts tugging on his focus.
Self-important? Doesn’t need a bigger head?
Is that really him?
Akira twists the water off. As he wanders back to bed, naked and dripping water everywhere, he plucks a towel from the rack and wraps himself in it. Finally, he gets to collapse upon the sheets and stretch out. Mona sits on the floor, face still submerged in kibble and chomping away. It’s soothing, in a slice of normality kind of way. Akira tousles his hair from soaked to damp. It’s getting to be late morning now, and the sun is warm on the roof, letting him lounge around like this and not freeze to death.
Unfortunately, that’s when he reaches for his laptop.
Sleep, you idiot.
The second he opens the browser, it loads Goro’s website. He didn’t even close the tab yesterday. It’s funny, in a vaguely haunting kind of way, to remember what he was thinking barely fifteen hours ago. When he had no idea at all who the Prince was.
The man’s record has already been updated. A brand new ‘victory’ stamp sits across the last match-up in bright green. But, to Akira’s great amusement, there is an asterisk attached.
He hovers over it, and then smirks.
‘Outside interference during race—defender chooses to accept result. Rematch was offered, but declined by defender.’
Did Goro write this? It sounds like his teenage dorky knight daydreams, alright. Either way, it’s great ammo for when he next sees that 350z dickhead. He clicks the match result like he clicked the last ten yesterday, and the page loads. It contains the route, the start time, the challenger’s alias and car, and the overall time.
Course time: 09:12:34
Akira stares at the number and just feels numb. At least another two minutes and twelve seconds of driving after he crashed out.
Don’t click it, you idiot. Don’t do it. Don’t do it, you’re not this desperate, it’s so—
The mouse pointer roams downward, hovers over the words ‘Race recording’ and clicks them. The player loads. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly. Finally, the dash-cam footage snaps up, grainy and washed out, but there all the same. He hears the NSX’s engine rev, once, twice. The camera vibrates.
“What the fuck, Akira?!” Sakamoto’s tinny yell catches on the wind, barely audible over the idle of the engine.
Ah. Awkward.
Another rev.
A hiss of frustration comes from the driver’s seat, behind the camera. A man out front drops his hands, and Goro drops the clutch. In an instant, the ambient light drains away, and into the dark they go. The NSX is about as close to the 350z’s bumper as it can be.
Akira can almost picture himself from overhead, pushing through the crowd back to the car right this moment. Now he can’t tear his eyes away, sitting cross-legged on his sheets in only a towel, still wet and growing sticky, he watches; enraptured.
Goro follows closely, but hypnotically smoothly. Every turn, Akira expects a little tire squeal from the speed, but it never comes. The footage rolls through one corner to the next and down the straights, but he never lets the silver car get more than half a car length away from him.
He’s toying with him. The guy never had any chance at all. Goro drops back a little more, just before the left hander before the S-bends. The gap is about three car lengths now. They blast into the corner, the one with the concrete bricks towering on the inside and the gutter. If Akira remembers right, they went side-by-side into the S-bends after this.
He leans closer to the screen.
The 350z—distracted by Goro’s backing off—misses the turn in point, forced instead to hold a steady line in the middle of the road, dangerously close to crossing over. His speed is throttled by not wanting to drift wide and his shit angle of attack.
Meanwhile, Goro... hooks his wheels into the gutter and accelerates. Just like Akira is going to do, about fifteen seconds behind him. Akira can’t tell if that makes him feel good or not.
The gap he just created disappears. They fire out of the corner onto the small straight down to the bends, but the Nissan ahead has terrible exit speed. Goro is on his inside before he can even think about defending.
Just like they were taught, all those years ago. Don’t get choked up behind an opponent if you know you’re faster. Give yourself space to accelerate into.
They brake, side by side, into the S-bends. Behind them, Akira knows he just appeared in their mirrors.
On brand new tires that he’s barely pushed so far, the NSX simply out-grips the 350z, even as the inside line becomes the outside. He’s able to put the power down so much earlier, hold the man on the inside to a narrower line with just his presence, and take all the road for himself.
It’s beautiful to watch. Such a high level of technique. Setup and finesse. Akira’s chest aches to be racing again.
Mona suddenly jumps up onto the bed and nearly scares him through the roof. By the time he’s picked the laptop off the floor, they’re out of the S-bends, the downhill valley just about to begin. Akira hears something strange on the footage—a repeated tapping of fingers. Over and over, against the rim of the wheel. He can’t see it, but he can clearly imagine it.
But what he doesn’t have to imagine is the NSX slowing. He can see it out of the windshield, hear it in the lack of revs. It’s probably the entire reason he can even hear the tapping. Goro is still hundreds of meters from the corner, and he’s slowing down? Why? Was he so far ahead of the 350z he could afford to? Suddenly, a new source of light washes across the trees and blacktop stretching out before the camera.
Akira is behind them, now.
Goro gives a small, approving hum, then floors the gas.
He was waiting for you.
Akira rewinds the video ten seconds. He plays it again.
Goro waits.
He plays it again.
Goro hums.
Mona swats at his overactive trackpad finger.
“What the hell...” Akira breathes as the footage is finally allowed to continue.
The NSX races down the hill now, at full gallop. Akira can see the shifting of the light from behind as he pulls out from behind the 350z. Goro called it a suicidal lunge about forty minutes ago. Goro from about seven hours ago says nothing, only sucking in a sharp breath as he brakes. This time, the wheels of the NSX make some noise.
Behind him, another scream of rubber; ear-splitting and panicked, like some demon being dragged back through the gates. His real opponent careening to a brake-locked stop, ten feet from death.
Goro doesn’t need to try and shift the weight around like Akira had to, another benefit of a mid-engine car. He simply rides the brake smoothly, then eases it off and pulses the throttle for some forward momentum. The nose pivots nicely, but he doesn’t commit to accelerating where he should. He’s still hesitating.
Akira’s head is swimming with questions.
He almost coasts around the next corner and halfway across the bridge. Suddenly, he guns it. The NSX roars under him, flying up through the gears. Akira can hear every single slam of the clutch. Headlights flash behind him, and Akira knows this isn’t going to last.
Downwards they fly, the camera doing no justice to how fast they were going. It just can’t capture it. It felt like being caught in a jet stream. The right hander comes up, and the NSX aggressively turns into it—razor-sharp and on the edge. He can hear Goro fighting the wheel, fluttering the throttle. It’s different, he remembers feeling—the NSX is different now.
No, Akira realizes, seven hours too late.
He’s different.
The right turn terminates in a sudden left and the NSX protests, a grunt of exertion escaping from Goro’s lips as he catches a half slide Akira never even noticed when chasing. One corner left before the end.
Lines of bare cherry trees flash by in the blurred periphery of the lens. This is where he made his choice.
“Come on!” Goro growls, matching the wail of Akira’s turbo as he starts to attack.
Akira’s heart is beating too fast just watching this, even knowing what’s about to happen.
The road straightens and the NSX redlines. Headlights shine from alongside, a pair of howling bullets tearing their path to the end. Pushed to the inside, Goro brakes before him and he watches the S13 slide into view. It’s strange to watch from the outside, knowing he’s in there. That it’s him.
A moment later his car twists into a drift, blocking the inside lane and holding Goro off the throttle. He can hear the hesitation. Akira watches as the smoke billows up from all his wheels, all of them, not just his right like he thought then. The tread on the tires is so thin now, it’s obvious they’re done. Completely done.
Goro from seven hours ago realizes that at the same time. It’s all over so quickly in video, mere seconds that felt like a lifetime in reality. Goro kicks the clutch but doesn’t change gear, spiking the revs and spinning the wheels, pushing the NSX into a slide. He leans on the power as Akira’s car disappears from view, now both side-on, only the inside of the corner in view of the dashcam.
But Akira knows he didn’t hit him. Both their cars scream at each other, a duet for only a moment. A second later, he hears a squeal of failed tire, and then a slam that fades into the night.
Goro finishes the corner and races around the next like he’s still being pursued. Only on the next does he suddenly come off the gas. He waits, but there are only his headlights illuminating the darkness now.
“Shit,” Goro utters breathlessly.
Akira slams the lid of his laptop shut, crashes back onto the pillows and wraps both arms around his face.
What the hell does he do now?