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tinytennisskirt · 1 month

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Let It Linger

Summary: When post-canon divorced! Art goes back to high school for a fifteen year reunion, he’s met with strong memories of the his estranged best friend, the girl he loved those fifteen years ago. He gets caught in a rally between his past and present. A whirlwind of past yearning, casual touches, meaningful conversations and pining rushes back to him like the time never passed when he sees her again for the first time in fifteen years. Turns out not so much has changed.

Warnings: mentions of sex, alcohol, marijuana. casual touching, pining, yearning, MEGA SLOWBURN, a longer fic with time skipping between MRTA! art and POST CANON! art. AU.

Art wasn’t sure how to feel about this. He was parked outside, in some dress shirt he’d owned far too long and the black dress pants he wore for when he did pre-game press. His hands on the wheel, lips pressed into a straight line. This would be interesting, he knew it would be. He was sitting in the parking lot outside the smaller gym of Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy and he could hear the music through the walls of the car and through the open gym door, he could see a purple cast of light from inside.

It had only been fifteen years. That wasn’t much time in perspective, but fifteen years felt like a lot when he remembered who he was that many years ago.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“My mouth, my mouth!” You called, opening your mouth and slowing your running to walking backward. Patrick tossed a marshmallow and you caught it in your mouth as the three of you ran down the hill, Patrick with a bag of marshmallows, you with the chocolate, and Art with the graham crackers.

Both boys cheered loudly and you jumped, triumphantly raising your hands above your head. Art nearly ran right into you with the momentum from the hill and you all ended up laughing way too hard at it, even with the marshmallow in your mouth. Art tried to catch his breath, his hand sliding over your waist as he passed you, trying not to stumble the rest of the way down the hill. Patrick just laughed. “I had no idea my aim was that good,” he said, teasing.

You swallowed the marshmallow, “You’re kidding? Your aim? That was all me.”

Art grinned, “I think it was a joined effort…” He played mediator. You hit him in the upper arm gently. “No, all you. All her, Patrick. Sorry.”

Patrick threw his arms up in forfeit. There was no winning against you. They both knew that. You giggled and shoved a marshmallow right in Patrick’s mouth before skipping down the rest of the hill, leaving both boys behind you. Art watched, a huge grin on his face. The three of you had found a great way to sneak out of your dorms at night. It was 11:42 and you were heading toward the back of the grounds with the ingredients for s’mores, a lighter, and matches for good measure. And maybe the remainder of a pack of cigarettes.

What good was your last year at the academy if not the one you rebel just a tiny bit? You were down the hill humming Groove Is In The Heart by Deee-Lite in your big Mark Rebellato sweater and yoga pants just happy to be out at night. You were fun, carefree, and bright, even in the dark of the edge of the property, away from all the fuss of the school. “You’re so slow!” You called out to them. Both Art and Patrick jogged to catch up to you, finding your regular spot between a few trees.

You sat on your regular log and pulled the blanket from your bag before getting up to drape it over. Patrick got to collecting the twigs from the stash and put them in the hole you three dug the first time you snuck out. Art took the seat next to you on the log, “Crazy, you have like seven tennis balls in here.” He laughed. You shook your head, nudging him just a little while he grabbed the three marshmallow skewers from your bag. He grabbed one of the balls out and threw it at Patrick.

“Can take the girl out of Mark Rebellato but can’t take the Mark Rebellato out of the girl,” Patrick said, catching the ball and throwing it back at Art. He got the fire started and lit one of the remaining cigarettes off of the growing flame. “You guys ready for that test on Monday?”

“Since when are you an academic?” You chuckled, putting a marshmallow on the end of Art’s stick.

“Since he found out Lydia Jennings is into smart guys,” Art said. You chuckled, biting your lip just gently. Art noticed.

Patrick blew smoke out the side of his mouth, “No- okay, she said she liked smart guys we all know there’s no way in hell I’m becoming a straight-A student like this one over here,” he gestured with the cigarette between his fingers to you. “She’s hot, she’s not drop-everything-and-study hot. I’m talking about the test on Monday because I know that with you two and Stanford, you’re obsessed with your grades… I am… not ready.”

You shook your head, looking up at him, “She is so drop-everything-and-study hot, you’re just picky. And I’ll lend you my notes tomorrow if you want- Art and I worked on them together, they’re pretty extensive.”

“They are good.” Art nodded, dangling his marshmallow over the embers. “You’re actually worried about it? I mean, the year is almost half-done, you’ve got time.”

He nodded, “I know, but I have to graduate to be free of this place for good. No way I’m doing that GED thing.”

“My mom did the GED thing.” You said. “She’s doing just fine. It was only a setback. Plus, if you plan on truly going pro, it won’t be a big thing. Just player trivia.” Art laughed at that, pulling his stick back to pull the marshmallow off. You had already prepped his graham cracker and chocolate and pulled the marshmallow off between them for him. Patrick watched how you two worked so wordlessly- wasn’t his focus. “I will lend you all of my notes tomorrow, it’s just a matter of reading them a few times a day and you’re set.”

Patrick shrugged, grabbing himself the things he needed for a s’more. “Thanks.”

Art nodded, “You’re lucky you’re good with a racket.”

“Rude!” You said, shoving him backward off the log. He landed on his back in the leaves and it was all-around laughter again. The dynamic was this. Shoving, pushing, insults in good fun, but caring all too much. Art knew there was nobody in the world who cared more about anything than you did. He was, as your friend, able to enjoy just how passionate you were about the things and people you liked. He pulled himself back onto the log, shaking his head at you as you dusted him off and removed the leaves from his hair. You smelled good, like fall, vanilla, and chai, almost, but with a sweetness that reminded Art of the caramel apples from the fair. He shut his eyes as your hands picked the last little bits from his hair. You pat his cheek when it was done and the conversation moved onto the new tennis coach’s really bad toupée.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art got out of his car, shut the door, and locked it, car keys sliding into his pocket. He stared out over the grounds, past the outdoor tennis courts, and to the point in the field where it dipped down into the big hill. He wondered if they’d ever found your makeshift fire pit, filling it with dirt, moving the logs… He glanced at himself in the side mirror of the car, remembering when his hair was longer, more golden. Part of him wondered if he would even see you tonight. Maybe he’d see Patrick, which was a more likely occurrence, Patrick wouldn’t miss something like this.

If only they made it less of a surprise who you’d run into at one of these. He guessed it would be his class, a few extras, people who had settled down bringing their fiancees, partners, husbands, and wives. He wondered if he was too dressed up? Dressed down? And he was nervous, for some reason, when he shouldn’t have been.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“I know I shouldn’t be deciding on a dress this late but I can’t tell if this dress is too much?” You said from inside your dorm room. “I’m afraid Mark Rebellato himself will come to smite me for how much boob this dress shows off.” You spoke through the door.

Art and Patrick grinned at each other. “I’m sure it’s fine!” Art called back. Both boys had spent about twenty minutes tops getting ready for the mid-term formal. One of many formals the school so unfortunately had. “Can we see?”

“It’s not the right dress!”

“How would we know?”

The door to your room unlocked and you opened it, standing looking very unimpressed in a gorgeous purple dress. Both boys stood, a little dumbfounded for a second. “Too much?”

“No.” Both boys said in unison, gazing at you, your hair perfect, your makeup perfect.

Art blinked hard to snap himself back to reality, “You look… beautiful.” His eyes lingered a little too long on the slight shimmer to your eyelids and the gloss on your lips. Your eyes softened and you looked down at yourself again.

Patrick agreed. “Damn.” Both boys had themselves forgetting you were the same girl they called their friend on a day-to-day basis. “Mark Rebellato is rolling in his grave.”

“Is he dead?” You asked, laughing. Art didn’t find anything funny when you were standing there looking like that. He thought you were gorgeous, he could say that as your friend of a good few years, but this was breathtaking. You were.

The dance was more fun than both Art and Patrick anticipated, but you made anything fun. Patrick nudged Art’s arm as they stood off to the side with cups of punch. “She’s different this year.” He said. Both boys were watching you dance with one of your girlfriends. You were so free and you were once again the brightest thing in the whole room, purple and pink light cascading over your face and you were laughing.

Art hardly heard him. “Hm?” His eyes didn’t leave you.

“Exactly.”

Art nudged him back, seeing what Patrick was getting at. “Fuck off.” He grinned. “She’s just pretty. She’s always been pretty.”

Patrick nodded, sipping his punch, watching your dress swish around you as your friend spins you. “Too pretty.”

“Mhm,” Art sighs. The way he watches you is different from Patrick's. There’s something buried in what he feels, but he’s never acknowledged it much. Aside from when you met at twelve in a co-op game and you made fun of his ears. It honestly hurt his little feelings but Patrick found it absolutely hilarious that someone so funny-looking could say something so mean to someone else. Art laughed when Patrick defended him. But you, always so smart, nodded. And you smiled, which both boys didn’t expect. Then you apologized to Art and introduced yourself like nothing even happened. Art forgave you. There was something about you that both he and Patrick knew would make a good addition to the duo they’d formed over the first week. And it had been that way ever since. Didn’t make it easier when you stopped looking so funny and disproportionate when you turned fourteen but, being friends, it was ignorable. For the most part. They were only boys.

When presented with a slow dance, you excused yourself from the floor and came to stand with the boys, taking Patrick’s cup of punch right out of his hands and downing it. Patrick went to grab it but it was too late. You pulled a face, “Seriously?” You scrunched up your nose and Art laughed as he pieced it together.

“Didn’t give me a chance to warn you,” he chuckled. You felt the warmth spread down your throat- he’d spiked his own punch. Of course. Art, mouth agape, placed a hand on the small of your back without thinking. You just giggled and shook your head at him. Patrick took his cup back from you, sipping the very last drops. The couples and wannabes behind you continued to dance closely. “Awful, right?”

“So bad,” you giggled. Art twisted his mouth to the side, trying not to laugh too much. Your hand closed around Art’s wrist and pulled it up over your opposite shoulder and you kept talking about how gross it tasted, making fun of Patrick for spiking it so badly. If anyone sniffed it, they would have immediately known it was mostly alcohol. Art’s arm stayed around you, the perfect place for it, so it made sense to step a little closer. It’s only worth noting as something that happened because Patrick, who was used to your casual displays of closeness like this one- saw the angle Art kept his hand at so that his hand wouldn’t rest too close to your boobs. He laughed just a bit. Art just shook his head at Patrick and flipped him off with that very hand.

By the near-end of the night, you’re danced out and you asked the boys to come back with you, but Patrick had taken to chatting up Lydia Jennings, of course, so Art obliges. Patrick didn’t need a wingman, he would do fine on his own. Art holds the door for you as you leave and you’re immediately laughing as you cross the parking lot. “Fucking insane,” Art laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I always forget it’s not a school dance until Patrick sneaks in two shooters.”

“I had at least one whole shooter in that punch,” you said, knocking against him as you walked. The cool autumn air hit your bare skin and it was harsh. “It was disgusting.” Art felt you shiver just a bit beside him and he was already taking off his jacket to give to you. “He could have gone with vodka or something, spiced rum, and fruit punch is one of the worst things I think I’ve ever tasted- thank you.” You said, taking his jacket with a smile and pulling it over your shoulders.

“It was spiced rum?!”

“Yeah!” You laughed with him, still leaning against him as the two of you walked. “He ends up with Lydia Jennings she’s going to hate, hate, hate his breath. I brushed my teeth in the bathroom,” you said, pulling a pink toothbrush out of your bag. Art couldn’t help but laugh at the thing.

“Smart,” he grinned wider as you showed him the travel-sized tube of toothpaste that went with it. Art just flashed you his pack of mint gum in return and you narrowed your eyes at him. Art shoved it back in his pocket along with both of his hands. “So… you had fun tonight?” He followed up.

You smiled at him with those perfectly glossed lips parting to show teeth. “I did. However-

“There’s a however?”

“However…” You grinned, taking his hand and walking backward. You lowered your voice, pretending to be extra serious. “You need to dance more so you can dance with me.”

“You didn’t like the nodding I did? I feel like that was a lot, too much, even.” He held the door open to the other building and you mouthed another thank you as you passed him again. ”How much more do I need to do to dance with you?”

“You can always dance with me. I promise it’s a lot more fun when you’re not feeling centered out.” You told him, heading up the stairwell. It’s still early in the night so the girl’s dorms were mostly empty. “I knowww, I know how you get with it, but-”

“I’d dance with you.” He nodded, but squeezed your upper arm, “You didn’t ask me. I would have.”

“Okay then. Swear on your life right now that if I asked you, you’d say yes.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fighting that neverending grin that lived on his face when you were around. “For what?”

“All future purposes.” You replied, stopping outside your room and leaning against the wooden door. “Where dancing is involved.” You held out your pinkie finger and Art took it before he got to question any more. You grinned and jumped a few times. “You just made the craziest promise, I’m going to make you hate me with that one.” Art just grinned.

You talked a bit more just at the door until both you and Art were wary about someone seeing him on the girl’s side of the dorms. You opened the door to your room and stepped just inside, about to say goodbye, but just one more thing before he left, you asked. For him to help you unzip your dress. Art should not have felt the way he did when you handed him back his jacket and turned around while lifting your hair. Your bunkmate had zipped it up before you had left and you had no idea when she’d be back, you explained.

Art wouldn’t say no to you. Who could? He stepped closer, met with the closer, stronger scent of your perfume and you still smelled sweet. You always smelled sweet. With gentle fingers, he took the small zipper and slowly unzipped the back of your dress. The sound of the zipper being the only thing in the empty of your room and he wouldn’t forget how when the zipper hit the bottom of its track, his finger grazed the bare skin of your back. Soft, softer than he could have even imagined. And you turned so that he wouldn’t be faced with the bare of it all, braless underneath, he could tell, and you thanked him for the night, for his jacket, for his help. Said you’d see him tomorrow. Usually, you’d hug him goodnight, but with your dress about to slip off you just smiled, making fun of the promise he’d made to you just thirty minutes ago before a real goodnight.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art looked over at the dorm building across the lot, looking at the exact path between cars you and him would have walked that night. His hands shoved themselves into his pockets, habit. He decided not to stand out in the parking lot anymore, swallowing hard as he allowed himself through the door and into the smaller gym, which was decorated just like the regular school dances. There were streamers and early 2000s radio hits and so many people.

It was almost immediately people recognized Art. He was possibly the most successful of the graduating class, though he hated to think it. He wouldn’t put himself above anyone. He was already getting pats on the back and he started in some small conversations but he was a little distracted.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“They have parties at Stanford?” You said, looking at some Stanford webpage on Art’s mom’s computer. “Frats, too. Insane. Hey Art, you should join the frat.” You chuckled. Art and Patrick were playing Jenga at the coffee table, two or three of the blocks wet from falling into the eggnog.

Patrick ruffled Art’s hair, “Frat boy Art Donaldson?”

You spun in the chair, “I could join a sorority, they have those too.”

Art grinned, “Yeah? You think they’d take Patrick?”

Patrick pushed Art into the couch and the Jenga tower toppled over once again. You laughed, watching him shake his head and reach for his eggnog, once again pulling a Jenga block out of it. You came and sat next to Art on the couch, sitting on the arm. His hand mindlessly wrapping itself around your ankle as your foot rested on his thigh. Gentle, like letting you know that he’s there despite the readily available knowledge that was your being. Something sweet. Patrick took a seat on the floor in front of you both. “I think they’d take me, but you have to be a Stanford student, so you know, it’s too bad.”

“Their loss,” You smiled. “Do you think I’m pretty enough to rush a sorority when we get to Stanford?” You asked. Both boys looked at each other.

“...Yeah,” Patrick said, nodding just a little. You narrowed your eyes.

“Yes.” Art said firmly. He squeezed your ankle just a little. You smiled at that. Art’s mom called you to dinner, christmas dinner, and in seconds both boys were bolting to the dining room. You exchanged a look with Art’s mom when you got there. She was lovely and she was letting both you and Patrick stay for the holidays. Her food was amazing and the conversation was Stanford, mostly, and your tennis plans for after graduation. The application process, the fuss of getting a dorm room there, and how excited she was for you and Art to be going to the same place. She loved you, his mom. She called you her daughter when the mailman came around during the holiday season and to whoever asked. She’d been in a household of boys for far too long.

The post-dinner conversation laying on your back on Art’s bed next to him while Patrick was laid at the foot of the bed was on exactly that. “Art, I think your mom likes Y/N more than you.”

“I know,” Art replied, hands folded on his chest. He turned his head to look at you, giggling.

“I can’t help it,” you replied through your laughter. “Everyone loves me, it’s not my fault.” Nothing about that statement was false- everyone did love you. And who wouldn’t? You were kind and sweet and loving and so warm to everyone you met so of course they all loved you. There was nobody like you so everyone who crossed paths with you would never be able to forget you. Art’s smile fell, looking at your freshly glossed lips and that unforgettably beautiful smile. He’d zoned out so when you rolled onto your side, nearly onto him, his eyes widened just a bit.

“You’re jealous?” You beamed.

“Not even,” Art scrunched his nose, using a gentle hand to push you away but you returned, giggling. “She’d go insane having a real excuse to go to sales at the mall.”

“Sugar mommy,” Patrick remarked. He had way too much pie, he was half-asleep. Art just kicked him with the foot that rested closest to his chest, eliciting an ‘oof’ noise from Patrick that you giggled at.

“You’re so jealous your mom likes me more, it’s crazy, it’s crazy,” You giggled, grabbing his upper arm. Art twisted his mouth to the side, eyes flickering from the gloss on your lips, to your eyes. “Don’t worry, when she comes to visit me at Stanford, she’ll probably have enough time to see you as well. I’ll make sure of it.” You teased.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Art said, pushing you back again and you just laughed madly, a laugh that was so room-filling and contagious and completely perfect. Art turned his head to look at you. You were more than sorority pretty. Who wouldn’t think so when you laughed like that?

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art found that Lydia Jennings had three kids now. Three in fifteen years, which was a little crazy. She, of course, had pictures with her. Spitting images of her bright blonde, big-mouthed self and Art pretended to care, more than he cared to admit. There was no sign of Patrick. Lydia Jennings asked Art about his divorce, asking about his own daughter, but he had to real interest in talking about that sort of thing. Not with her. He excused himself, raising his head above the crowd to scan for anyone else he knew.

He ended up talking to an old friend who was already balding with his pregnant wife at his side. It was good to see just how well people were doing. Settling down, having quit tennis or only pursuing it on the weekends, some of them with kids in tennis classes already. Art was continuing to be congratulated on his career by even the partners of these past classmates.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

You were dancing to some Tal Bachman song and Art was internalizing every lyric. “What song is this again?” He asked, leaning back against the tree. The light from the fire was flickering around your face that was nearly hidden by the winter jacket you had on.

“She’s So High,” you replied, spinning in circles. Patrick locked eyes with Art from across the fire, giving a knowing smile. One, because you were high, so was he, so was Art- Two, because Art was completely zoned in on you, the way you moved, the way you looked. And he couldn’t help it, you were the most fascinating thing around and he’d smoked quite a bit. It was like the song was written for you, he thought, out of his mind and red-eyed. You were dancing alone, like you hadn’t even though twice, the music coming from your little portable music player thing. Art met Patrick’s eyes and Patrick raised his eyebrows, nodding at you. Art shook his head, but Patrick jumped over the fire to sit next to him anyway.

“So are you telling her or am I?” He teased, ruffling Art’s hair and Art bat him away, huge grin on his face. “So when’s the wedding?”

“Shut the fuck up, she’ll hear you,” Art chuckled, shoving Patrick over just a bit. Patrick came back laughing. “It’s not like that.”

“You really think I’m fucking stupid, huh?” Patrick chuckled, pulling Art into a bit of a headlock in return. “I’ve known you both how long?”

“Too long,” Art laughed, trying to wriggle out of Patrick’s grasp, finally escaping just to shove Patrick all the way over. He was glad you were minding your business, occupied with the song. “It’s not like that.” He repeated, still keeping his voice low.

Patrick pulled himself back up, “Tell that to your dick,” he said, taking a shot at Art’s groin that he gladly blocked just to sock Patrick in his. Patrick doubled over just for a second and Art laughed a bit too hard, the fry of the weed that burned his throat making him cough. Patrick couldn’t stop laughing at the coughing and being high, everything was a lot funnier. It took a minute for them to stop laughing over the stupidity. Patrick sighed heavily, looking over at you still dancing mindlessly to a song by Avril Lavigne, then back at Art, who was trying to regulate his breathing, also staring at you again. “Maybe not always your dick but definitely your eyes. I’ve never seen anyone with bigger heart-eyes, it’s sickening.” He said.

Art looked at Patrick and twisted his mouth to the side. “I don’t think so. She’s just…pretty.” His eyes gazing back to you, spinning in your fluffy winter coat, swaying, firelight flickering over your face, defining your features in shadow.

“Uh-huh… You really think I don’t know?”

“There’s nothing to know,” Art replied, pulling his eyes off of you again.

Patrick shook his head, adding more to the fire, hand still over his groin as the pain continued to die down. He kept his voice low, “Fuck off with that. It’s bullshit. I know it, you know it. You spend more time with her than me, she’s your partner for every co-op game, your mom loves her, you look at her like I’ve never seen you look at anyone.” He chuckled, “And you so want to fuck her.”

“Not as much as I want you to fuck off,” Art chuckled. “Okay, well, I mean- I might. She’s gorgeous, yeah, but I don’t think I could ever tell her anything. She’s perfect, too perfect and we’re friends. We’re her best friends, it would fuck everything up.”

“So you don’t even try? I’ve seen you ask for girl’s numbers within forty minutes of knowing them, it’s unlike you to not even try.”

“She’s different,” Art replied, looking down at his hands. “I couldn’t. I make a move and she doesn’t want it, we’re fucked forever.”

“And you don’t make a move and you’ll never know,” Patrick replied. The weed made him oddly thoughtful. “I’ve seen you two with my own eyes there’s something there, I swear to god there is. You can’t just let things play out, you’re going to miss your chance. Think about Stanford next year, all the college guys hitting on her and you know they will, she’s Y/N… Fifteen years down the road she’s married to some frat guy she met at a rager and you’ll be wishing you told her while you could.”

The silence between them was filled by your music and humming. Art looked at you, eyes closed, lips glossy, boots in the dirt. And for the first time he let himself think that he could never want anyone more than he wanted you. He would never see past you, he wouldn’t ever feel this way about anyone else and in the moment, through the weed, it felt real. You, perfect, gorgeous, here.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art glanced around the room, feeling some familiar fire burning in the pit of his stomach. It felt oddly highschool, it felt oddly familiar. He wondered if you had kept up with tennis, he wondered if you had a husband and kids, he wondered if you’d gained weight, lost weight, changed your hair, were going just a little grey, even. He was nervous- that’s what he was and he could place that. It was then that he saw Patrick, coming in through the door across the room.

Art, over Tashi, had put her in the past, including what Patrick had done. Him and Patrick didn’t keep up much other than a few texts and meeting at the bar a few times, but the hard feelings were pretty much gone. Art started making his way over to his old friend just to be grabbed by another ex-classmate who wanted to catch up. He was faced with more pictures of kids and meeting someone’s wife and Art wasn’t so bothered to talk about his own daughter, he’d always take that opportunity. She was the best thing he currently had.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

You and Art sat on the bleachers in the gym, just having finished a co-op game, having won, of course. You both showered and got dressed again and met back up. The air was warming up, mid-spring and Art had still not told you yet. He decided he would at the end of the year and see if you’d make the first move, just to be safe. It didn’t weigh on him- he’d been friends with you for ages, liked you for ages, so it was a secondary thing.

“Hoping my tennis career is enough to buy an old victorian home,” You said, packing your things into your gym bag.

“I remember you saying that,” Art said, hauling your bag onto his shoulder along with his own. It wasn’t abnormal to have him carry your bag. It was sweet. “You want a blue one. Well, blue-grey.” He said. You looked at him, a little surprised he remembered the blue-grey thing. “With the white trim. I remember things.”

You nudged him just a little bit as you passed him. “I’m surprised, after so many tennis balls have hit you in the head.”

“And whose bad aim is at fault?” He teased back. You held the door for him and went out into the early afternoon sun.

You rolled your eyes at him with that gorgeous smile. “Bad aim, uh huh. Who’s to say it’s not on purpose?”

“Y/N!” Your girl friend called, bounding over. “My hair tie broke and I can’t go all the way back to the dorms in time for scrimmage, do you have an extra?” Art watched your full attention go to this girl, linking hands with her and everything. He watched you take the hair tie off of your wrist, the purple glittery one that you swore was your favourite. “Hi, Art.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, noticing him standing there. Art just raised his hand in a subtle wave.

“Of course,” you said, pulling the purple sparkly hair tie off and giving it to her, no questions asked. “Do you need anything else? I have a redbull in my bag if you wanted that before your scrimmage?”

“Really?” She asked. Art lowered your bag for you and you unzipped it, pulling the redbull out and handing it to her as she finished tying her hair up. All Art could wonder was how could anyone not love you when this was who you were? Art knew that purple hair tie was your favourite and you gave it up, just like that, and didn’t even ask for it back later. And your redbull that Art watched you go through your coins for six miinutes counting literal dimes and pennies to get it from the vending machine was in this girl’s hand just because you thought to offer it. You were kind and beautiful and Art moved the date up a little in his head- the date that he’d tell you how he felt. For now, he dug his free hand into his pocket and pretended like you weren’t absolutely perfect.

Saying goodbye to the girl, you and Art resumed your walk back to the main building. “You know Abbey, right?”

“Her?”

“Yes, her,” you giggled. “Don’t tell her I told you this, but she keeps asking me about you. Your favourite colour, song, movie, all of it.” You explained, gesturing with your hands and leaning against him as you two walked. “She likes you.”

Art was only half-surprised. But was more surprised at you bringing it up. “Likes me how?”

“Exactly in the way you think,” you replied. “I’m always down to play wingwoman, but I did tell her all the wrong information.” Your smile turned into a bit of a cringe. Art liked that even in your full care and support, you were just a little evil. Plus, what harm was it really? Art was only seeing you. He couldn’t spend a second on anyone else. Seemed impossible. “She thinks you’re a huge fan of Green Day.” Art couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah?” Art set down your things at a table in the cafeteria and the two of you got in line for food. “Playing interference?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, bowing so your head nudged his arm. The smile that pulled at your lips was one you appeared to want to suppress. A strand of your hair, wet, fell in your face and Art wasted no time moving it behind your ear. Your eyes met his as your smile broke into full action and your eyes fell back to the ground. Sometimes… just sometimes, he felt maybe you were worth ruining the friendship.

Your lower lip between your teeth, you grabbed a tray for him before you grabbed your own.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art finally made it over to Patrick, who looked decent. He shaved a bit, cleaned up just enough. Art thought about how strange it was to be back here with him after all this time. It almost felt right, was just missing you. “Hey, man.” Patrick said, reaching forward and locking hands with Art in a quick greeting.

“Hey,” Art replied. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Patrick replied. “See anyone worth talking to?”

“Not really. Lydia Jennings has three kids now, in case you were looking forward to that,” he chuckled. “She doesn’t look bad though. I didn’t check for a ring either, so.”

Patrick chuckled, hands in the pockets of his dress pants, wearing virtually what was the grey version of Art’s outfit. “Not for me.” He said. “I actually- I ran into Y/N in the parking lot. I thought maybe you’d be looking for her tonight.” Patrick added. Art hated the way his stomach did a little flip as if he wasn’t a full-grown man with a failed marriage and a daughter.

“She came?”

“Yeah, she headed in here before me. She’s good, she hasn’t aged much, it’s weird. You know what they say about the way good people age…” He added. “She’s in purple, said we’d talk more later but she was excited to be here.”

Art swallowed hard, “I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks, man.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

When Patrick left early to hang out with Lydia Jennings, swearing he was going to ‘get some’, it left you and Art in the boy’s room. How they’d been bunkmates for six years running you had no idea, having been room with at least four different girls. Their room was decorated with sports posters, tennis awards and medals, and Star Wars memorabilia. You weren’t supposed to be there, but oh well. “You think purple is my colour?” You asked Art, going through the nail polish you had in your bag, buried under the bag of cheetos you brought over.

“Hm?” Art slid off his bed and onto the floor where you sat, your back to the edge of his mattress. “Yeah. The medium one, though. Not the dark one.” He said, pointing to the bottle he liked better. You shot a small smile his way before grabbing that one.

“I haven’t painted them in ages,” you said, doing a bit of a jazz hand really close to his face and then pressing your hand to his cheek. Annoying, or trying to be, but casual. Art scrunched his nose and batted your hand away, though he really didn’t want to. “So about Abbey.”

“Your friend?” Art adjusted the way he sat. His knee overlapped yours.

“Mhm,” you replied,beginning to paint your nails. “Did she end up talking to you after class yesterday?”

Art thought back to after class when he was on his way to his next class to meet up with you and Patrick. She had come up to him, but he almost immediately shut her down. “Was she supposed to?”

You smiled, “Yes. I told her to ask you about your favourite Star Trek episode.”

Art grinned, you were still playing interference. He wondered why. “I brushed her off… I didn’t think anything of it I was on my way out.” He grimaced a little and you looked up from your nails, trying not to laugh. “I don’t think I was too rude…”

“Where were you off to in such a hurry?”

“You- And Patrick.” He saved himself. “I had someplace to be! Plus, she’s not really my type.”

“And what is that type? Girls with purple fingernails, maybe?” You laughed- Art wondered what you meant by that because at this very moment there was nothing you said that had ever been more true. “Your future girlfriend is going to hate me.” You followed up. Art’s heart sunk just a little at that. You then mumbled something under your breath that Art didn’t catch.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art caught up a bit with Patrick, who was interested to hear that his daughter was just getting into tennis, but really liked ballet. Patrick himself had still not settled down, but he’d landed a good job adn was now making decent money, enough to find himself a good apartment. He talked about this girl he’d met at the mechanic and Art didn’t mind the tale of it all, but he did glance around every few minutes to see if maybe you’d be nearby or even come to speak to them. They way you’d left things he wondered if you’d say anything to him at all.

It’s not like you left things horribly… But he knew the way things went just weren’t ideal and that was the problem. It was the lack of grace in the process of losing touch.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“Patrick held both envelopes up. “Saw these on the mail piles, grabbed them before mail day.” He said. You, who had been mindlessly playing with Art’s curls on the couch in the corner of the library, and Art, who was pink from just how intimate the feeling had been, both perked up. Patrick shot a look additional to the excited expression he wore and Art just flipped him off. “They’re yours.”

You and Art looked at each other, Art tilting his head back to do so. Both of you scrambled from where you sat to grab the envelopes Patrick held, huge grin on his face. “Stanford Tennis,” you breathed. Art pressed his lips together. “Acceptance letter?” You questioned. Patrick shrugged, but continued to grin.

Art shook his head, “Should we open them? I mean- same time? Or?”

“I feel sick,” you said, words overlapping his. “Oh my god.” You pressed your hand to your stomach. “I knew they’d be here soon but this is so… late. I was getting scared I wouldn’t get anything, we got something… We got something.”

“Yeah,” Art nodded, big crooked grin on his face. “Together?”

You swallowed, sitting back down, then standing right back up again. “No, you first.”

Patrick sat on the couch, ready to watch both of his friends excitement, arm up on the arm of the couch. “Hurry up!” He kicked Art in the back of the knee and Art didn’t even feel it, opening the big envelope. He narrowly avoided a paper cut. You paced a short distance, back and forth, back and forth anxiously. He unwrapped the papers, eyes scanning over the letter.

“Fuck yeah!” He exclaimed, all too loud for the library. He didn’t care though. “I’m in!”

You gasped and your grin was the first thing Art looked for. Your arms up and around his neck, so excited for him. “That’s amazing, I’m so so proud of you!” You exclaimed, also so loud. Art’s arms around your waist, squeezing you tight as you kissed his cheek enthusiastically. Patrick was there to clap him on the back, hugging Art when you let go. Art was glad for it- it helped hide how pink he went from just the kiss on the cheek. You were jumping up and down and you were beautiful and you were happy. It would be one of the last times Art saw you so happy.

“What about you?” He gestured to your envelope and you looked down at it like you’d forgotten you were holding it.

“I- I can’t, one of you has to do it,” you said. It was for sure. You’d met with the faculty there, the coaches, you were scouted two years ago when you weren’t even old enough to apply and the second you knew you loved tennis you knew Stanford was the best place for you. Patrick took your envelope for you, opening it as you nervously bit your lip, swaying into Art, letting your fingers intertwine with his just to have something to brace yourself. He squeezed your hand, smiling at his own acceptance, knowing that if anyone had it in the bag was you. But Patrick read it over and there wasn’t a grin- in fact the smile he did have fell just in the slightest. Art felt your hand squeeze his harder.

“What is it?” You asked. Art looked at Patrick, who then looked up at you with sorry eyes. “Patrick?”

“You’re- um-” he paused another moment and handed you the papers. “Waitlisted. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

Art watched your colour drain. The obvious bright light you brought by just entering a room dimmed as you read it yourself. Art could feel the slight tremor in your fingers, so he squeezed your hand as hard as he could, just so in the new wave of overwhelming sadness, you’d know he was still there. He felt guilty for celebrating so soon.

“I’m waitlisted.” You repeated, monotone. “And not even until next semester. Next year. And even then there’s no guarantee.”

Art didn’t wait another second, he used the hand he held to pull you in. You didn’t resist, you couldn’t, you felt limp as Art wrapped his arms around you. Patrick’s hand on your back for just a moment, but Art’s hand on the back of your head and the other running up and down your back. His crush on you was unaffected by this hug because he knew that you needed it more than anything. You were the one with the plans, you were the one who knew exactly how things would play out and Stanford was the first step on every path you’d imagined. Knowing you so long, both boys knew you were right to cry.

Art held you, standing, for as long as you needed- his arms around you stayed tight and didn’t waiver once in the thirty minutes you stayed there. He was quiet, Patrick was just cursing Stanford for being fucking stupid and though Art agreed with him on that, because who in their right minds would look at your grades and your tennis stats and say they didn’t want you? Who wouldn’t want you?

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

When Art saw you from across the room it felt like he was eighteen again. He’d anticipated feeling nostalgic for a time, but you were there and you were in purple, like Patrick said and he knew it was you from the smile you wore, reuniting with what looked to be a very-pregnant Abbey Campbell. Good for her, Art though, seeing past the bump and looking at you. Patrick was right- you’d aged like fine wine or whatever that saying was, but you were still youthful and you were still… bright.

“You should talk to her,” Patrick said, noticing where Art’s eyes had landed. As if he hadn’t been watching Art scan every five minutes during their conversation. “You haven’t seen her since…”

“September 2006,” Art replied, looking at Patrick.

“Have you kept in touch at all, or?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well fuck.”

“Yeah,” Art nodded, eyes not leaving you. You were different, older, for sure but not in ways noticeable. Many of the men in the room had grown into bigger bodies and were either unfortunately balding or had already gone bald for some. Mid-thirties you wouldn’t think it, but it was there. And you were there, looking youthful and bright and you were still one of the prettiest girls in the room. Women… in the room. He gestured to you, eyes not leaving you, scared to lose track of where you were. “I’m going to-”

“Good luck.” Patrick pat Art on the back to send him off and Art, drink in hand from his stop by the food table, walked over to you, ignoring everyone who wanted his attention this time.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“You’re not telling her at graduation? You’re fucking joking.” Patrick said, shoving Art back onto his bed as the boys got dressed for one of their last classes at MRTA. “How fucking stupid are you, you can’t just not tell her.”

“I tell her and I ruin our friendship while I get to go to Stanford in the fall. I can’t do that to her.”

“You sound like a fucking idiot,” Patrick said.

“Okay, yeah, maybe, but even if I tell her and it goes well, we would only have the summer before I move all the way to fucking California. You’ll be on tour and this whole… thing would just be broken. And fucked up. I don’t want her for a summer, Patrick. I want her all the time, every day, like it was supposed to fucking be. I don’t want her for just a summer.” Art huffed, looking at his hands. The whole waitlisting bullshit threw a wrench in everything. Everything.

“You’d rather not have her at all?”

“I-” he flailed his hands around, “I don’t know! I don’t know how to tell her something like that and then move away.”

Patrick shrugged, “Could just kiss her.”

Art opened his mouth to speak and a knock on the door cut him off. Art pulled his shirt over his head as Patrick lunged to open it. It was you. Who else?

“You guys want to cut class?” You asked, arms folded over your chest, mouth pulled a little to the side, standing in your shorts and tank top, not dressed for class at all. Your hair was behind your ears, your lips just slightly glossy and you had that slight sparkle to your eyelids, but it was never too much. He would never get over just how beautiful you were, never ever. “I don’t feel like going today and I just want to do something fun or maybe even nothing?”

“That sounds great, but I actually was looking forward to doubles today…” Patrick groaned, putting a hand aside his head. Art knew him well enough to know Patrick was not looking forward to doubles. “But Art already has all his credits, I think he can stay. I’ll come back before dinner though?”

You nodded slightly and looked to Art, who still had his mouth a little open at the sudden position he was in. “Would you? I really don’t feel like going but I can just skip and meet you guys for dinner?”

Art nodded back at you, slowly. Patrick was playing wingman with expectations this time. ‘Could just kiss her,’ echoed around his head. He made eye contact with Patrick who, out of your line of sight, shot Art a telling look. He was giving Art a window. But skipping with you, being alone with you wouldn’t change the fact that when September came you’d be states away, alone, probably. The long distance would be hard and he knew he could maintain the friendship, but if he confessed and it went well, the long distance of a new relationship would probably kill him. And you. “Yeah, I’ll stay.” Art said.

When Patrick left for class, you came into their room and sat down on Art’s bed, next to him. You weren’t exactly yourself, the way you sat with your arms crossed and lacked that gorgeous smile Art looked forward to every day. You sat so close he could smell the sweetness of your perfume. “You okay?” he asked, looking at you with his head a little tilted, smiling gently.

“I can’t get the Stanford thing out of my head,” You admit. Art nodded. You’d been good about it. It upset you, he knew that it absolutely killed you, but you didn’t talk about it much- for Art’s sake, not wanting to depress him and Patrick with your delayed dream. “I know it’s stupid, I’m only waitlisted a year, but it was supposed to be different. They said I was a shoo-in, how could they say that and not mean it?” You vented. Art heard every word.

“They’re missing out for sure.” He said, hand sliding over your knee to rest just above it. “And Patrick is right- they’re fucked in the head and you deserved that place in the program more than anyone else.”

“Even if I deserved it, even if they’re fucked in the head, I’m still not going and that’s whats killing me.” You said, looking at him with sad eyes. He missed when they were full of light and happiness. “You know, it was supposed to be us. And now it’s not and I don’t know what I’m going to do without you- And Patrick.” Was Art mishearing or was there a pause? And us? Us. “I just feel so stupid and I’m suddenly so lost? I knew exactly what was coming and then it just stopped coming. And I’m terrified that I’m going to lose you both when we all go separate ways.”

“Couldn’t lose me.” Art said, eyes locked on yours. “I might be in California, but I have a phone. And it has a ringer and we have email and facebook and I don’t think I’d even know how to go a day without talking to you, so you know if you didn’t call, I would.” He said, admitting a little too much. “Patrick too, I bet.”

“I love that,” you smiled just a bit. “I just… I was so ready for things to change, but now I’m not. Even if I call you a hundred times in a day, would it feel the same?”

Art looked at the hand he had on your leg, at his thumb as it moved back and forth over your skin. “Probably not… But it would be the best thing until you come and visit. Or when I come home on holiday. It would just be to fill the spaces between, you know that the distance would mean nothing once we’re all together again.”

You looked down. “I know. I just don’t want it.” You sighed, leaning your head against Art’s shoulder. Art could smell your shampoo, it was soft and just as sweet as your perfume. “I’d just... I hate the idea of having to miss you. Distance fucking sucks.” You added. He agreed. Distance would suck. But right now you were here, next to him. He wouldn’t kiss you, he knew that. Not now.

But he turned his body just slightly and wrapped his arms around you, your head moving to just under his chin, resting against his chest. And he held you tight, he always would. And he didn’t resist his other urge, slowly tilting himself back so that he was laying down. You didn’t protest, you just held onto him tighter, laying next to him. Like most things between you two, they went unspoken. You in his arms, in his bed, god it was so telling but you didn’t say a thing. And neither did Art, aside from, “I don’t want it either.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

You didn’t seem to notice when he approached. You were heavily invested in your conversation with your friend, laughing and gesturing and you were even more beautiful up close. He could admit it to himself, he was amazed by how well-preserved you’d been. He maybe was expecting a bit of a grey streak, he remembered your mom being fully grey when you were only a teenager, but your hair was perfect. He was just a little bit to the side, in Abbey’s line of sight and she saw Art first, she looked happy to see him, he noted. Too happy for someone with a baby on the way. She put her hands up in the air like she meant anything to him and you looked over at him, seeing what Abbey was so delighted to see and for the first time in fifteen years, you locked eyes with Art.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- interlude

Art remembered the last time you looked at him. Confused eyes, sad ones, the ones he hated seeing, the ones he knew he caused. It wasn’t supposed to be the way it was. Your best friend felt like he just… wasn’t that anymore. Missed texts to missed calls after promises of hundreds in a day felt like lack of care. And it wasn’t on your end. When Art missed your calls, you stopped looking at your phone so much and you missed his. You visited him twice at Stanford, within the first few months and it was the same but he was so busy. So distracted, it seemed. You met Patrick’s girlfriend, Tashi Duncan and the only thought in your mind was that she looked at Art strangely. So when things unravelled, you asked him things and he answered honestly, leaving out the part that he knew went against his character. He was looking at you, thinking about how he should have kissed you at the airport before going to California but he was looking at a girl who wouldn’t kiss him. Not anymore.

And he missed you like he missed no one- when you stopped responding to his emails and Facebook posts. Your last post was October 4th, 2006, and it was a picture of you at a coffee shop you were beautiful, but Art was so lost on the guy next to you. He should have kissed you at that airport but he was tangled in this mess of Tashi who he had admittedly used to try and not miss you so much when you posted with one of your new guy friends, who you did not like romantically. But Art didn’t know that. He didn’t know how badly it hurt when you traveled to California to find him completely happy and distracted in a new life with new friends and forget that you were coming to visit. That hurt. He should have kissed you at the airport when he could before all of these things crashed and collided and brought you down. He was at fault, but you forgave him, you just didn’t speak again.

Patrick said it was fine, you’d come around. Art’s mom told him that you called to check in on her, but that growing apart does happen. He would ask himself how in the world did he end up growing apart from you. You of all people, but admittedly it was his own fault. These things just happen, distance ruins things.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

But there wasn’t much distance now. You were standing in front of him. Your expression didn’t change- it was a gentle smile upon laying eyes on him. Abbey asked him how he was and just like years ago, he brushed her off with a ‘would you excuse me?’ and passed her, sheepishly walking over to you.

“Hi, Art,” you said, head slightly tilted, lips pulled into that smile he hadn’t seen in years. Art felt shy around it, he hated that, but he was happy to see it. And you.

“Hi,” he replied.

You gestured to Abbey, “Reminds me of something.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he replied with a small chuckle. “I-um… How are you?”

“I’m doing okay,” you nodded. Art found himself glancing for a ring on your finger or maybe a baby bump he missed, but nothing. You were doing okay. “Oh, no ring.” You said, holding up your hand. “Wasn’t so lucky. How are you?”

He shook his head, still a little dazed that you were here in front of him, talking to him like you hadn’t gone fifteen years without doing so. “Not so bad.”

“That implies that there’s some bad,” you nodded, leaning against the wall. Your dress reminded him of another you’d worn. “Not so bad?”

“I’m okay…” He said. “Just… I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.” As if he hadn’t spent every moment since RSVP-ing thinking about seeing you again. Finally seeing you again.

“Oh,” you nodded, understanding. “No, I get that. I didn’t think you’d come. Thought maybe you were busy winning some grand slam, too far ahead than the rest of us. It was a good win, your last big game in Chicago.”

“You kept up,”

“I couldn’t not. I’m not me if not nosey and that aside, your name all over everything tennis-related- billboards, even. You and Tashi.”

“You must have heard about the separation, then?”

“On the tennis new channel, surprisingly. Fuck them for making that public, and I am sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He replied, eyes not leaving yours. “It just wasn’t working out. She cheated.” He admitted, which he hated. Something about your eyes was a well-working trap for him to fall back into the exact boy he used to be in your presence. He wanted to tell you everything, he forgot what it felt like to be around you. But you weren’t different at all. You were still that same warm, caring girl you used to be.

“Art, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible. Nobody deserves that.” You said, eyes soft. Beautiful.

“It’s in the past.” He nodded again, looking at the ground. They hadn’t changed the gym floors since you’d left, he noted. They were the same. “Thank you, though. I actually, um, I have a daughter, though.”

“Lily,” you smiled. “I’m nosey, I told you. Is she much like you?”

“I think so.” He smiled back. You knew his daughter’s name and you knew about the divorce yet he had no idea what you’d been up to. “So, are you… working, are you…”

“I am.” You nodded. “I teach children with special needs how to play tennis, it’s a great job. Lots of fundraisers and events. It’s really lovely.” Art remembered when you were younger. You’d mentioned something of the sort- doing that. He couldn’t help but wonder if you had joined a company or made one. But he wouldn’t ask, the small talk was already killing him. “About your daughter though, I’d love to know more.”

He wanted to know more about you but he liked to talk about Lily and her hobbies and habits. It felt good to talk to you again as you engaged with him as if fifteen years was three months. It was strange, but the feeling of being around you and your light again, it was easy to brush it all off. Like he was eighteen and you were an addictive happiness. You were smiling as he spoke about his daughter. You were smiling so much that he had to stop at one point, unable to hide his own smile. “What?”

Your eyes went a little wide, but you kept smiling, shaking your head. “Oh, nothing. I just… I always knew you’d be a girl dad. And you seem like a good one.”

“Always knew?”

“Oh yeah, I think I first thought about it in grade ten… A girl knows these things.” You said. Your body language changed slightly, you tilted your head to the door. “Hm- Do you still smoke?”

“Do you?”

“When I need to.” You said. “It’s not a habit, it’s an occasional thing. Come with me?”

Art was surprised by the offer. But how could anyone say no to you? He nodded and followed you out. You stopped outside your car, a decent distance away from the building and hopped on the trunk, sitting like you would so many years ago. Your car was nice, so you must make good money, he noted.

“How are you really?” You asked Art, eyes genuine as you lit the cigarette. Art, focused on you, didn’t know how to answer that. He was wondering how you weren’t someone’s wife or mother because even after all these years, he couldn’t find flaw in you. Not one. You were still sweet and kind and lovely and you looked amazing, so how did nobody find you and keep you? You asked him how he really was as if you still saw through him. “You’re really doing okay?”

Art took the cigarette as you passed it to him. “I’m okay. It wasn’t easy- any of it, but it happened and it’s in the past.”

“That’s good.” You said, watching him take a drag. The soft wind blew your hair around your face. “I am sorry about what happened, it sounds awful. I had to check in, really check in. But that aside, you’ve really made a name for yourself out there. Big games, high stakes and a good reputation.”

Art nodded, eyes on the ground as he inhaled again and passed the cigarette back. Something about being here with you was surreal. You’d kept up and he had no way to do the same. “Thank you. I planned on retiring three years ago, but second wind came around. I plan on retiring next year, thinking about starting to coach.”

“You’d be a good coach,” you nodded, smoke blowing out from between your perfect lips.

“Maybe…” He started. Silence.

You nodded, “You’re thinking about the elephant in the… parking lot.” You said, looking around.

“I might be,” he replied, straightening himself out. “It’s been fifteen years and you’ve not said a word to me since… And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it. I’ve had a lot of time to.” Art rolled up his sleeves. You watched. “Fifteen years.”

“I know,” you replied, quiet. “But you have had an amazing career and you married the girl I was so worried about, had a daughter. Your life has been exactly what you wanted, that’s amazing. Could it have been the same with me in it?” Art wished it was you in it. “So I let time be time and do it’s thing, I know it’s been fifteen years.”

Art shook his head, “It couldn’t have been a space thing. Maybe I needed the space, but it was bound to exist anyway. We were best friends, you, me, Patrick- and Stanford changed things but you didn’t have to walk away. My life has been my life but it’s not that way because you walked away.”

You chuckled, “I know that. And I am beyond proud of you either way, but me, eighteen years old and in love with you? Showing up after a month of planning and you forgot I was even coming? Just about broke me. And of course, there was Tashi and-” You had more to say but Art felt all of his thoughts come to a halt. His fingers felt cold. He interrupted you-

“In love with me? You were in love with me?”

You laughed, so genuine, the sound was something he had missed sorely. “That’s even a question? Oh, I was so young, but I was very much in love with you. Patrick would never let me forget it. I had such a crush on you. You… you didn’t know?” You covered your mouth as you laughed, but Art felt a little bit frozen, but it was easy to laugh with you.

“I didn’t know, no.”

“So the fifteen years is because after you broke my little eighteen-year-old heart, I took the time to recover and I just… never did.” You admit, handing him back the cigarette, which he took without looking at. He was only seeing you. Part of him was kicking himself hard, angry that he hadn’t confessed when he had planned, knowing now, so many fucking years later than if he had said what he wanted to, he might have had you. There were the complications, but if he had you, there wouldn’t have been a Tashi situation. And in his mind he watched the possibilities unravel his life as he knew it- knowing that it could have been you. It could have been you. “As sorry as I am about it, I don’t regret it. You have an amazing-sounding daughter and the life that you and I used to talk about, going pro… And I have a job that I only got through staying on this side of things. If I was in California, I wouldn’t have met the sweet lady who started the company I own now.”

He hated that you were right. But he hated it more that he could have had everything he really wanted- the things you and him talked about- and it could have been with you. A house, a marriage, a child? The things he really wanted. He couldn’t bring himself to feel regret, but it was something close to the feeling. “I understand. I just- you liked me? Patrick knew?” His whole adult demeanour was destroyed by your youthful smile.

“He would play wingman,” you said. “It was awful, but it was still fun. And I think I should tell you, though it feels wrong, that I missed you. And I am sorry I didn’t reach out. It was too much.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he nodded back. “I missed you too. A lot. It took a while to get over what happened, but it’s been good…”

“I’m glad,” you replied. The cigarette was almost at it’s end. And for a while you just stared at each other. The words unsaid filled the air until it was almost suffocating. He could have had you. If he had said something. If he’d kissed you at the airport. Tashi might have been Patrick’s. Art hated to think about a world without his daughter but it was you. It was always going to be you no matter how many years passed. “I hate to ask this for the sake of my phrasing, but… no hard feelings?”

Art smiled down at his feet, hands back in his pockets, “No, no hard feelings.” He replied. “And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you too.”

You smiled that beautiful smile, the wind blowing your hair a little more. There was something so painting-like about this moment. It could be frozen in time, he wished it could be, and he made a mental note to engrave this image of you in his mind. You were just as gorgeous as the day you left and sure, it hurt to think about a little bit, especially all of the ‘what if’s, but you were here now. And there were no hard feelings. How could he ever have any toward you? It was you.

“You want to head back in?” You asked, digging a foldable toothbrush out of your purse along with a tiny tube of toothpaste.You truly not changed much in your ways. Art wondered if you remembered the last time you’d brought a little toothbrush and toothpaste out. He dug in his own pocket and pulled out his pack of mint gum. He noticed the way your eyes widened at the parallel. But then you just grinned, starting to laugh as you half-brushed your teeth, half giggled. Art chuckled too, popping a piece in his mouth. And the laughter lasted a while. It was like you were the same giddy teenagers who wouldn’t tell each other their biggest secret. But eventually it died down and you headed back inside.

The moment you were inside, he noticed the song playing. So did you. You stood there for a moment, not looking at anyone but him. The Cranberries playing loud over dusty speakers. The only Cranberries song you ever liked, Art remembered. You couldn’t stand the voice cracks in the one about zombies… He was a little confused when you held your hand out, but when you smiled, he remembered. In the spirit of parallels, you were asking him to dance. He remembered the promise he made you, he wouldn’t forget it. He had pinkie promised and you swore to make him regret it, but he never got the chance to. You never gave him a real reason to.

“You pinkie promised.” You said, tilting your head just in the slightest. “You swore.” You said it a little sing song. Fifteen years forgotten- they didn’t exist. You were here and you were asking him to dance with you.

“I did,” he said, smiling, hands still in his pockets. And he did take your hand and with a youthful giggle, you pulled him to the dance floor. It was one of those songs where you could scream the lyrics, you could spin and you could maybe even jump, but you just stayed close. Art wasn’t sure what exactly to do, but it was okay. You led at first, swaying just a little to get him into it. He grinned, unable to stop it. Fifteen years felt like seconds, like you never even left. Like you were those same young best friends dancing around your feelings, your truth. And you were so beautiful, spinning and swaying and your dress following you as you did. You laughed and it was melodious, you were so unaware of the eyes on you, of Patrick’s eyes. They met Art’s from across the room and a knowing smile spread up his old friend’s face. He raised his drink in their direction and Art nodded back.

Time might have made Art a little bit harder, colder, but you made him right back into who he used to be before life existed. Your light was brighter than the strobes spinning the walls of the room. You got him into it with a nearly-sixteen-year-old promise. The music loud, but just dull enough to hear you. Art was drawn back into you like you were a magnet. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have you. That he didn’t get that life with you. But you were here and you were still so perfect.

The dancing had somehow melted itself into something slower, though the pace of the song didn’t change. It was almost a hug, the way his hand slipped around your waist. It felt familiar and you… smelled the same way you used to. So sweet. Your arms around his neck, close to him. It wasn’t even a thought in either one of your brains that you ended up this way, but it felt right and you just did it, so that’s how you were. Swaying, like a slow dance, and the end of the song rolled around, the music dulling to only an instrumental.

You pulled away just a little, your faces just a little bit close. “I think it’s best we went our separate ways. It would have killed to me to stay your friend and watch you and Tashi’s life in person rather than in pictures.” You said quietly. “And if I’m honest I think I might still be a little bit in love with you.”

Art met your eyes at your confession. You looked like you regret what you said, but the concern in your eyes changed, eased. You could still read his expression. “I did love you too, you know.”

“I know.” You smiled. He grinned a little sheepishly, his grin still the same. His eyes were soft and he looked at you like he always did. Such a familiar gaze. “And I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“For still feeling the way I do. After what I did.”

“You’re not alone in it.” He admit with a small chuckle. And you giggled. And it felt like nothing else existed in the entire universe. Just you. Just him. He wasn’t blunt, but it was definitely still said. It really could ever only be you, no matter what. Even with Tashi, it was always you. A first love that could never truly be erased, despite the countless mistakes and sins of youth. It hadn’t worked, but looking at you now, he had that hope again. That it might.

You just continued to sway to the music. The promise to dance whenever you asked fulfilled. There was peace in saying what was left unsaid for so many years. There was peace in feeling it still. Feeling how he did about you was the most consistent thing in his entire life. He wasn’t who he had to be with Tashi, he was who he truly was with you. His big career in hindsight, his past with Tashi, his life that didn’t include you was behind him.

Patrick did wander over when the song ended. He came and stood beside you both, the lip of his bottle resting against his mouth. You and Art shared a look before you left the position you were in, hands slipping back to your sides. He was grinning a sly grin. A familiar one from back in the day. Knowing.

You just tsked, “You need to shave.” You said. Patrick just grinned, laughed.

“You too.”

“Really?” You laughed. “Okay, I see how it is.”

Art chuckled. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss this. As much as he wanted just you and him, the three of you together were something entirely different. Who wouldn’t miss the better days? The three of you got a little more caught up, Patrick was free to reveal his position as a double agent in your teenaged slowburn that never really fizzled out… You and Art didn’t mention anything said during that dance, but he knew without being told. Everyone who knew you both knew that you belonged together. The night was still young, but Patrick lowered his voice. “I have an ounce in the car.” He said, shrugging. The three of you shared a look and in minutes the three of you were hiking across the schoolyard. Adults. Stupid adults with stupid nostalgia, laughter echoing across the empty courts as you all walked down the hill.

Art moved the dead leaves and under it was still that circle of rocks. The dirt had somewhat filled it, but it was still a bit of a divot. And the logs had thinned out but they were still there. You sat next to Art like you always would. You turned your body to face him and you just looked at him, studying the way his face had changed, his hair… but it was still very much so the boy you’d loved years ago. He looked over at you and he smiled and it was a reflection of so many years ago. The exact same spots, the exact same people, the same reason to sneak away.

You had hoped you hadn’t overstepped. You didn’t come to the reunion to say what you said, but it was right. And you knew Art felt the same. He said so. The three of you stayed and talked for hours like nothing ever changed. Time could never truly change the three of you. No matter who fucked who, who married who, who went where, who did what. It was always you. It would always be you. And that aside- you and Artwould figure that out- it would always be the three of you. Proven by your very own lives.

taglist: @swetearss @lalalandofive @xoxog0ssipg1rl @bayleequits @reallycreativeusername @kaaaiiaaa

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pauking5 · 3 months

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Runaway 🏎️ Chapter 4 🏁

Pairing: Naozumi Hiyama x fem reader oc

Genre: racing AU, enemies to lovers, sports rivalry, suspense, a whole lot of teasing, gender power games, spice

Word count: 18.5k+

A/N: Been a while but she's back and kicking. Apologies it took so long. Can't wait for you to read the next ones since I've been kicking my legs writing them. I'll just let you read. Enjoy ;)

Raiko's Playlist: Fallen - Richard Durand Remix, Like Water - Wendy, RACE - Bang Yongguk, Both - Tiesto, 21 Savage, Blank Space - CHANEY, All Night - Icona Pop, Rerun - Honey Revenge, Royal Pirates - Drawing The Line

Since the star of the show chose the act of disappearance, the buzz of the night drew significantly quiet. The crowds swarmed to chat about the events of the night, keeping the man who got away in their thoughts as the hot topic, especially since he took off in a less than graceful escapade, the front of his car a wreck of paint work.

Just as damaged as his dignity losing public poise for that matter.

But for all that, the night was completely yours to rule. You still couldn't believe you beat the Naozumi Hiyama, the wonder of modern rally, in all but the dirtiest manner to settle debts - street racing, where it all began in the first place.

Your nerves buzzed and tingled in utter joy like you were still in the car, pushing 120 down the city streets with the cops after you. A story worth to tell your grandchildren.

Some of the models that previously coiled themselves around Naozumi's neck on the yacht, now tried to get your number to meet up with you. Many phones passed through your hands to exchange numbers, so many that you lost count. People you didn't even know passed around congratulatory wishes like "Good race" and "Great job out there", including some of the drivers from the series that stuck around to see the show unfold.

You hung out with Akira a little more, poking fun at your tumultuous first weekend in the world of professional rally and how quiet his early rookie days were, then broke rows and drove back home, completely spent. The week needed to end before it ended you. Though you wouldn't mind the high of tonight to continue a little more.

Taking a ride around the city, you wanted to make sure those cops didn't want a rerun of earlier downtown shenanigans and took a longer drive home. Laying low from in-town night driving for a while might be for the best for now. So you just enjoyed tonight like it was the last night you got to drive around free and careless.

The cool night air blew in through your open windows, whistling through your hair as you climbed the main bridge lane. The roads were empty now, waiting for you to step on the gas and take them at full speed.

For some reason, your foot eased on the throttle, feeling the need to just appreciate the ride without rushing anywhere - your very own version of taking a walk to clear your head. To just drive without a set destination, getting lost in the passing flicker of neon signs and city lights and tall illuminated skyscrapers lined up on the edge of the road.

For the first time this early spring, the sky was clear of clouds. Tiny stars far in the distance blinked down at you in millions of all kinds of shapes and formations.

As much as you hated this city and the people in it, who lived to step on others for any small sliver of success and fame, by gods you loved it.

Nights like these, empty of any human trace, when the city was deeply quiet and the skyline shone bright, were so oddly comforting. It felt like time just stopped ticking, the hands of the speedometer stopped moving up or down to determine your speed, and eternity just swallowed you into a wrinkle in time. A black hole state of sorts. A void where you could just exist.

No responsibilities. No stress. No pressure.

Just you, the car and the road.

Even going slower than you usually drive, you pulled up on your street in no time, driving down the slope of houses until you reached your driveway. A big, dark blue Ranger was parked in front of the garage - your dad was home. It was rare to find him home at the weekend. Even rarer to find him on the front steps, a cheap can of beer opened in his hand, looking off into the distance, contemplating life from the looks of it.

Parking next to the truck, you cut the ignition and rolled the windows up. Giving your sweet ride a gentle pat on the leather casing of the wheel to thank her for her efforts tonight, you got out and walked to him.

Seeing you close in on the porch made his face light up, a tired smile pulling at his lips, crinkling his tired eyes. You gave him one of yours, taking a moment to just look at him and bask in his presence. He did not look a day over 25, though his ID's begged to differ. Not one grey hair lock or wrinkle ruining the image of him you grew up with like he was an evergreen tree.

"Hi, dad."

"Hey, kid."

"Glad to see you home," you smiled at him, genuinely happy to see him after this horrendous week.

"Your mother would say otherwise," he chuckled, taking a good chug from his can, smile turning bitter on the edges.

You walked up a few steps and took a seat next to him. Your hand reached halfway for a can on his side, but he intercepted your need before you could ask. He grabbed one and plucked the lid open for you then held it out to you. You gave him the 'I'm not a little kid' look at which he laughed, giving you the fatherly look reserved for his dear precious jewel - you.

"What did you do this time?"

"Forgot to bring her a souvenir from Tokai," he sighed. "You know that golf tournament she watches like crazy?"

You were well aware of your mom's weekendly hobby of sitting in front of the TV and watching men in designer polo co-ords hit a ball with a club like it was some interesting sport. She would often argue yours and your father's heads off that it was. You nodded.

"They sold signed merch this weekend since they played there. She wanted that hideous plain green cap of that player she likes so much."

"I could've picked one up," you stated.

"I forgot to call," he sighed again.

That sigh held something deeper to it. Something was weighing down on him. You could see right through that weary smile, the lowered shoulders and the frown he tried to stop from pulling at his brows.

"Dad," you called out softly. His eyes shifted from the ground to you. You bumped his shoulder playfully. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

He looked down, a wry smile tilting a corner of his lip upwards.

"I can't hide from you, can I?"

"Not a chance."

He laughed again.

"I heard about what you've done today."

Your breath hitched. Did he know about the illegal race with Naozumi? If he did, you were in deep shit. Deeper than you could ever crawl your way out of since you didn't know how he would react to it.

But how could he know so early? It was mere hours ago. Surely news travels fast but not this fast.

Before you could think of what to say he spoke first.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to help with the rally," he spoke regretfully.

Oh.

It wasn't about the race. The illegal one. He was talking about the whole fiasco with the oil change and the car not running, resulting in the team having to pull out from the first stage of the final day. Losing points over a system error which wasn't really anyone's fault.

"Oh, that?" you let out above a whisper, thankful it wasn't the other thing. "It's no biggie. I had it covered," you tried to reassure him.

Him being him, he had to beat himself up over it.

"I know you did, but you didn't have to. You're supposed to be the driver. Not the promoter, spokesperson and the mechanic all in one package deal. Just the driver."

"That's not so much fun now, is it?"

"Raiko," he warned, asking you to be serious for once.

"Dad," you thundered without backing down, turning to face him fully before continuing. "If that's what's bothering you, you're stressing over nothing. I'm glad to have been able to help."

He stayed quiet, partly listening, partly busying himself with tracing the rims on the empty can in his hand as if it was the outer lip of a tire that needed fast replacing.

"That's what you taught me, remember? To lay my skills where needed, as big or small as they are. I didn't sit in that garage for years, spending my time counting loose screws and random oil spots on the floor and I definitely wasn't going to sit back and not finish the round at all. I did what I had to do and that's over with."

"And we got a good result out there. Not the best, but we're getting there. There's no need to beat yourself up over it."

His gaze dropped to the ground as if the unkept grass patio would cut itself if he looked hard enough at it.

"I just..." he started, exhaling a shallow breath. "I feel like I'm not there enough for the team. For your mom. For you."

Your gaze softened. You knew where he was coming from.

He was sacrificing his time, health and enjoyment of the sport that meant the world to him to break through with sponsorship deals and fund the team as much as he could. Even if that meant he couldn't physically be there to lead the team and be a father. He didn't give himself enough time to learn how to be either or before, but he tried his best in both jobs and that was the most you could ever wish for.

Trying was better than giving up. So much better. And he gave it his all, pouring immense dedication, body and soul, wherever he needed to, thing that you always admired about him. That unparalleled strength to push forward despite life being so unpredictable.

Scooting closer to link your arm with his bigger one, you pulled him in for a side hug, tugging him as close as your arms could wrap around him to make sure he felt all the adoration and affection oozing off of you. Beyond the faint smell of oil still sticking to your body after two consecutive aromatic shampoo filled showers.

He gave in to your trick of relaxation, head falling on top of yours, sighing again, seemingly in deep relief this time. You could feel the stress leave his body like a defused bomb silently going back to being stable. Like your words managed to reach him and make him let go of some worries for a little while. That and knowing what a sucker he was for hugs in any shape or form.

"You're doing your best, dad," you mumbled in his shoulder, shifting your eyes to him as your hand moved to rubbing his other shoulder in comfort. "It's okay to take a break from being the best sometimes."

A small laugh escaped him at that last remark, turning to you with a grin. A genuine one.

"Sometimes I wonder if you're really my daughter," he says amusedly.

"Of course I am," you confirmed. "Through and through."

You placed your temple to his and let out a breath of ease.

"Blood from blood and brow from brow, remember?"

That was your shared pledge of trust. The one line he's been voicing to you since you've been the size of a chicken nugget, running and stumbling over your legs, until now, when you became a young adult navigating the novelties of life. Though recently, it wasn't him reminding you of it but the other way around. And you would say it as many times as he needed to hear it.

He's been stabbed in the back enough times to fall behind on the trusting people business. That's why everyone close to him protected him and his peace. That's why Don Tanaka warned you about coveting with the enemy. He might have bounced back from losing everything and everyone back when the team first failed, acting like he was fine, but you could see right through it.

Time and time again, you'd find him in the team garage at night trying to fix stuff that would never work again. Broken parts since there was no more money to replace them. Smoking engines that refused to start up without catching on fire. He tried and tried to fix things like they would fix his life and you hated every second of it.

People turned on him, acting so vile and betrayed, while he had to sit and watch his career fall to pieces. He deserved a lot better than the world gave him. Way better.

Another one of those would mean game over for him. You couldn't risk it. That's why you tried to pick up the foam and fill in the cracks wherever you could. Fundraising. Hunting for new parts and changing them yourself. Amping the team. Anything and everything that needed to be done.

"Always," he breathed out, knocking his temple to yours.

This moment was as needed by him as it was by you. Just sitting on the front porch in the middle of the night, listening to the sleepless city come alive again, enjoying each other's presence. You rarely got moments like these. But when you did, you held onto them with your teeth.

"Where were you out this late by the way?" he asked, raising an inquisitive brow.

He was never one for strict curfews. Neither was your mom, and you were thankful for having understanding parents like them. But there were always surprise questions like these just lurking to be asked. Good thing you were in good spirits. More or less anyways.

"At Naozumi's victory bash," you took one more chug of your beer, gulping the rest of the can dry.

The cheap ale ran down your throat bitterly but also somehow comfortingly. Maybe convenience store bought alcohol wasn't so bad after all. Or it just mattered whose company you were in while you drank it.

"How was it? Do they celebrate like we used to, throwing huge raves in town with the streets joining in on the free booze and dancing with exquisite ladies even after the morning sun was up? Or do they kick you out after a certain time?"

Your mouth hung open. "I'm sorry, WHAT?! That's how you celebrated back then? That's crazy!"

An image of your father busting out disco moves in the club, drunk out of his ass with his rally comrades, friends and foes flashed in your mind and you struggled to keep it together.

There had to be photographic evidence. Gotta ask mom about that. I'm sure she has loads of those. You made sure to leave a sparkly red mental note on that.

"If you're having one of those with me," he pointed to the cheap beer cans from the convenience store you were sharing, "it must've been disappointing."

"It was more of a celebrity gathering on his yacht rather than a first place celebration. There was alcohol, but get this - the bar was on a paid by the guest basis and he served everyone alcohol-free champagne!"

"That's bonkers," his eyes widened, shocked to hear that.

"Something about keeping the goodies for real wins or some stuff like that," you added, wiggling the empty can between your fingers.

"Well, champagne should be for podium only."

"Oh god, not you too! You can genuinely have champagne without sitting on the podium."

"You can, but it doesn't feel the same. You'll see when you get your first. You never forget that one. The paid alcohol thing is nasty though," he grimaced as if he himself was invited and felt hurt by the party etiquette.

The soft breeze turned colder as the night grew darker, cutting your father-daughter hang out time short. Picking up after yourselves to leave the porch as you found it, you both made way inside and discarded the cans trying to make as little noise as possible. From the looks of it, your mother was long gone to dreamland, the house fully drenched in darkness and silence. Waking her up was a recipe to disaster. The kind none of you wanted to face after this hell of a week.

You both tiptoed around as quietly as you could, stabbing a toe or hitting an elbow here and there. Climbing to the top of the stairs together, holding onto each other's weary and tired backs, you bid your goodbyes at the intersection between your rooms.

"Good night, dad," you smiled at him once more.

He smiled back, lifting a hand to caress the side of your face gently, calloused fingers tilting your chin up. "Good night, lightning strike."

You watched him trudge to his room, shutting the door quietly behind him, careful not to wake your mother. They barely got time for each other lately. You knew she would be happy to wake up to him finally in bed for once and that made your heart a little warmer.

Maybe he'll be okay, you hoped turning up a meek smile.

Crawling to your own bed that's been calling your name all day long, you shoved off your jeans and leather jacket drowsily, leaving you in your band tee. You pulled on your soft McQueen pants on since they were the only thing you unpacked.

Naozumi could laugh all he wanted. These are the comfiest pyjama pants ever made, you pat down the material gleeful to see the red car smile victoriously at you.

One day, McQueen. One day.

Dropping onto the bed like a sack of potatoes, disregarding your unpacked bags as a job for tomorrow's you, you closed your eyes, breathing in the comforting smell of home. You haven't been gone for too long but you sure missed your bed as if it was your long lost lover.

You missed the way the mattress dipped comfortably under your aching body, allowing you to relax every tensed muscle from your back down to your calves. How the pillows were sprawled everywhere to just grab and plunge your head into. And the nice quiet of the neighborhood, thing that you would trade millions of times for having Naozumi as your next door neighbor.

Your thoughts drifted to him once more.

He was so... unreadable. No. He was readable when he wanted to be. The other times he was just selfish, overbearing, and almost too cocky for his own good. Besides his fits of arrogance and normal disgust for the world. And his overexaggerated displays of entitled behaviour.

However, you couldn't deny you saw a different side to him tonight - the amount of pride he had in the one person who sung solely in his victorious tune - himself.

What was pride to Naozumi Hiyama? you wondered.

An excessive need to be the best above the best and a desire to hightail it down the hall of fame in complete vanity of his many talents?

Obsession garnering on self-destruction, just to prove that he's right to win rally rounds by the handful? Tuning out everyone else, competition, team or close friends? Reaching out to stretch more than his duvet could cover?

Hubris sneakily doused in humility brought empires to their downfall. History bled that story on pages over and over again. That was right where his little own empire was heading too, right into ruin and complete culmination before it managed to stick out high and mighty at the top, much like his ego did on the daily.

Naozumi could throw it all away just to prove himself worthy of being the champion. That might just be why you felt for the guy after you just proved yourself worthy of the road. Worthy of being more than just a newbie right in front of his face, using his own defences against him.

He was a rookie himself not that long ago, chasing hard earned respect by the bucket from the very world sitting idly at his feet now. But he seems to have forgotten just what it took to gain this sensational crowd, the amazing women tangling in his sheets ever so nightly, the roar of attention from the world. The promised stardom.

The biggest thing he failed to remember was that all of that could slip through those nimble fingers of his so quickly. Before he could even realise it. Before he even had a chance to reach for it and keep it safe.

You sighed, decompressing further into the mattress, unable to take your mind off him.

Why did it bother you so much that he was self-sabotaging his career knowingly, throwing all his dignity and humanity away for a trophy and a multi-million dollar contract deal to join the big guys in the global WRC? Why did it scratch you so wrong that he was being a dick to the only people that were there to help him?

Then another curious thought popped into your head.

It was wrong to compare Naozumi to your father. Wrong and twisted in so many different ways. But where the lines of past rally legend Hiro Suruki and present rally prodigy Naozumi Hiyama drove until they raced parallel to each other, they were so similar. Painfully similar.

In the way they both took to the dirt road like maniacs, trusting the cars to drive them to their one and only desire in life: winning. Winning race after race, the public, the very right to call themselves the golden boys of two entirely different generations of rally racing.

To have it all and to lose it all.

A game of the gods.

Although they played the same wretched game, there were significant, almost crepuscular differences between the two. Your father practiced a good amount of humility. He looked failure in the face and chose to make good on what he already had, big or small, powerful or powerless, being a known legend or a forgotten nobody. He took it as it was given to him, for what it was, not what it could have been.

Naozumi, on the other hand, was a different specimen in that field. He laughed heartily in the presence of defeat, probably threw a middle finger at it, then stomped right through it like it was a virtue to be a self-righteous asshole in life. As if being simply himself for a while would be his Achilles heel. The very thing that could end him.

He might be on his way up, nearly grasping the handle on the gates of the hall of fame. But just as close as he could get to tugging those doors open, he could fall back to be nothing but a beginner just as fast.

He was racing himself in his own head and that could make him lose everything in a heartbeat.

The road forgives no one.

It surely won't start with Naozumi Hiyama.

On the other side of town, a pair of angry dark eyes peered into the city skyline from his own lone drive around the streets of Tokyo. His jaw sat rigid, ticking with every new thought inflicting pure rage through his veins. All thoughts drifting around his public victory, his personal defeat, and you.

Tonight was a glitch in the simulation. A turn in the track he never saw coming even if his co-driver would've paced it to him, ahead of his wheels tasting it or his eyes taking notice of it. His reaction time was off in the worst ways possible. An error that sent his system into overdrive.

In all his years as a rally driver, there wasn't a time when he was a sore loser in the face of defeat. But this one loss left a bloody taste in his mouth no amount of alcohol could take out even if he drowned himself in it.

He was so wrong to brush you off, thinking you weren't fit to be competition. His competition. Knowing it deep down within himself that you'd barely make it past a few rally rounds before you pulled out of the series. So sure that you wouldn't last long in that shabby car of yours tuned for disaster more than driving.

But you had fight in you.

A fire burning deep within, flaring bright in your eyes from the moment you stepped up to the table tonight, in front of all those people, to challenge him to a battle of wits. Publicly. Shamelessly.

Pulling up to a red traffic light, he sighed bitterly. He thought he had it right in the palm of his hands. The one he was currently squeezing tight around the leather of the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and his nails dug sharp indents inside of it.

She's playing a dangerous game. She has no idea what world she just entered. This world takes more than it gives. It takes your soul.

It will take hers and crush it to pieces like gravel lining up the road.

I gave her a fair warning with that threat but as it seems it fell on deaf ears. Probably part of the Suruki charm.

The traffic light above turned green but his foot stood still, both lifted and lowered halfway from meeting the pedal. He didn't press the gas.

The streets were deserted. No one was going to push him to move it and drive off. Not that he wanted to. He was way too preoccupied with something else, much more troubling than being shoved off the road.

He stared through the windshield up ahead at nothing in particular, just thinking. Absorbing his defeat like he never lost a race in his career ever before. Not this pathetically anyway. Refusing to accept that anyone could take the road away from him. No one would take that away from him. Not that clown parading in the Sigma Racing gear. Not his team who had no trust in his driving. Not even you.

The pedestrian alert beeped in the silence of the night until the lights overhead turned red again. And he was stuck. Again. His rage was surprisingly all gone now, seeping out of his body and drifting away until it was replaced by something else. Something stronger, beckoning him to take the alternative route of retrieving his honor without breaking away from his path. The only path he dedicated his life to.

And then it dawned on him.

If he had to witness the second fall of the Suruki family, why not make it a fun time and take a part in it? Satisfy that hidden curiosity of his about you and how much you could take of this world before it was too much and it swallowed you whole.

Taunt, tempt, torment.

Now that was a game he would've been mad not to play. Much more when his opponent was you.

You crave war, Raiko Suruki.

The traffic lights barely flashed yellow and his foot was ripping the gas pedal at the speed of lightning, a devilish smirk spreading on his face as he sped through the streets with a newfound purpose.

And you've tempted me enough to bring it to you.

Monday mornings are nice.

When you're not called to the team headquarters by your PR agent at the ass crack of dawn.

Kate's urgent call came through with the first rays of sun, her specific battle ringtone blaring loudly in the quiet of your darkened room. Dazed, you picked up the call only to meet her low voice on the other end, laced with an undertone of warning that if you didn't show up to the main office as fast as your foot could press the throttle, your career as a rally driver was as good as dead.

Capsized, finished, dissolved, and a few other calamity related words she had at hand to explain the situation.

Half-asleep, but scared shitless, you stumbled down the stairs as quietly as you could, since your dad's snores told you he was still asleep and you didn't need to wake him up anytime soon. You shoved whatever shoes you could find and drove over, grateful it wasn't morning rush hour yet.

What you didn't expect to find when you threw the office door open was a sleepless Kate in a track suit, with rims around her eyes, and a groggy Naozumi, seated at one end of the conference table. You were more taken aback by the latter of the two, stopping in the door to blink and squint your eyes at him repeatedly, thinking you were imagining his presence. Like your anxiety started associating him with life or death situations and he would just spawn before you.

Lifting an annoyed brow at your staring, he scoffed, falling back in his chair at the sight of you.

Nope, he's very real and he's throwing daggers at me.

Throwing some right back, you noticed he was still dressed in last night's clothes.

Did he even go home?

Kate clicked her jaw and suddenly you didn't really like the vibes in the room. Before you could tow out the door and back in your car to drive away and hide in your room forever, possibly requesting an email transcript of this atrocious meeting, Kate seized you by the arm hard, but gently, and maneuvered you in the empty seat next to him. Your knee pushed his on accident since he was manspreading like he was right at home. Moving your knee away, he took it as an invitation to open his legs even more, tapping the side of your leg on purpose.

Roosters haven't even crowed and he has the mood for violence this early.

Reeling back your leg, you pushed your knee harder into his, sending it knocking into his other one. He sent his into yours in response only angering you further. You kept going at it until loud tapping against the table broke your fighting apart before it became a brawl.

Kate cleared her throat trying to move your attention from his annoying taunts. And she did. One look at her quiet form on the other side of the table had you gulping down your nervousness for what she had to say, as well as bitterness for why this swine had to be here to listen in to life changing news.

On that note, why am I here either?

Your mouth opened to ask just that when Kate wordlessly shoved a magazine on the table, kind of answering your unasked question. Cautiously leaning over the table, mindful of the sharp glare she trained on you, your eyes scanned the front cover of a scandal outlet fresh off the press, surprised to see a security camera shot of you driving your car through the city with Naozumi's right beside you, from the night before.

The title read Prodigies of rally taking an illegal ride downtown topped with a few other blurry inserts of your face here and there.

That doesn't look so bad. You can't even see my face in them-

As if sensing your denial, Kate picked up several more magazines, newspapers, even printed copies of digital news and posts from social media, lining them all up in front of you. These had yours and Naozumi's faces clear as day and your cars as taken by paparazzi, photographed from a distance or up close, alongside those posted online by the celebrities present at your little event from last night.

Where some of the newspaper headlines were even worse than the magazine articles blurbs, the social media posts made up for it with praises of the spectacle the crowd was given.

"Care to explain?" asked Kate, though it wasn't really a question and more of a demand.

You sorted through some of them and pointed to a tweet and a magazine cover, replying to her query with a question of your own.

"I look great in these ones. Can you ask for the HD's so I can frame them?"

Kate let out a pained breath, leaning forward on the table in front of you. She was not happy with your response or your attitude to the situation, but she kinda demanded a lot at merely six in the morning.

Maybe I should book her that gua sha spa treatment she keeps going on about.

"Why were you there, Raiko?"

"Well," you started, hacking a nervous laugh out. "You know..."

"No. I actually don't know. So, please do explain."

Her brown eyes resembled sparkling, squishy bubble tea pearls this early. But they were piercing through you, less friendlier and soft, and a lot more authoritative, much like cannon balls about top be fired at you.

Since you weren't taking the lead to explain, Naozumi took it away. Which might have been a huge mistake. On his part.

"It's not that big of a deal," he rushed out with an exasperated breath.

Kate's eyes flew to him in a breath. That one sentence was enough to put him directly on her blacklist. You didn't miss the way she angled him down like he was the very devil risen up from the pits of hell to ruin her Monday. Not like Mondays were fun anyways.

"Maybe to you it isn't. But to her career that hasn't even started yet, it is."

Naozumi leant over the table, trying to assert himself like the male alpha figure he know he is. He flashed her his pearly smile and that stare of his that could send your pulse hammering like a sledgehammer.

"We could put this all behind us if you wanted to."

He did not just try to flirt like that.

That charming mode of his might have worked with someone else. But this was Kate. She eats men on a silver platter to do her job and she did one hell of a good job. He was wrong to expect that his tactics would work on her of all people.

"Oh, I would. If it was was me who was driving and not you two. What the fuck were you thinking getting her into this mess?"

"Why don't you stick to your driver and leave me alone?"

"You're in as much shit as she is, so I suggest you stop acting like a suck up."

"Whatever," he exhaled, leaning back in the chair beside you in defeat. That plan of his was as good as dead the moment he opened his mouth.

Her phone started ringing. She trudged to it angrily before muttering another curse.

"Children. Both of you," she mumbled underneath her breath, walking to the corner of the room to take it. Her murdering voice turned sweet and melodious like honey, switching from agentzilla to her normal tone.

The quiet was swallowing. Almost suffocating. Until Naozumi opened his mouth to speak again.

"You were good out there," he spoke gruffly, voice coming out barely above a mumble. As if he was thinking the words over, not just before, but even after he let them out. They still surprised you nonetheless.

"I'm sorry what?" you choked out.

"I said you were good out there."

"The great Naozumi Hiyama recognizes my talents?"

"I take it back."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't. Because I already have my ego up in the fucking sky."

He smiled. A small barely tilt of his lips, not in amusement, teasing, or provocation, but in genuine show of merriment. Strange.

Once he realized his mistake and caught you looking at him wide-eyed like he was some rare exhibit in a museum, he went back to the gloomy, pissed off jerk mask he had going on. Just as fast as it appeared, the smile was completely gone. Like it was never there. And you had a sudden want to see it again. It was too late to realise you voiced it out.

"Wait. Was that a smile?"

"Do you need an eye test or something?"

"I'm pretty sure that's called a smile."

"I don't smile," he scoffed.

He said the word like it made him disgusted to even be able to reproduce such a thing. Like he wasn't built for genuine cheer. Clowns weren't built for smiling. People were. There was a huge difference between those.

He was human after all. He smiles. When he's caught off guard by words rather than actions, apparently. Interesting.

"Sure you don't," you smirked.

"Rai, leave him alone," grumbled Kate from the other side of the room.

"He started."

He huffed annoyed at your antics and having to be tortured this early in the morning by your PR agent of all people. You smiled again happy with his predicament, and the fact that you weren't alone on this. There was a small part of you that got satisfaction from seeing him in trouble. But now that his trouble was yours too, you kind of equaled the opening score.

"Okay," exhaled Kate, turning back to you with less stress and more anguish judging by the way her eye twitched.

"So, we can't do anything for now but let them talk until they catch new gossip somewhere else. Which should be soon enough. That means," she turned to you with an icy glare, "no more illegal racing."

"For now or?"

"Indefinite."

"Negotiable?"

"Non."

"Well that's a bummer," you huffed, sulking back in your seat.

"Same to you Naozumi. I'm saying this as friendly advice," she says, her gaze turning softer. "Your PR team is already under enough stress as is. Do them a favour and lay low for a while. It will do you good as well."

"They're being paid to help me. Not the other way around."

From the way she frowned at him, you could tell she held back on yelling expletives at him that would get her fired if they ever reached higher-ups. She tightened her fists instead, trying to calm herself down. Then she grinned wide and your stomach dropped. The sky usually splits open when she wears that heinous grin.

"Oh, and one more thing. The federation called."

The federation called? For this? That can't be good.

"They don't like associating themselves with drivers who like getting into trouble. What you did last night won't affect your participation in the series. But they'll be preparing a suiting punishment soon."

"What kind of punishment?"

"The kind I'm sure you'll both hate with your guts."

"Is that all or do you have more nonsense to lecture me about?" asked Naozumi, clearly irritated that he was held accountable for once. And that he hasn't been allowed to leave yet. You wondered why he didn't just up and leave and sat here until now.

"You can go," she nodded at him with a sigh, the one filled with empathy reserved for lost causes. Like Tanaka.

"And me?" you piped up.

You were edging to just go back home and forget all of this even happened. And brainstorming what the board classified as suitable enough punishment. But from Kate's light snicker, you weren't off the hook yet. Far from it actually.

"Your lecture isn't over," she said.

"Bye rookie."

Naozumi flashed you a smile and a finger wave then he slid out the door. Before the door shut tight, concealing his existence, it creaked open and he peaked his head back in, filling the room with more dread.

"Nice pants by the way."

You looked down at your pants, met with the little McQueen cars. You were in your pyjama pants. Again. Fuck's sake. You shifted your gaze back at him, flipping him off without a wink of hesitation.

"Naozumi, please leave before I get security to kick you out," begged Kate.

And he did. Laughing his ass off down the hallways at your expense.

"Why does he get a pass from the lecture?"

"Because he's probably heard it enough to puke it. Though I doubt any of it actually reached his ears and stayed in his brain for long," she spoke, looking at the door with another frown for the man.

"But I know you actually regret your actions and want to do good by them," she stated. Prowling around the table to take Naozumi's seat, her serious gaze turned eager. "And I wanna hear the gossip."

"Of course you do," you laughed. "I'm going to need a coffee to go with that."

She reached behind you to the silver refreshment trolley you failed to notice, and grabbed two steaming cups from the top, placing one in front of you.

"Tell me he didn't spit in it or something."

"Nope. He just stared at it blankly, silently hoping I would offer it."

"Atta girl," you high fived her.

"Now tell me everything."

Sleep pulled you in the second you hit the pillow. You've sat in the office for most of the day just chatting with Kate, then being given the mother of all lectures on earth. Only she could reprimand you then seek gossip, doing a full personality 360 between angry, concerned and friendly. If you ever ended up like that, you'd made a promise to reset your brain setup yourself.

It would've been nice to be left alone to finally get real sleep since you had some time off-season now, but for the second time in a row today, someone had other plans for you.

The buzzing coming from your nightstand stirred you wide awake with less than nice wishes for the person disturbing you. Turning on your other side, you ignored it and plunged your head deeper into the plush of your pillow, sighing in delight. Little by little, you were pulled under by the remnants of sleep edging you all day. Fluffy, much needed rest.

Your phone buzzed again. And again. And again, begging to be answered.

Ah, for dear fuck's sake.

Throwing a hand behind, you searched into the air for your phone, hitting a lamp and the headboard before your fingers finally found the hellish device. Craning an eye open to make sure you hit the right button, you answered, pulling it hazily to your ear.

"Who's this?" you asked, way more raspier and annoyed than you intended it to come off.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," chuckled an eerily cheerful voice on the other end. "Or should I say good evening?"

"Akira?" you pulled back to look at the time on your phone. "It's nine. Why are you awake right now?" you groaned, flipping on your back.

"Why are you asleep right now?"

Fair point.

"What's up?" you asked, trying to stifle a yawn.

"I'm going out and I wondered if you wanted to come with. If you, I don't know, maybe wanted to hang out?"

That's sweet.

"Where?"

"It's a surprise. That is if you're willing to come. Are you?"

For someone that loved female attention and flirting with his fans, he sure was adorable at trying to make actual conversation with one. That and you were kind of nodding off to the sound of his sweet voice filling your ears like candy.

Your head fell deeper into the pillows, finding a comfortable spot you've searched for all of last night. A light snore went past your lips at which he chuckled.

"Rai? Are you still on the line?"

"Hmm. Yeah. Okay. I'll come with. When?"

"How fast can you get ready?"

"Give me thirty minutes. Where do I meet you?"

"Downtown Shibuya."

"Okay."

"Cool, I'll send you the location."

"Cool."

Hanging up, you closed your eyes again, way too on the edge of falling back to dreamland. Then an alarming thought rang out loud in your head.

Downtown?

That made you sit up fully awake in bed. Your hair was a wreck. You definitely needed a shower and to find something in your heaps of luggage still unpacked on the floor.

Thirty minutes was nearly not enough. But it'll have to do now.

Thirty minutes later and you reached downtown. The only problem was that you couldn't park anywhere. Maybe taking the subway would've been better.

Reaching the location Akira pinged you, you pulled over on the sidewalk, waiting for him to show up.

You watched the crowds gather and disperse on the famed center sidewalks spreading out in various directions, each pedestrian heading somewhere different.

For a moment, you wondered what kind of lives these strangers led. What hopes and dreams for the future they had. For one moment they were here, in the heart of the never sleeping city doused in neon lights, present and thoughtless. Only they would know what the next moment had prepared for them.

Racing towards the finish line for most of your life, you had to expect the unforeseen quite a lot. So it was interesting to see other people race towards other things, less life-threatening and more life-involved.

The radio changed the pop tunes for a catchier one that had your head bopping instantly on the first note. You turned up the volume, tapping your fingers on the wheel to the rhythmic beat. This would work so well with my new mix. You tried to turn it up a little louder but your speakers refused to play past mid-level.

Stupid speakers. I need to change this system ASAP. It's older than my dad.

About to curse the downsides of your old sound system, you were interrupted by a soft knock to your left. A strip of what looked like soft pineapple cake was the first thing you saw in the window. Then Akira's head popped down, holding his other hand under the dessert as if he was advertising to become someone's son in law and spread happiness. With a laugh at the faces he was pulling, you unlocked the door and let him in.

"God, it's so nice and warm in here," he sighed, relaxing into the seat beside you. He handed you the bag of desserts so he could stretch out and warm his hands against the warm air blower.

"Wasn't my idea to be out at this hour. It's cold as fuck still."

"If you don't want the cakes, give them back," he said, holding his hand out for the bag.

You hugged them closer to your chest. "They're mine now."

"All of them?"

"Mhm. You made me come all the way here on a Monday. I deserve a double treat."

There were a bunch of those little cakes stuffed into the paper bag and you weren't feeling the sharing is caring tradition today. But his lips drew in a pout, sulking in the seat like he was melting away into sadness and you had to give in. He bought them after all.

"Fine. You can have one."

"Why, thank you!"

You laughed at his antics, chucking one of the street delicacies in your mouth, dropping the bag in his lap. Turning the key in the ignition, you started the engine then turned to him.

"Okay, where to? I should drive off before I get a parking ticket."

"You know that arcade that just opened?"

"The one in Shinjuku?"

He nodded, buckling himself in. Destination acquired, you stepped on it taking off for the arcade. You whizzed past the busy streets of Shibuya, driving through the packed traffic lanes and the flickering billboards. Your eyes drifted to some of the lightshows in awe even if you've seen them so many times. You've been in this city forever but it still managed to surprise you. Even Akira glanced out the window with a twinkle in his eyes.

"So, how have you been?"

"We literally saw each other last night," you chuckled. "Did you miss me that much?"

"What if I did go into loneliness without your presence?"

Smooth.

"I'm asking more because I saw the headlines."

Damn press.

"I take it not so good?"

You let out a breath you've been holding for a while, adjusting your hand on the wheel to lean your arm on the window. Coming to a red light, you turned to him to pluck another cake out of the bag.

"It's okay. I got a pretty good lecture about the importance of driving exemplarily and the safety of my PR agent's mental wellbeing if last night were to ever happen again. And the federation heard of it. There's some supreme punishment coming my way apparently. Same for Naozumi. But I'm glad we didn't get other, more severe reprimands like being banned from the next race."

"Damn, that must've been harsh," he frowned in sympathy. "But you can still race, right?"

"Yup," you popped the p at the end. "Just not illegally," you smiled meekly, feeling bad for your little side hobby having to come to an end.

"That's not so bad then."

Tugging out another cake, you gobbled it down halfway, letting it melt in your mouth. The tangy sweet taste lifted your mood instantly. Then you recalled something that made you chew a little slower. You gave Akira a long look.

"You know these things are given as wedding gifts in other countries?" you asked upon remembering the custom.

"Yes," he replied. "But they're also symbolic of luck. Like mooncakes. Thought you could use some."

Aw. He got you lucky charms. Damn delicious ones at that.

See, if they wanted to they would. But what did Akira want?

That was another question you hackled up in your big question backpack that was slowly starting to weigh down on your shoulders. That thing was widening by the hour and the week barely started.

Taking the easier route, you drove around town letting him bask in the vivid glow of Tokyo. He looked right at home here, among all the lights and glamour. You could take the man out of Tokyo but you definitely couldn't take it out of him.

By the time you parked, the whole bag of pineapple cakes was devoured. Not one crumb was left. You fought over the last one, ending up splitting it into halves just like your sandwich the week before. You noticed Akira had a thing for sharing stuff. On that note, you realized you didn't know much about him personally, so you made it your objective to find out more tonight.

Paying for your entrance to the arcade, amazement took over you at how big the place was. There were claw machines with hundreds, maybe thousands of plushies and figurines everywhere your eyes jumped. Video games lined up the walls, making all kinds of congratulatory sounds for winners or playing jingles to lure in players.

Even further in, bowling alleys, basketball courts, table tennis and a bunch of other mini games were plastered in their own corners like a small arena of sorts. You didn't even know what to play on first. However, Akira took the lead, running over to the whack-a-mole corner.

"Ladies first," he beckoned you ahead.

"Wanna test out my reaction time or something?"

"Winner gets to pick the next game," he said, holding a hand out to you.

"Deal," you shook it well.

Let's make this fun.

Pulling up your jacket sleeves, you grabbed the hammer and waited for the game to start. The moles started moving up and down, slowly at first, and you smacked all of them pretty easily. The speed increased and the little creatures popped out faster, making it harder to spot them properly. Thanks to your trained sight as a rally driver, you were able to spot them before they even came out of their hideout, much like corners or road hazards, and smacked them right down in their holes.

Your score rose and rose, and Akira's jaw dropped once it went past 600 points and you kept going at it. You didn't even break a sweat, just hammering down those little fuckers like it was a national sport. Getting tired, you paused when the hammer missed a mole. The machine beeped, showing you the score - 900 points. Close enough to the highest score you could get.

"Your turn," you smirked, handing Akira the hammer. "Ganbare," you cheered punching the air, trying to sound like his fangirls.

His hand shook slightly when he took the hammer away from your hand, flashing you a confident smile before he turned his back to you and cursed himself. He was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed.

The game blared loudly with a countdown before he could back out. He already shook hands with you. He had to take it to the bitter end without making a fool out of himself while at it. Tuning in his focus to catch those beasts and win, he approached the table. The machine beeped and he got in position.

The first moles jumped out at him and he hit the hammer nice and easy. Then it went faster and faster and he smashed the animals at the speed of light. Beads of sweat lined up above his brow, eyes strained and focused completely on the game and nothing else, determined to at least equal your score if he couldn't surpass it.

His smacks turned messy, all over the place. He heaved breaths like he was running a marathon, completely losing himself in the game. You were sat on the side, watching and trying to keep your giggles to yourself not to disturb him from his run.

He tired out at one point, unable to take any other moles for points, missing a few. The machine beeped and he looked confident in his efforts. Before he looked at the score, he turned to you with a grin, holding his arms out in a victorious manner.

"How did I do?" he asked, wiggling his brows.

Your resolve came crumbling as one by one, your giggles slipped out and you had to clutch your stomach from how hard you were laughing.

"Take- Hahahah," you laughed, wiping a tear. "Take a look at the score. I can't."

You continued laughing as he swiveled around to take a look, eyebrows hitting his hairline.

"WHAT?! THREE FIFTY?!"

350 points. That's all he managed to get. Not even close to your score. So damn far away. But the show he gave you was priceless.

"I'm so glad I got that on camera," you beamed, pocketing your phone and the evidence away with it.

"We're not friends anymore," he says, feigning betrayal. "Who are you?"

"The winner," you giggled making a curtsy. Leaning over to grab his arm, you pulled him along with you. "Now it's my pick."

You weaved through the crowd of players, looking around for a better attraction. Most of them were medium or beginner level, boring or just too bright for your eyes, so you searched for something better. Something that would be fun and you haven't played before to give Akira a chance to redeem himself.

Somewhere between pushing ahead and tugging him behind you, your hand slipped into his to pull him through the huge crowd without getting lost. At first he didn't notice it, too busy keeping his balance as you monster trucked your way through people. When his eyes drifted down to see your hands intertwined deftly, a small smile made its way to his lips. You didn't really notice the skinship, too busy whirling your head around. Then you spotted the perfect game.

Running up to the start line, you pointed at it like a little child who just found a new curiosity. Your eyes sparkled bright as you gazed back at him and his smile widened even more.

"Bowling?" he asked.

"I haven't played before," you admitted.

Truthfully, you didn't get a lot of time to play around growing up. The few games you played were all mostly car related. Wheelies, car bumpers, racing simulators. Whenever your friends from school went out, you'd be stuck helping in the garage or driving out of the city for a junior qualifier.

"Let's see if you've got it in you."

Barely two rounds in and you scored only full strikes, one after another. Angling your hand the way you saw them do in the movies, you pulled your wrist back, then pushed it forwards and let go sending the ball straight in, watching all the pins fall down. Turning to Akira, you caught him filming in hopes you would fail this time around only to prove him wrong again. Enthusiastic about your strike, you threw the camera a peace sign, making a weird face he laughed at.

You played ten rounds, totaling more points than him at the end. Most of his were misses, bowling ball narrowly sent down the middle of the track, only to wiggle off into the side lines or miss half of the pins. He looked close to whining. You pat him on the back in support.

Moving around to basketball, you threw in a few hoops. That's where Akira finally managed to catch up, evening the score to a tie. You let him pick the next one, ending up on the mini baseball pitches for a slow game.

The machine shot balls at you and you hit them all. With each swing of your bat, they hit the wall, bouncing back on the artificial grass before another flew your way. Akira did the same on your side. Just hitting them mindlessly, waiting for the next one to fly out.

Your hits got progressively more swift and powerful. Who could blame you when had some pent up anger to release? About what or whom, you couldn't really tell. But this was a good outlet for it.

Akira stopped his own run to watch you hit the balls with no mercy. As if they could fly far away along with your thoughts if you hit them hard enough. Your face was contorted into rage, brows drawn in concentration, nose twitching when you didn't like how the balls rounded off the bat.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you grunted, hitting another one.

"Is this about the race?"

"More or less."

Another ball flew at you and you angled up the bat too late, missing the hit by a hair's breadth. He took a seat on the bench, placing his hands on the end of the bat and his chin on top.

"Something tells me that's not why you're upset."

"I'm not," you tapped the bat to the floor, preparing for the next hit.

"Rai, I say this with the best intentions. I've known you for a few days and I can tell when your mood drops to the sewers."

"I'm not upset," you sighed. "I'm just trying to realize that I'm officially a rally driver and I have to carry the team flag and support my family and not fuck up somewhere in the middle," you said, throwing a hand through your hair. "Long story short, I guess shit just got real. And I really hate Mondays now."

You had a long day and an even longer weekend. Stuff was about to crowd up like a pile of unwashed dishes until you were ready to face and wash each of them. You weren't running away from them. You just washed a lot of them this past week alone.

"Remember the day we met, when I asked you if you're doing all this for your father or for yourself?" You nodded slowly. "If you could be anything other than a rally driver what would you be?"

A dj, a voice sang in your head.

Something you developed for years alongside racing was your passion for all things music - instruments, lyrics, beats. It just fell hand in hand with racing and helped you tune the two into one seamlessly. Ever since, you couldn't have one without the other and choosing between them was a no-go. But little by little, you did have to give up on the dj dream since rally took up most of your time. There was no time to play or write or mix things unless it was once in a blue moon.

It was purely for your own enjoyment. Up until the car show, when you stepped up to the mixer and passed him your own mix. It was the first time you had people listen to something you made and gods, it made you feel good.

Telling someone all about it was what you deeply wished for. To yell at the top of your lungs that you had a passion you still kept close to your heart that you wish you could get to more. But the most you could muster in response to Akira's question was a small smile.

No one needs to know about it. It's just my little secret.

"Just racing," you passed over the obvious. Which was a passion but it now became a job you hoped would never feel like a job. "It doesn't matter what series as long as I get to drive. What about you?"

He sat thinking for a bit. He looked conflicted, not like he didn't know what to say, but more like he imagined what you would think of it once it actually left his mouth.

"Would it be weird if I said fashion?"

Now, that wasn't such a novelty to hear when Akira did have a keen eye for fashion. Despite the fact that he looked like a supermodel in just his dirty racing suit, he could pull off even a tote bag over his head as a hat and you'd think it was the next trend. His face alone could sell you anything.

"Not at all." You sat down next to him, fiddling with a spare ball. "What do you want to do specifically?"

"I was thinking design. There's this course I found on it and I'd love to take it up. I just don't know if I have it in me, I guess."

The way his eyes glimmered, you could tell he had insane passion for it. It wasn't a question of whether he had it in him. It was a question on whether he should do it.

"I think you'd make an amazing designer," you encouraged. "You do have great style. Though I'm not one to comment since I dress like a homeless person 24/7."

"I love your band tees," he said, pointing to the one you were wearing. It was a washed grey Nirvana tee. One you liked a lot. "They're edgy and classic. Like you."

"Thanks," you chuckled.

"Something tells me you have a collection of those."

"I do in fact."

"I take it back. That's not edgy. That's totally an emo crime towards fashion."

"Oh, come on. Not my fault they're on sale in bulk. What's so wrong about having them in different colours and designs?"

"Those prints are the very death of fashion."

"No, they're not," you argued, throwing the ball at him.

You left the arcade, continuing your argument about graphic tees and how they're the end of fashion and barely in trend anymore. Distracted by the sweet smell of dough, you took off after the scent like a dog, ending up in front of a vendor selling melonpan ice cream. You bought two before Akira could pull out his wallet. When he still barged in with money, you shoved his hand away, insisting that you wanted it to be your treat and he just had to give in to that.

Taking a walk around, you fell into step side by side. He bit into his mango one, looking around like a curious kid. This was as good a time as any to ask things, questions. You started off with your favorites - the family questions. His parents were into finance, mostly gone from home. Apparently, he had an older sister but she was gone overseas to work. Probably where he learned how to share his stuff from.

Jumping over other topics, you ended up on curious land.

"So," you gobbled down a bite from your melonpan. "What happened between you and Naozumi?"

His eyes widened a little, then fell back into serious crescents. Maybe that wasn't the question to ask right off the bat. He didn't look thrilled to be talking about that of all things and you instantly regretted asking.

"It's complicated," he said, playing with the paper packaging of his melonpan.

"It's okay if you don't wanna talk about it."

"It's stupid really," he started, bobbing his head down to the pavement. Spotting a bench, he took a seat and you joined.

"Last year, we were both competing for the Australian Cup. I was freshly brought into Sigma Racing as new talent. He's been under Spica for a few years already."

"It happened during one of the middle rounds. Really dry ground, loaded with road hazards and high jumps stressing the suspensions. That thing could turn your car into a death trap. The last turn at the end of the track had a big slope that went up then slid down, curving the exit right in front of the pit zone. I was driving so well until I took up that last turn."

"What happened?"

"I was going way too fast and those lumps on the road didn't make driving any easier. I kinda lost control," he sighed, closing his eyes as if it was happening right before him again. "I tried to steer clear of anyone but I ended up jumping right in front of the Spica Racing pen, just when he was driving out to take his place at the start of the course. I crashed into him and mangled his car pretty badly. He had to pull out of the round completely since it had irreparable damage."

Regret swam behind those black eyes of his, consuming the very light bouncing off the all the signs plastered around the place. You could tell the whole situation has been eating at him for a while.

"It wasn't your fault, Akira. Those things happen without you being able to do anything about it. We're trained to expect the unexpected."

"I know. Thing is, I tried to apologize right after but we got into a fight. We... said some things. I don't even remember what it was but I know he got really mad at me and has been driving the Akira hate train ever since like I committed some crime against him."

Something told you there were gaps waiting to be filled in that confession. You couldn't say you knew Naozumi just after a few days of events. But from your fights and teasing, you did catch up on the fact that it took a mighty spark leaping in the air to start Naozumi's reasoning storm and have it weather towards someone in a certain way. The way it weathered towards Akira said there was something else there.

Truthfully, he had the right to be mad. You would've been too if that was you mid-season, especially if your team was still struggling like it was now. But Akira tried to make amends that ended up right in the bottomless pit of Naozumi's endless hatred. That told you enough about him as a person. Recognizing your wrongs and trying to do right by them is a quality less and less people have these days. Much less Naozumi.

Although, now that you finally heard the story that began their relentless hate matches on track, a part of you was itching to know where Naozumi stood on this. Apart from the clear threat he made in the press conference that you happened to overhear. Aside from what the world said about their feud.

You wondered if his dislike towards Akira was just because of that incident or there was more to it. There's always a cause and effect and it took more than an accidental crash to have someone like Naozumi declare sudden death to someone.

Making small talk with Akira was becoming your favorite thing. You could talk about anything with the guy. Absolutely anything. He was like a walking-talking encyclopedia of sorts, just waiting to be flipped through and asked a 'did you know' question.

You wanted to take his mind off things since he's done that for you tonight. From the smile turning his eyes into crescents as you drove him around town, you managed to do just that.

"Where have you been until now?" he asked, turning to you with a light grin.

Your own simply caught the tip of your lips. "Right here in this city."

"Crazy we've never met before all this."

"Maybe we did, but we didn't know it at the time."

"Plausible," he laughs. "But I'm sure I would remember someone like you."

Flutters started in your tummy and made their way up through your body, blooming in your chest. No one's said these things to you before. If it was anyone else, you'd think it was just charmspeak to woo you. He did use it with his fangirls. But this felt... different. Or maybe you were just making up feels on the nice high that tonight brought you.

"Surely," you said, trying not to cut his flair short.

Turning the wheel down the street, you reached the downtown apartment complex area. You dipped your head down to look at the tall skyscrapers lining up to each other in similar grey tones. Mostly Tv personalities, movie starlets and other celebrities lived in this part of town. And Akira apparently.

How much do they pay at Sigma Racing? An apartment here is worth more than a normal racing salary. But... maybe it's not his and he's just visiting someone.

You stopped the car on a curved driveway right in front of his building. It looked reserved for limousines and fancy cars.

"I'm glad you came tonight."

"I enjoyed it. You know, that was my first time in an arcade," you confessed. He gasped in shock.

"What?! Really? It didn't look like it as you were beating my ass at every game I thought I was good at. You looked like a pro out there."

"Thank you," you smiled sheepishly.

"You know, that means I should take you out more."

"Is it really taking me out if I'm the one driving?" you cocked an eyebrow.

"Good point," he admits with a chuckle.

Turning for the door handle, he got ready to get out of your car and end the night. You didn't really want it to end. Not after how much fun you had together - real fun that you haven't had in a long time.

You felt like saying something before he left. The words sat right on the tip of your tongue.

He plucked open the handle, setting a foot out and you finally spoke.

"I had fun tonight," you said breathlessly. "Thank you, Akira."

You leant over the gearbox, placing a small kiss to his cheek. Probably the most unexpected thing you did tonight.

You drew away so fast you got whiplash. He seemed frozen to the seat. Much more frozen than the cold breezing in the car through the small crack in the open door.

Blinking the haze away, he got out of the car and was about to shut the door when he bent back down, holding onto the the top of the car.

"Good night, Rai. Thanks for hanging out again."

"Anytime," you smiled and waved at him. "Good night, three-fifty."

He shook his head with a wrinkle of his nose, embarrassed at the new nickname that's probably going to follow him for a while. You watched him retreat into the huge building, disappearing behind the double doors.

Once he was through, he barely reached reception as realization dawned on him. His palm held the cheek you kissed just a few minutes ago like your lips were still pressed against it. He broke out into the biggest, goofy smile. Turning back to the entrance, he saw your car still in front of the building.

Just as you were about to drive off, you caught your reflection in the rearview mirror. A shy smile and pink cheeks painted your face like a spring flower bouquet.

Wait. Wait. WAIT! you gasped.

Was this... Was this a date?

It wasn't, right? you giggled. He would've said something if it was, more giggles came out turning into a dry laugh. Right?

Then why the hell did I kiss him?

I KISSED HIS CHEEK????

WHY?

You dropped your head to the steering wheel accidentally blaring the horns and the very life out of you. People walking around the entrance, including the security guy, gave you a weird look. That was your cue to leave.

You slapped your cheeks before you stepped on it and drove home thinking about your life choices since they were starting to go against your norms. Badly.

Inter-season preparation was both the best and the worst period of time.

Rally weekends definitely fell in the best category. The pure adrenaline, the suspense, driving the car on new adventures. Celebrating milestones you wanted to overtake and adding new goals to challenge. The stuff dreams were made of - progress, setbacks, then more progress.

The weeks in between rallying? An absolute drag.

Testing. Training. Repeat. A truly never-ending saga.

Testing went pretty uneventfully. The team changed set-ups that were more Fuji round appropriate and you drove the car on similar dirt roads to see whether they worked or new changes had to be made.

The car surprisingly took all the changes well, better than in pre-season testing. Your team mechanics, not so much. They were under insane pressure to deliver accurate measurements and quick part changes since this round allowed settings and parts to be changed mid-stages.

You drove out in mock lap times on similar dirt roads, then returned to base so they could take over under a timed count. All the measurements and estimates made were just possibilities since you couldn't tell how the car would behave on the real ones. There was also the variable of weather conditions and considering the zone of rally, anything was possible.

Training, however, was a bitch. Biking, swimming, running miles on end to get better stamina. Then rough sport went into soft sport. Some type of fitness, like yoga or pilates, to get your body in better shape to handle the forces pushing you around in the car on track.

Tanaka liked changing it up a notch, picking a different pair of sports every other day. The days in between you just slept away like the dead to replenish your energy.

You were currently two weeks away from the next round. Tanaka decided to take it easier on you and took you on a hike around the hills surrounding Tokyo. The view was breathtaking, the city spreading out like a map from the point you reached. But so was the hike.

Your knees gave out, thankfully next to a good enough sitting boulder, unable to carry your body anymore.

"Break," you gasped out. "I need a break," your hands flailed about to ask for a timeout.

"Break approved," voiced Tanaka, stretching his limbs like he was taking a stroll in the park. Sometimes you wondered if he was human.

"Can we go to a normal gym in town? I think I've hiked all the hills around Tokyo by now," you asked, hoping he would accept.

Throwing a look over your tired body, he seemed to be considering it. The old man knew how much you despised this back and forth. He tried to expose you to as much sport as possible to get your body stronger, but above that, he valued your feedback. That was what made him one of the best trainers out there. If you needed a change, he had to accommodate it and he would.

"We can," he laughed slyly.

Wait, it's that easy? I just had to ask? No side deals or anything?

If that's the case then, you could've had less pain and more rest if you spoke your mind more often. Noted.

Besides, he seemed way too in good moods lately. Was it because of something or someone?

"I have a question," you piped up. "Actually several."

"Shoot," he took a seat next to you, chugging some water down.

"What's going on between you and Kate?"

He spit out his water, choking on some of it that remained stuck in his throat. You slapped his back in support with a chuckle.

"Nothing," he looked away, still coughing.

"Nothing my ass. I've seen the way you drink each other in with just one look. That's not nothing. That's everything."

He stopped coughing, wiping the water drops still falling from his chin with the collar of his sports shirt. His eyes looked out at the city, getting lost in all the shapes and buildings. After a while, a small smile settled on his lips, lightening up that serious stubble on his chin.

"Come on, humor me," you bumped your shoulder into his. "I won't tell."

"She's just," he paused thinking deeply. "Amazing," he said breathlessly.

As if that simple word rounded up every single thing he felt about her. Just that it couldn't and you could see it on his face.

Not just now, but in the pen or in the team office when they would pass by each other. He would send a soft gaze her way, eyes rounding and pupils dilating like he was looking at literal gold. In response, Kate would send him a sweet smile, the kind that probably had her twirling her stray caramel lock of hair falling out from her messy bun once she passed by and was out of sight.

He continued his rant on all the things he loves about her and you couldn't help but feel incredibly single for the first time in your life.

"I've never seen anyone stand up to men like she does. Well, you do. But the way she does it is just so inspiring. It makes me want to shake all men on earth until they get their balls twisted and never speak to a woman ever again. Especially her."

You could feel the adoration he had for her just ooze from him like it was suffocating exhaust smoke. Okay, maybe more like cotton candy steam. Sugary and sweet. The kind that sticks your teeth together in decay. But adorable nonetheless.

"Have you told her how you feel about her?"

"Nope. That's a bridge I'm not going to cross anytime soon, Rai."

"And why not?"

"The age difference. The world we live in. She's a solid independent woman, while I'm just me."

All reasons that made no sense.

Firstly, love had no age. And it wasn't like he was a seventy year-old dating someone four decades younger than him. He was barely thirty seven and you knew for a fact that Kate liked older men. All her recent dating experiences with men in her age range ended up in tragic ghosting and her deleting all dating apps as if it would delete her memory of them.

Secondly, the world we live in is crazy. But not that batshit crazy that a trainer and a PR agent weren't allowed to date. Last time you checked, your father didn't say anywhere in the rules that his employees were working under a no dating clause. Even if there was such a clause, you'd have him delete it from all records instantly.

Thirdly-

"You are an amazing trainer, co-driver and supporter. You're like an uncle to me and I wouldn't change it for the world. Besides all of that, you have amazing work ethic. You're not that ancient."

At that last remark, you tilted your head to the side thinking something else would've sounded better, then shook it off, continuing.

"If anything you fit the criteria of what she's looking for."

"Still not gonna happen," he says, shaking his head, smile now gone from his face.

"Well, if it ever will, you have my full support. Probably dad's too."

"Thanks," he chuckled.

Your hand laid out to pat his shoulder again in a manly way.

"I'll be your wingman anytime."

"I genuinely think your father thought you were a boy until you hit puberty and grew out that bowl cut of yours."

"That's what mom keeps telling me. I think there's a good amount of manliness in me, don't you think?" you wiggled your eyebrows, pumping up your bicep muscles to cement that point even though he was referring to your personality.

"Sure," he shook his head at you.

The days were getting warmer with April fast approaching. The sun was unbearable to sit under, but covered by the dense evergreen forest like this, it felt like pure bliss was radiating in the air.

"A day will come when a poor bastard will charm you and you'll see how it feels on your own skin."

You were taken aback at that.

"Why do you say poor bastard?" you asked, brows drawing together.

"Oh, look at the time," he checked the watch on his wrist way too quickly. "We should hike back down."

"Don..." you hissed in warning but he was already walking hurriedly down the path you just climbed.

"Men love starting shit unprovoked," you mumbled to yourself before you took off after him.

Truthful to his words, Tanaka took you to a gym the very next day. Not just any gym but the very best in town, decked in a bunch of world class apparatus and gear that would put your impromptu garage gym to shame. And it did when he showed you pictures of it and how big it was.

The day came you finally tried it. You skipped running time for this and couldn't contain your excitement since you'd rather do gym time than run in the streets in this mini heatwave.

The building had parking available inside for easy access anytime you wanted to go. Taking the elevator, you let Tanaka press the buttons since he knew more about the place. The floors kept rising and rising and your jaw dropped once it passed the twentieth floor, unable to imagine a building having more than ten.

I'm on filthy rich territory, mom.

A lady dressed in fitness gear welcomed you warmly at reception, then showed you around some of the facilities. Apparently, they had several gyms on this floor, a pool somewhere on an upper level and other amenities that you could barely wrap your head around existing in just one place. She led you through the hallways, all decked in portraits of famous athletes that apparently worked out here from time to time. You recognized some baseball players and footballers, even your mom's favorite golf player.

This place is the hall of fame on earth.

She led you to the changing rooms, which were a bit of a let down. They looked like high school lockers and had team benches around like a stadium changing room would. Probably to let the athletes feel at home among all that shiny equipment.

You changed into more gym appropriate clothes and met Tanaka in the hallway, talking about the facilities.

"A friend recommended it to me. Apparently it's bigger than this, stretching beyond this level, and a lot of athletes used it before. It's also deserted during the night since most of them like working out during the early morning and book it to themselves."

That sounded amazing. Being able to work out and suffer through the pain without other onlookers around was a dream. You even got a killer view of the city lights in the dusk of the darkening night sky as you stepped over the threshold. It truly felt like a dream.

And it sure turned out too good to be true when you rounded the corner into the main gym and spotted a familiar tanned, ripped back under a lone light, dark hair dripping with sweat, pumping his biceps by lifting heavy weights in the far corner.

"I think we should come back later," you smiled nervously, turning back around and yanking Tanaka by his shirt.

Naozumi just so happened to spawn at the one gym you wanted to go to. Recommended to go to. But alas. He was here and now you were here too which wasn't good.

The last thing you wanted was to have a weight-lifting competition and end up breaking stuff over his head to shut his comments up. So you pulled on Tanaka's shirt a little harder to make him move out through the door before the devil saw you.

"What? Why?"

Naozumi sensed movement behind him. In one brisk move, he turned around and placed the weights back in place, throwing his towel on his shoulder before making his way to you.

At least he has a shirt on this time.

As he moved to you, your breath hitched.

If pre-sex interrupted Naozumi looked hot in the crack of a shabby hotel door, post-workout Naozumi with the backdrop of nightfall over Tokyo was a sight that made your knees weak against your will.

Shamelessly, your eyes lingered on the mountains of shoulders on his back and the sweat falling from his hair down his arms in rivers. Each lost drop fell in its own stream, connecting around the protruding veins on his forearms, turning a lively green in stark contrast to the tanned skin on his arms. Bulking, blue-green veins that looked so swollen you wondered if they would burst at the small tap of your finger or if he contracted the sinews on his forearms even a little.

Thank god for fast cars, desserts and muscles.

"Came to train, rookie?" he spoke lowly, that annoying amusement ebbed in his voice along something else you couldn't really decipher.

Stopping a few feet away, he let his own eyes linger over your work out gear. Most of it was tight, pulling your skin to soft curves he drank in with all his might like Tanaka wasn't next to you. As if it was just the two of you and no one else in the silence of the darkened gym.

"You look like you need it."

"Your car would say something different," you crossed your arms with a smirk. "Still driving around with a damaged front bumper?"

The muscle in his jaw ticked at the mention of his car damage, moving his weight from one foot to the other with a scoff. His tank top shifted with the movement, revealing more of that dip in his perfectly toned chest. Why was he even working out when he looked like that? You'd spend all day looking in the mirror if you had even one of those perfectly packed muscles. Just one.

Noticing the way your eyes locked on his chest, he took a gamble that you were more interested in something else than what he was saying. His hand rode up to take off the towel on his shoulder, letting it fall by his side. Your eyes flew to the other side of his uncovered collar bones, the dip between them and the trunk of his neck as soon as the cloth slipped off completely.

True to his assumptions, you were staring. And he enjoyed it a whole lot.

His arms crossed over his chest, bulging out the lean beef and those criminal veins lined up on his arms, also pushing up his pecs in the process. Unconsciously, you licked and tugged your lower lip between your teeth, unable to look away. Until he spoke and cut off the wire rolling fantasies in your head.

"Like what you're seeing?" he teased.

What a hoe.

"Your car in shambles?" you replied.

"I should've asked you to pay damages," he taunted, taking a step closer to you. His dark eyes moved down to you. "Since you're daddy's little princess and all."

"Why would I pay when I can literally fix it myself?"

His eyebrow lifted at that. You offered and he looked like he was genuinely considering it. That was bad news.

This is why we think before we speak.

That was not what I wanted to say. I can't help it when those pecs are staring at me, nipples fully perking under that tank top like traffic cones. Ugh, it's all his fault.

It was way too late to take it back now. You just had to accept the demise you very well and knowingly signed yourself verbally, loud and clear, with a witness by your side.

"Look," you sighed. "If you're still sour about it, come by the garage and I can have a look, for free," you muttered the last words in a mumble not sure if you should offer free services to him of all people.

"What was that last part?" he leaned in, asking you to repeat it knowing damn well he heard it.

"I said with a discount."

"I think you said for free."

"Money doesn't grow on the trees in my garden, Naozumi." You held your hand out to him. "Take it or leave it."

His brown eyes moved to your hand and flew back to yours just as fast.

"Turn around," he instructed.

"What-"

His eyes crinkled with a grin as his hands settled on your shoulders to turn you around. Once your back was to him, he plucked a marker and a piece of paper from Tanaka's hand, laying the paper flat on your shoulders. From the faint scribbles you felt on your back, he had to be jotting down his number. Once he was done, he passed the marker back to Tanaka and handed you the paper, folded neatly into tiny squares.

"Call me when you're free," he said, adding a teasing wink at the end. Then he smacked his towel back on his shoulder and left.

You opened the piece of paper to find... nothing. The fuck? You turned it around on all sides to find no trace of his number anywhere.

But he wrote something. I could literally feel it on my back-

Hold on a second.

Looking around for a mirror, you located some at the far edge of the gym and made a beeline for them. As soon as your feet planted in front of your full length reflection, you turned sideways and sure enough there it was - his phone number, digits and full name scribbled in dark marker along the width of your right shoulder.

"I'm going to fucking kill him."

"I would let you," agreed Tanaka. "But that means more PR disaster for Kate."

"Please tell me that isn't permanent marker," you huffed, licking a finger and trying to swap it off. The writing barely bunched off your skin.

"Semi-permanent," he chuckled.

"Nao-fucking-zumi Hi-trouble-yama, I will murder you one day and I won't be sorry," you gritted.

The last free weekend ahead of Fuji Highland Masters rolled in before you even felt the little break. You took the day to work a little on your jewel of a car since you didn't know when you would get the chance to even drive it to and fro in the coming months as it was mostly back to back rally rounds.

The schedule for the day ran mostly on maintenance work. You changed your winter tyres for the summer ones since the weather was letting up and the roads weren't frozen over with icicles to slide over anymore. You dove under the car, checking the oil filter for any bursts or leaks, since you had enough adventures with that one, and the rest of your old parts, making a note of what needed changing.

Before you knew it, the breezy morning turned into scorching noon. Taking a break on the steps near the garage, you drank some water and leaned back, stretching your legs on the pavement. The peace and the calm was so bearable at times where your mind stilled and you were just in the zone, doing what you liked. Working on cars was your dad's guilty pleasure and it kinda rubbed off on you once you got one.

Then you remembered. It's been a few weeks and you haven't heard anything about the punishment from the board yet. You hoped they just forgot about your race with Naozumi like it was a blip.

But like clockwork whenever you thought of him in the slightest, his annoying voice popped up in your head with an irritating reminder.

Call me when you're free.

Unlocking your phone, you scrolled through the contacts until you reached Naozumi's designated name - Devil spawn.

Your finger hovered over the number. You barely typed it in back at the gym, gaping back and forth between the numbers strewn on your back without gagging. Having to actually call it was a different thing altogether.

What if he gave me a made-up number? What if it's someone else's?

Despite your efforts to avoid calling, you had to.

A promise is a promise, you sighed. But was it really a promise? Those have expiry dates, don't they?

In your mental debate on whether to call or just forget you ever offered your help, your finger moved down the screen and accidentally tapped the call button.

Well, too late to back out now...

The line rang a few times and your patience was running thin. Five rings in and you moved to end the call until someone picked up. Though it wasn't Naozumi. You knew that demonic voice up to no damn good anywhere and this was a high-pitched female one.

"Who's this?" asked the woman on the other line.

Definitely not Naozumi. Though you wondered if you happened to torture him if he was able to make those sounds. You just hoped you didn't interrupt another heated catch, like he called them. The last one left you with mental pain.

"Hello?" she asked again, tone seething with much more irritation this time around.

I think I cockblocked him again.

"Naozumi's mechanic on duty," you replied, not having time to think it through. You pulled the phone away from your your ear, muttering a quick fuck me, before you placed it back, embarrassed.

What the fuck? Mechanic on duty?

His?

Me?

I'm screwed.

"I think my mechanic is a male actually," spoke Naozumi with a deep chuckle. His voice reverberated off the speaker with an echo you knew all too well.

The fucker put me on speaker. Foul move.

"Do you want your car fixed today or not?"

"I was about to fix something else."

Oh god.

"I'm about to end this call in 5, 4, 3, 2-"

"Send me the address. I'll be there as soon as I can," he grunted on the other line.

"Enjoy," you said and cut the call.

Enjoy?

Jesus Christ, Raiko.

A few hours later, the small heatwave calmed down and you could work properly on your car. You busied yourself with installing a new stereo system since the old one lived its days from the front relics to the back ones. You were currently stuck between the seats, trying to couple the wires for the back parts and mount the new surround speakers in.

You heard Naozumi's R8 down the street before the car even pulled up on the garage driveway, right on the other side. That engine was purring louder than a cat in heat. It was hard not to notice it when it sounded so tuned and expensive.

Moving to get out from the back and greet him, you dropped back on your hunches to pull yourself out from the back area. Small problem though. Your waist got stuck between the seats. They weren't just uncomfortable. They were unbelievable.

I really need to change these seats.

Breathing in and out calmly, you moved again, trying to pull your body out but it was to no avail. No matter how many times you pivoted back and forth, you were stuck. Feeling eyes on you, you turned your gaze to the opened driver's door to be met with Naozumi's intense stare. The leather jacket hugged the crossed arms over his chest and his sunglasses sat on the V line of his shirt. His hair wasn't as messy as you expected it to be after that call. His was looking at you with unanswered questions.

How long has he been standing there? Was he staring at my ass?

"Hi," he waved. "Need help?" he nodded back at your little issue.

"Nope," you grunted out, waving him off. "I've got it."

Turning back to face the back of the car, you placed your hands on the shoulder rests and tried to pull yourself out again.

"Damn it," you mumbled.

"I can help," he mused again.

"No thanks."

He let you struggle for a bit more before you felt the seat cushion on your left side dip and strong hands falling on your waist. You sucked in a deep breath at the contact, stilling all movements completely.

"I said I've got it."

"I don't have all day," he said, moving closer to get a better grip on you.

His fingers moved, rapping against your sides and you felt your heart skip a beat. Leaning over you, his breath fanned your exposed back. You bit your lip and cursed yourself mutely for picking out the most revealing tank top in your wardrobe to wear today of all days. That and his secure hold on your waist, warming up your sides over the thin denim of your overalls was complete terror to bear.

"Twist sideways," he directed.

"Which side?"

"Mine."

"Yours?"

"Fuck," he exhaled, warm breath hitting close to your ear making you shiver. "I meant left. Left side."

Doing as he said, you twisted at the same time he tugged your middle through, pulling you free from the grasp of your stubborn old seats. You sat back on your hunches facing him, his hands still sitting around your waist. If he let you do it yourself, you'd probably be hanging in the backseat until the next day.

You took a moment to just look at him. You haven't seen him in weeks. Not even after you started going to the gym. You had to admit he looked kind of relaxed and this break did him some good to destress and calm his road rage.

The sun shone through the windshield, reflecting the orange glow of the car interior in a warm glow of light washing over him. You searched his eyes, finding nothing but a deep pool of shiny macadamia brown to melt in.

I thought his eyes were black. They're so brown in the light. So warm.

They reminded you of that insane macadamia tart doused in unhealthy amounts of syrup and chocolate. The one guilty pleasure dessert you could never put down.

He blinked at you and your eyes shot to his eyelashes.

Were they always this long and pretty?

Your hand had a mind of its own, lifting up towards him. Your fingers could almost graze the skin on his cheeks when you stopped yourself.

What the fuck am I doing?

At once, your other hand shot up slapping the guilty one away, that one too acting on its own, falling to find balance on your brake stick, accidentally pushing it down to disengage the breaks. The car started moving and jerked you forwards but it stopped before it could roll down the driveway, into the street and cause any damage. Naozumi's hand moved over yours to press the button and pull the lever back up, engaging the brakes back on the car. His other one held you safe from smashing into the windshield.

You closed your eyes, patiently waiting for the rookie comment. You just felt it coming, sitting right on the tip of his tongue. One long sigh from him and you saw it spelled out on his lips. Soon enough you even heard it.

"Are you always this clumsy, rookie?"

There it is.

You pushed him out of the car, getting out as well. Dusting up your clothes, you crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes at him. He simply smirked at you.

"Shut up and show me the damage on the car."

Following behind in his step, he led you to the front of his supercar, pointing you to the lower right side. Crouching down, you inspected the scratch. Sure enough, there was a nasty graze there, but the bend you thought you saw that night was not there, possibly an illusion of the shadows. Less work to do then.

The scrape was big and stretched along the side, so it definitely needed a mini paint job, but nothing too complicated. You just hoped you had this shade laying around in a can somewhere in the garage.

"Dark midnight blue, right?

He nodded. You took off to the paint area, looking around all the cans on the shelves to make sure you had his color and he didn't come by for nothing. Azure, turquoise, dark blue, navy... Nope. You turned another shelving unit and scoured the labels like a hawk. Indigo, admiral... Pushed to the far back was a can turned backwards. Another dark blue shade peaked through. You reached and pulled it out. Midnight blue. There it is.

On your way out, you grabbed sand paper, a water spraying bottle, cutting compound, a coarse pad and the polish machine. You carried all of them back and sat down on the ground next to the car. Naozumi leaned on the door to watch you work.

First, you poured some water on the sand paper and sprayed some more along the grazes on the car. Gently, you sanded down each graze from left to tight, then wiped the surface with a cloth to soften it. The sanding removed some of the smaller lines, but the big ones were still nasty and wide. Spraying a few drops of cutting compound on the coarse pad, you attached it to the polish machine and started polishing over the scratches.

"How do you know so much about cars?"

"It's in the job description."

"That's not what I meant."

"You're bound to learn a thing or two when growing up in a garage full of mechanics. I spent most of my time in there as a child," you pointed back behind you. "And there's YouTube."

"That still doesn't explain anything," he scoffed.

You stopped the polish machine, turning to look up at him.

"The Veilside back there," you pointed out to the driveway. "She was a totaled wreck. One of the dupes used in the Tokyo Drift movie for stunts that ended up worse for wear."

"I was so obsessed with the car that I looked for used ones everywhere and just so happened to find her in a scrap yard, completely torn to pieces," you spoke as you added some more paste to the pad and went back to polishing the bumper.

"I saved up all my money to get the important parts she was missing. One month of pocket money got me the suspensions. Half a year later, I had enough to buy a V6 engine. The rest of it, I fixed her up with used parts from the garage until I could afford new ones. She was a work in progress for some time."

"And it ran?"

"Oh boy, it did," you smiled, working the machine on a deeper graze. "Dad called me crazy for trusting a relic that had no chance of getting fixed up or ever running the roads again. But look at her. She's doing amazing."

He seemed impressed as he took a good look at it. It genuinely seemed like a body to body replica to the one in the movie, just a little more updated. But not even the mods took away from it. Either way he looked at it, he couldn't find one side that looked the slightest bit uneven or a part that looked out of place as if the car has always been like this. Whole. Cared for.

Surprised by his silence, you glanced at him. He wore a look you haven't seen on his face yet akin to fascination of some sort.

"You seem impressed."

"Maybe I am. You're one interesting person," he said, glancing between you and the car once more.

Was that a compliment?

You flashed a small shy smile. Your driving was the one always getting complimented. Your mechanic side, not really. While the team encouraged it, your mother always threw a fit at seeing oil stains on your hands and face. Good thing she hasn't seen you after doing the oil change on the rally car. That would've been a sight.

"Thanks."

Moving to the lower lines drawing under the bumper, right in the front of the car, you repeated the polishing process trying to get as much of the grazes covered in the paste.

"Your tank here is not too bad either. Who did your mods?"

"I have a friend who does them on the other side of town. I could take you if you want to see his stuff."

"I'm good. But if I ever want to turn my car into a UFO, I might take you up on the offer."

He chuckled.

"And street races? Didn't know you were a rebel."

"You do a lot of shit that's uncalled for when you have a dad like mine."

"All of them in that thing?" he nodded to your car.

"All of them," you confirmed. "She's been by my side longer than anyone." You paused the machine. "That must make me look like a car freak."

"Not really. If anything, it tells me you're passionate about it."

What was it with him and compliments today?

"You seem passionate about other matters," you say, getting up to wipe your hands on a cloth.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he laughed.

The fact that you're boning every woman on a five mile radius.

"You're bedding a lot of women, your rally highness."

His laugh rumbled deeply at the nickname. Or the comment. You couldn't really tell which one perked his amusement more.

"Ah, that. Not passionate about it. It just helps get the steam off."

"Suuure."

"Is someone jealous?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, cowboy. That's a reach. We were on the passion topic."

"Women are not a passion to me. They're just..."

Toys? Something to pass the time with? Trophies?

"A distraction."

Hmm, that was a strange answer.

His whole behavior today was sort of odd. He was talkative, chatting away at anything you were asking. It felt like you could ask him the worst things and he would still answer. Or that might've been a reach. But something about his aura, that you couldn't quite figure out, was different. He seemed carefree. Really carefree.

His hair had a clear lack of gel. His clothes were mismatched in different shades of white, red and black but they worked. And he carried a lazy almost smile on his face. Close to smiling but keeping a safe distance from it.

A distraction. That piqued your curiosity sensor.

Just what was the great Naozumi Hiyama running from?

You would've asked just that. But you didn't have that kind of relationship with him. The one where you could just talk about anything, like you did with Akira. Well, you hid some things from him too, but that was besides the point. The point was that Naozumi was a closed off man who didn't like opening up even if he was held at gunpoint. He'd rather drown his feelings than talk about one honest idea passing through his brain at any given moment.

Clearing your throat, hoping that it would also clear the awkwardness, you changed the subject back to the car.

"I can cover it all with a little paint, but you'll have to leave it here overnight for the paint to dry."

"Okay."

Okay? No argument or flashing his money that he can take it somewhere else for somebody else to fix? He was okay with leaving his car here? In the enemy team garage? Is he sick or something?

"Okay," you said, drawing out the word.

"What?"

"Nothing. Was just wondering why you agreed so fast."

"You're doing it for free," he pointed out.

"With a discount," you deadpanned.

"Still better than going and getting the whole front bumper replaced," he stated with a shrug.

At least he knew the smart ways of life. Getting the whole bumper replaced would cost him way more. Especially on his model. But that wasn't why you were creeped out. What did creep you out was that he didn't seem like the Naozumi you fought with.

"I think it's the other way around," you said, getting up to face him.

"What?"

"You're the interesting person."

"Now, why would you say that?" he asked, waiting on you to elaborate.

"You shut off like a pearl in a shell when someone tries to talk to you about something that doesn't involve cars, racing or sex."

"Does that make me special?" he quirked a brow with that annoying smirk of his.

"No. It makes you shallow," you clarified.

"Maybe I have a reason to be like that."

He took one step closer, trying to appear intimidating but ending up looking more interested in your response to that.

"What could that possibly be?" you scoffed.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"No."

He closed the distance to you, pinning you to the side hood of his car. Your eyes flickered to the side upon his closeness. That gave him the answer he was looking for.

"You totally would," he smirked playfully. "Too bad I'm not for you, rookie."

The fuck is that supposed to mean? What are these riddles?

Me liking someone like him?

When cars could make coffee and pancakes mid-ride which was probably never.

He had a knack for misinterpreting things people said in his own words so they fit the really messed up narrative in his head.

"I never said I was interested in you. I just said you're an interesting person."

"Aren't those the same thing?"

Your mouth fell open. If that was the case, then him saying you're an interesting person meant that he was interested in you. But that was a joke. He just wanted to play with your head.

"They're not."

"Well then, explain the difference."

"What am I, your fourth grade teacher?"

Your mouth moved to ridicule him even more and he completely ignored every word as his eyes dove to your chin. A speck of dirt was on your face. Again. This one appeared to anger him.

He reached out and wiped it nicely this time without pulling it across your face. Satisfied that the grimy spot was gone, his fingers drove around to hold your chin. You had nowhere else to look but at him.

"You are something, rookie."

Something. What?

You must've voiced your thoughts out loud because he smirked down at you with that playful look in his eyes. The one that sent your insides into overdrive.

"A curiosity."

The very thing he was to you.

Maybe he wasn't that hard to decipher after all.

Taglist: @ellisaworld @howimeetyoukit @jonnelpunk @nadlx33333

Thank you for reading :)

#runaway 🏎️🏁#naozumi hiyama #naozumi hiyama x reader #naozumi hiyama x you #overdrive fic #akira shinkai #akira shinkai x reader #overdrive mackenyu

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