Chapter Text
✦ Welcome to ❝ 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓. ❞ ✦
MOTORSPORT PLAYLIST ON SPOTIFY
MOTORSPORT PLAYLIST ON APPLE MUSIC
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Starring:
✦ 𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 ✦
“Prince”
✦ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔 ✦
“McQueen”
✦ 𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐏𝐎 ✦
“Paperboy”
✦ 𝐘𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐎 𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐊𝐎 ✦
“Dragonfly”
✦ 𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐔𝐔𝐍𝐎𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐄 ✦
“Rashomon”
✦ 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈 𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐈 ✦
“King”
✦ 𝐅𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀 𝐘𝐔𝐊𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈 ✦
“Hudson”
✦ 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐓 𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐓𝐙𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐃 ✦
“Gatsby”
✦ 𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐄𝐕𝐒𝐊𝐘 ✦
“Phantom”
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𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆!
This fanfiction contains street racing, drunk driving, running from the police, physical assault, and attempted homicide. I do not condone these actions. Please do not take these as examples to willingly endanger yourself or others, and reach out for support if you feel urges to do either.
This fanfiction also includes severely graphic depictions of violence, drinking & smoking, indication of self harm, self harm, suicidal thoughts, gory nightmares, mentions of death, graphic explanation of injuries (including blood and gore), severe mental health issues and exploration of said issues, and explicit sexual content. There will be warnings at the top of each chapter that includes potentially triggering content.
There are many technical terms in this fic in regards to both driving and psychology, but do your own research on cars and driving if you are interested, and speak to a mental health professional if you have concerns. This is a work of fiction; please do not rely on it for any factual accuracy. Do not take drifting, street racing, or driving tips from this work. Do not rely on it for foolproof mental health advice. I do not claim responsibility for any potential accidents that occur out of influence from this work.
Viewer discretion is advised.
Stay safe, & enjoy. :)
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Chuuya isn’t sure he’s in the right place. He’s stopped by a fork in the road. It’s about 12:30 in the morning.
Quite early.
The road here is pure dirt, and Chuuya can see Yokohama’s parking structures and skyscrapers not too far to the right, behind some expanse of forest next to the side of the road. All the tall grass is dead.
He rolls down the tinted window of his Nissan 370z, letting his arm dangle out. His leather gloves cut off at his fingertips, letting his skin brush against the familiar red paint of his beloved Z.
Chuuya sticks his head out to look at the smug-eyed ginger having a smoke off to the side of the road. There’s a bandaid resting on the bridge of his nose.
“Name?” the boy asks.
So he is in the right place.
Chuuya tilts his head, sizing him up. He could knock this stick out in 0.2 seconds, flat.
“Prince,” Chuuya announces.
The boy pulls a little notepad out of his back pocket, flipping through the yellow sheets filled with scribbles that must be names. A few of them are crossed out.
He gives Chuuya a hum of approval.
“Ah. The rookie,” he acknowledges, sauntering up to Chuuya’s window.
Rookie, my ass.
The boy sticks out his hand.
“Tachihara,” he introduces. “They call me Memento.”
Chuuya looks at the hand that’s been extended in his direction. All his fingers are decorated with silver rings.
He’s not trying to drag this out, so he brings his arm up to shake Tachihara’s hand.
“Who referred you?” Tachihara asks.
“No one,” Chuuya says. “I reached out to Hudson after hearing about Gatsby’s offer.”
“Hm. You’re legit if Fukuzawa let you in. Here,” he continues, scribbling something onto a blank sheet from his notebook. He rips it out and hands it to Chuuya. “You’ll need these numbers. I’m excited to see you tonight.”
“Do you race?” Chuuya asks, sizing up his potential competitor.
“Nah, man,” Tachihara replies with a laugh. Chuuya sniffs at the smell of smoke infiltrating his car. “You got tough competition, but not me.”
Tough competition? Tch. Big talk. Little fish.
“I’ll catch you inside. Welcome to Mayonaka,” Tachihara says, extending an arm in the direction of the right lane.
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“You’re going to win, Zai. It’s a given,” Ranpo insists. He’s as animated as ever.
Dazai hums, making sure the stand for the torch is steady, each of the three black prongs pushed a few inches into the ground.
“We’ll see. It’s good to keep humble,” he responds once he’s satisfied. Ranpo places a handful of brush in the little basket made of wire that lies at the tip of the stand, and then Dazai lights it with a match, nurturing the flame with cupped hands until it’s healthy.
As the heart and soul of Mayonaka, it’s almost always their job to set up before race nights.
Truth be told, Dazai’s rather confident. His reply is as much a reminder to himself as it is to Ranpo.
“He’s going to win what?” a familiar voice approaches. Dazai turns once the crunching of dry grass beneath footsteps grows close enough, smiling at Yosano, whose features are illuminated by the firelight on one side and the moonlight on the other. She’s wearing her floral blue bandana to keep her bangs out of her face tonight. It’s the one Dazai got her for her birthday.
“You haven’t heard yet?” Ranpo asks. “Fresh word on the street.”
“Maybe I have,” Yosano points out. “I just ain’t got a damn clue what you’re on about right now. So throw me the news, Paperboy,” Yosano requests, placing her toolbox down to take a torch stand out of the bag hanging off Dazai’s shoulder.
“Gatsby. That rich Fitzgerald fellow,” Ranpo begins. “He announced an offer a few days ago to sponsor the enrollment of one of the drivers in the underground Yokohama circuit to Formula 3, all the way in California. The winner starts with three days of racing school, then competes in the season.”
“Oh. Gatsby’s offer, yeah. Who hasn’t heard about that?” Yosano scoffs, looking between Dazai and Ranpo as she straightens her back, placing her hands on her hips.
“Hugest event underground Yokohama’s seen in decades,” she mutters as the trio moves to the left to finish illuminating the rest of their beloved lot. More of the regulars are starting to pour in, setting up camping chairs and causing the comforting ruckus that Dazai’s grown somewhat fond of.
“It gets wilder the more you think about it,” Ranpo muses. “You have to put in the work, but that’s literally a ticket to the F1 roster. Imagine Dazai in F1,” he comments with a chuckle, “right where he belongs.”
Dazai offers him a soft smile.
Right where he belongs, huh?
If sayings like, ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’ are true, then Dazai on the F1 roster means he’ll end up six feet under sooner rather than later.
He’s not too abhorred by the idea.
Someone turns the music on, and the heavy beats of EIFORYA by Armin van Buuren begin to spark Dazai’s adrenaline.
“How long’s this thing again?” Yosano asks. “I assume hella people are on the roster. We’re gonna have to start expecting more people,” she mutters with a sigh.
“An F1 season is usually about 8 months long,” Ranpo explains. “So Gatsby’s opening his own little season tonight. One to two ‘official—’” he makes finger quotes—“races per week. In 8 months, he’s holding a banquet for underground Yokohama, where representatives from every club are gonna vote for the best driver in the scene. The races from here on out all matter.”
“Dazai. You’re going to win,” Yosano agrees, slapping his back. “No sweat. I’m sure the entire city thinks so.”
Dazai smiles politely at her. Then, a glint of red catches his eye.
He looks up to see a brilliantly colored Nissan with matte black wheels and RGB headlights rumbling slowly into the lot, revving loudly as bystanders crowd the stranger.
Yosano snickers.
“Someone came modded the fuck up,” she judges.
“Who is that?” Dazai asks.
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“Yo,” some blackhaired kid acknowledges. “You’re the rookie, right?”
Chuuya’s leaning on his car, his arms crossed over one another. Everyone’s finally left him alone, although he’s going to welcome them right back once he wins tonight. Fukuzawa instructed him to wait for his mechanic to meet him on the first night, before he went into the lineup to race.
“I’ve been waiting for three minutes,” he says, refusing to spare the guy more than a glance.
“My bad. I didn’t know who I was looking for. Akutagawa,” he introduces, bowing to Chuuya. “Street name’s Rashomon. Mechanic like me hardly gets called by that, though.”
Chuuya nods his head in retaliation to his bow.
“Solid,” Chuuya acknowledges. He introduces himself, offering Akutagawa both his street name and his real name. He’ll be on personal terms with this one, anyway.
“Sweet ride,” Akutagawa compliments. It’s at this that Chuuya smiles proudly. He built her—Arahabaki—from the ground up.
Akutagawa coughs lightly.
Chuuya opens the passenger door for him, and then Akutagawa’s guiding him to the far side of the lot, which is where the dingy place supposedly opens up to a road that leads them to Minatomirai, where Shutoko—the C1 loop around Yokohama’s highways—and more importantly, Chuuya’s race, will begin.
Fukuzawa said Mayonaka also has its own abandoned track that's open to practice on. Chuuya will check that out later.
“So. Mayonaka rules are simple,” Akutagawa states. “Tachi gave you numbers. The first one is Fukuzawa’s.”
Hudson.
“The second is Yosano’s.”
Dragonfly.
“Add them, and they’ll put you in a call with them and our other drivers. It’s just in case something goes wrong, so you can mute while you drive. Tonight is one of Gatsby’s races, so don’t worry about the rest of our etiquette till later. You’ll figure it out.”
“Understood,” Chuuya replies.
“To clarify,” Akutagawa adds. “You’re not just up against Mayonaka. All of Yokohama will be there.”
Chuuya nods. He’s not an idiot.
“Question about Gatsby’s offer,” he interjects.
“Shoot.”
“What if the school finds out about street racing and stuff? This isn’t exactly legal,” Chuuya asks.
“Two things you should not underestimate are the power of wealth, and Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald,” Akutagawa states matter-of-factly.
“He’s a finicky guy, but you can trust him to thoroughly keep his word, and that includes rewriting your entire life story if he needs to.”
Chuuya nods.
“Who’s the man to beat?” he asks next. “Or. Woman. Person. Thing. I don’t give a fuck.”
Akutagawa looks at him like he’s stupid for not knowing.
“McQueen. Do you not know him?”
“No.”
“Dazai Osamu. He’s one of ours. He’s also Tsushima’s son.”
… Tsushima, huh? The fuck is his kid doing out here?
Interesting.
He lets out a deep exhale as Akutagawa leaves his car with a few good luck’s after running him through the escape routes.
He waits patiently once he’s back leaning on his car, listening to the booming of music not too far away from him. A couple other cars begin to line up beside him.
McQueen. McQueen, McQueen, McQueen.
Ain’t got a damn clue what this fucker looks like, but Chuuya’s mind already chants his name.
He keeps an eye out as some chick from the black Miata next to him approaches him. Her car looks quite plain. Her features are oddly familiar.
“Rookie?” she asks, extending a gloved fist in Chuuya’s direction, her helmet underneath her other arm. He bumps it, sizing her up.
Her name turns out to be Akutagawa Gin, otherwise known as “Stealth” because none of her mods are visible. She seems solid enough. Still, Chuuya judges that she’s all talk.
“Welcome to Mayonaka,” she nods.
“Appreciate it, miss. I think your brother’s my mechanic,” he offers in reply. She smirks at him, turning back to her car before she breaks eye contact.
“Gin,” Chuuya calls a moment later. “Which one’s McQueen?”
Gin does a turn, scanning the crowd before she guides Chuuya’s gaze to a group of three people.
“The tall one. Brown hair. Real charmer,” she says. “He hasn’t been beaten in Yokohama since he started winning three years ago.”
“I’m gonna change that,” Chuuya tells her.
Gin stares at him for a second before bursting out in laughter.
“You’re rich, rookie—”
“Prince.”
“Oh, my bad. Well. Prince. Best of luck. You’re up against the king of our streets,” she warns him, seating herself in her car and closing the door. This time without breaking eye contact.
Maybe Chuuya will crash with her tonight.
Chuuya takes a deep breath, relishing in the boost to his pulse as the rumble of everyone’s cars sing together, bass boosting the excited dubstep that begins to play as the crowd of a couple hundred people continues to party.
It’s about one in the morning when Mayonaka’s five drivers rev in unison, slowly making their descent down the wide road to Minatomirai in a V formation while a few other cars packed with spectators follow in suit. Drunk, loud people surround them all, slowly weaning off the further along the road Mayonaka moves.
Chuuya won’t lie. It all makes him feel like a god.
He forces his heart rate to stay calm as he refuses to try and catch a glimpse at the boy in the black Toyota Supra leading the racers, who Chuuya’s learnt in the past half hour of his life is his sworn nemesis.
There are a multitude of muscle cars in the lot at Minatomirai. There’s a lot to see, and a huge crowd of hot people for him to enjoy, but time for Chuuya plays on fast forward.
He came here for one thing, and one thing only.
After what seems like far too long, Chuuya’s in one of two consecutive lines with some twenty total drivers, near the back because he hasn’t shown his face in these parts before.
He knows McQueen’s leading, alongside some dude called Phantom.
No matter. This isn’t a problem.
He hears some murmurs from his phone, which is stuffed in his cup holder with some cloth to keep it secure. Chuuya wonders if one of the muffled laughs he hears on it belongs to McQueen. He frowns, tugging his helmet over his head.
The girl who McQueen was standing with at Mayonaka ends up in front of them all with a megaphone, alongside a blondie in a lacy bra and slacks, who’s holding two red flags with a proud smile. Chuuya can barely see them behind everyone.
His heart rate begins to spike.
“Tonight marks the beginning of Gatsby’s Formula 3 competition.”
Chuuya drowns out her speech by paying attention to the phonk playing on his stereo. People talk too much.
Chuuya’s here to drive. He’s here to lose himself. He’s here to make a scene. He’s here to live in a moment so fucking loud, he can’t even think anymore.
“... and may the best driver win.”
The blondie takes over, and Chuuya drinks up the cocktail of loud engines and deep cheers rumbling through the deserted highway.
The flags go up. Chuuya takes a breath. He narrows his gaze. He shifts to second gear as if on autopilot, the muscle memory so deeply ingrained in him that the actions are as natural as breathing.
He sees McQueen and Phantom escape him the moment the flags reach below the blondie’s waist, the screeches of their first drift as they turn left reverberating through the tar beneath Chuuya’s wheels.
Then, the next row of cars.
Then, the next.
Chuuya’s senses heighten the moment he’s jamming his beaten up cherry Doc Marten on his accelerator, because it’s time, it’s finally time to show the world what he’s got.
He shoots past the first three cars the moment the road opens into the intersection.
Fuck a drift. Chuuya doesn’t have time for that right now.
Not yet. Not with this many people.
He needs to catch up.
He grips the turn and gets his first taste of speed for the night. He breathes hard. His guts are always ten feet behind him. No hit of any drug will ever match the euphoric thrill coursing through his veins right now.
This exhilaration.
The satisfaction of storming past Gin.
This is why he’s alive.
Chuuya keeps his breath under control as he weaves between the next couple cars. G-force shoves him back in his seat. He clenches his abs before every wide turn to keep from swaying to the left and right, feeling his brain rattle in his skull as his car rumbles from the sharp movements and force.
He laughs when one of the cars behind him has the audacity to honk.
Get good.
The only thing on Chuuya’s mind is getting to McQueen. Nothing else matters now.
Top ten.
That’s where he’s seated right now. It’s only going to get harder from here to climb.
It’s not enough. He needs a bigger high. Chuuya’s a winner.
He doesn’t know how to do anything other than win.
There are a pile of spectators roaring on the sidewalk in this part of town. Chuuya looks to see why.
The first major U-turn’s coming up.
He clenches his jaw in his helmet as he listens to the tires of the cars ahead of him screeching against the smooth tar. He doesn’t have a choice now—he drifts, or he doesn’t make the turn.
It’s risky to try and cross the green Subaru in front of him right now. Time slows down. Or rather, Chuuya’s thoughts speed up.
He looks at the pretty little red button on his steering wheel that’s enticing him to press it, just a stretch of his thumb away from reach. If he just…
No.
Not yet.
There are about seven seconds left before he’s required to stay in line where he is and make a hard right, skidding his way into a 180 degree turn to face the other direction.
Chuuya catches McQueen—Dazai—passing him on the other side of the turn, light reflected off of the black visor of his helmet. All his attire’s jet black from what Chuuya can see.
He’s getting away again.
Fuck it.
Chuuya jams the accelerator again, wiggling in his seat the small amount that he can. He knows it’s risky. But what’s the fun without a little danger?
Chuuya shoots past the Subaru, taking a deep breath as he immediately leans into his drift. He should’ve done that about a second prior to keep it clean.
Oh well.
He becomes one with his car for a moment, his stomach and the wheels fighting the same inertia from the sudden turn. He feels every single organ rise in his body, the tingles of dizziness overtaking him as his entire body resists the urge to curl in on itself. He forces his eyes to stay open as he nearly misses the wall on the back end of the curve.
Before Chuuya knows it, he’s back on a straight road, driving under a bridge. He grimaces as he tries to get his car under control.
He meanders for a second, and then he's headed straight for a tunnel behind the others.
He’s in 8th place now.
Chuuya whoops as he realizes, unable to hear himself over the screeching of the cars behind him, the bass of his music blasting in his ears, and the glorious roar of his engine.
He is alive.
There’s another straight stretch here. The familiar, faint smell of gasoline and burning rubber overtake his nostrils as he passes the next car right before they hit the tunnel.
7th.
Once they’re in the tunnel—one they’ll be in for a while, Chuuya has a new obstacle. The road’s too slim to pass anyone with the amount of spare room that Chuuya usually likes to have, granted he doesn’t prioritize precision much more than brute speed.
He could wait to pass any more cars. But this is Prince we’re talking about, and Prince is one impatient man.
He slides into the left lane, driving even with the car next to him for a few seconds, just for kicks.
There’s a lot of trust in the fact that no stray civilian’s going to appear around any bends as he accelerates into 6th.
Chuuya’s greatest strength is that he doesn’t fear speed. He’s starting to catch on to how everyone seems to be slowing down now that their turns have to be pristine to avoid crashing against the unforgiving concrete walls on either side of them.
He has to remind himself to breathe.
A white Toyota’s in 5th. It’s getting tougher now. They’re taking up the middle of the road like they know Chuuya’s advancing.
Well, if they’re going to be so stubborn, Chuuya doesn’t mind threatening to give them a little bump in the right direction.
A situation like this is like arguing about whose dick is larger. It doesn’t scare Chuuya. He knows his shit. He knows his car.
With the route in mind, Chuuya shifts right, and slides forward just enough for his hood to be a mere inch away from the wide rear wing. He has no problem riding even with this guy, and just as Chuuya expects, they move left out of fear that Chuuya’s going to hit.
This is Chuuya’s second greatest strength: his confidence amongst other drivers. #
This is all just a friendly game… for sure.
Chuuya keeps up with his method until he’s successfully slid into the right line, riding even with 5th place. As expected, a sharp turn to the right is coming up. Chuuya smirks. He has less distance to cover, guaranteeing him a movement up in the ranks.
Chuuya deigns to look in his competitor’s direction. He can’t see much through the thick net covering their window, but he spots a white ponytail peeking out of a white helmet, with a white leather jacket, and just white, white, white.
He scoffs, accelerating hard to get all the way in front of them.
Catching up to Dazai is all that matters.
Dazai, the son of Tsushima Gen’emon, one of Japan’s most successful representatives in Formula 1, infamous for his death in the Monza circuit 15 years ago.
He’s probably been told all his life that driving’s in his blood. That it’s what he’s meant to do, and that’s why he’s good at it. Chuuya’s sure Dazai’s been coddled, no, spoon-fed, to success.
No matter.
He’s safely in third place now that they’re emerging from the tunnel, taking the opportunity to cruise (if you call 100 miles per hour cruising). He notes that this part of the route’s a real advantage for him. He knows heads are turning at this point. He laughs under his helmet, imagining Gin’s face after this race.
They’re racing along the highway now, with Yokohama harbor to their left and the pretty city lights to their right.
Long, straight, open road. This means that between Prince, Phantom, and McQueen, it’s a competition between pure horsepower and fuel management.
Easy.
It’s time.
“C’mon, baby girl,” he whispers, pushing his accelerator down once more to gain some more speed again and excite his turbocharger.
120 miles per hour.
He keeps a close eye on his boost gauge.
140.
“C’mon… c’mon.”
145.
His speedometer’s wavering as he reaches his max speed.
Chuuya looks gleefully at his steering wheel, bracing his body as he all but punches the red button on his steering wheel, adrenaline bashing him into his seat in ways it’s never done before as he triggers his NOS, because this is it. This is where Yokohama learns there’s a new kid on the block.
At this moment, Chuuya’s hyper aware of his car’s anatomy. He swears he can feel the fan of his turbocharger buzzing under his hood, and the nitrous oxide injecting into his engine, combusting into nitrogen and his one true love: oxygen. Arahabaki can breathe again, and now she’s jolting him forward.
He flicks his gaze to his speedometer to find the dial pressed up against the listed max speed of 155. He’s easily going 170, 180.
Chuuya has this epiphany every time he races: that he could drive forever.
He belongs right where he is.
There’s no time to relish in the pleasure, because Dazai appears to share a brain cell or two with Chuuya, having met Chuuya with speed that a Supra can only achieve with the help of nitrous oxide.
Chuuya hears him before he sees him. McQueen’s loud, alright. Dazai’s Supra greets Chuuya out of the right field of his vision.
They left Phantom behind some five seconds ago.
Now it’s just Prince and McQueen, red and black, head to head, stealing glances at each other as they reconvene into consecutive lanes despite the broad expanse of road on either side of them. They’re so close, that if Chuuya pushes even a smidgen to the right, his side-view mirror will get blown off by Dazai’s.
It’s oddly intimate.
Chuuya’s praying his nitrous runs longer than Dazai’s. Just long enough to push him past Dazai. With a little less than a fourth of the track left, the time Chuuya has to dominate this race is running out.
The second major U-turn is coming up.
Fuck.
Dazai’s on the inside of the turn. And if he’s looking to drift…
Fuckkk.
Chuuya has no time—what to do, what to—
He works out a hypothetical at lightning speed.
He’s going to test Dazai.
King of the streets?
Bet.
Chuuya splits off to the left just a bit, giving himself room to drift the turn as wide as possible. He catches that black visor eyeing him, and nods at Dazai.
It’s an ironic show of respect, and that makes Chuuya laugh.
As the turn comes up, Chuuya finalizes his assessment that he’s got a shot to slide in front right now, so long as Dazai keeps his turn impossibly tight to accommodate Chuuya’s own messiness.
Chuuya waits just a moment too long before slowing down. If Dazai’s as good as they say, he only needs a few feet.
Let’s see what you’re made of, buster.
They both angle their cars softly to the direction of the bend, decelerating to prepare for the drift.
Then, Chuuya trusts Dazai with his life for the first time.
It’s sort of beautiful, really, the way the world moves in slow motion when Chuuya looks over. He sees his rival pulling his wheel into a hard right at the exact same time as him. Dazai leans into the turn just the way Chuuya does as their steering wheels spin left, succumbing to physics in unison. Their cars begin a burnout together, white plumes escaping from their rear wheels as their machines drift left to turn right. They are side by side.
Chuuya laughs forcefully, his breath constricted against his chest from the pressure. Dazai’s close. The left of his car is only a couple inches from the right of Chuuya’s.
He’s impressed.
He really is.
Dazai keeps his turn clean. Cleaner than Chuuya could ever dream of drifting. He’s so close to Chuuya, that a single wrong move means they’ll wreck.
Chuuya gets it now.
McQueen’s fucking good.
But Prince is better.
Chuuya executes his wide turn, licking his lips at the delicious screech beneath his wheels. The drift lasts beyond the bend.
Chuuya shifts his drift to the opposite direction, just for fun. If Dazai doesn’t turn with him with just the right timing, the tip of his car will brush the tail of Chuuya’s.
He’s perfect. And now he’s chasing Chuuya’s tail on the other side of his car, giving Chuuya an even greater lead.
They’re dancing, just for a moment.
Chuuya needs to steady himself again, but it’s alright, because he’s in front of Dazai.
This is the last stretch. Chuuya can see the blonde girl waving her flags several hundred feet off, as the crowd comes into sight. Their cheers egg him on as he pushes on his accelerator one more time, bouncing in his seat as he steadies himself.
Chuuya celebrates too early.
Dazai manages to catch up till he’s almost head to head with Chuuya again, except on his left this time instead of his right.
Fuck.
They’re both gaining speed.
Come on.
Chuuya’s breathing is labored at this point. His adrenaline’s beginning to crash. But this is the bit that matters most.
He’s pushing 140 again. 142. 145.
He can’t tell anymore.
Fuck.
He can’t tell who’s in front.
Please.
There are fifteen very, very long seconds left in this race.
He flicks his gaze over to see Dazai’s helmet concentrated on the road ahead of him, and Chuuya follows his example, remembering that right now, it’s just him and his car.
Ten.
Chuuya takes his last breath before the finish line that’s been marked with chalk.
Nine.
He grips his steering wheel like his life depends on it.
Eight. Seven. Six.
Chuuya leans forward in his seat, putting so much pressure on his accelerator that he thinks it might break.
Five.
He can’t shake Dazai.
Four.
Fuck.
Three.
Chuuya presses the back of his head—two—against his seat, holding it as steady as he can.
One.
▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄
Silence. Yokohama’s underground scene is in utter silence.
That’s all it takes for Dazai to know.
He stumbles out of his car, exhilarated and out of breath. He can’t even be mad right now.
It’s the best race he’s had in a while.
He looks for Ranpo and Yosano in the crowd, too jaded to feel any of the shame or embarrassment he should feel from the amount of shocked stares and failed expectations surrounding him.
He hears Fyodor and Nikolai rolling to a stop not too far behind him, and Shibusawa following not too far after.
Everyone with an ounce of culture knows that no one beyond these fou—five.
No one beyond these five matters.
Dazai swipes his tongue over the perspiration that’s pooled in his cupid’s bow, violently cracking his neck to the left and right as he approaches Ranpo, who looks defeated.
“It’s just the beginning,” Dazai reassures him with a slight shake in his head. Yosano hands him a bottle of water. “I’ll get him. Whoever the hell he is.”
He has to keep it together. Breaking down so early isn’t a good scene. It was a close race, and this is what Dazai decides to focus on. Whoever the hell big red is, he’s smart. But Dazai’s smarter.
The focus shifts off of Dazai soon enough and onto the figure who emerges slowly from the flashy 370z. Dazai squints at him while yanking his glove off with his teeth to run his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair.
Oh. Little red. Not big red. Dazai didn’t realize the guy was standing at full height till he saw him saunter far enough away from his car for Dazai to see his full figure.
“Prince,” Ranpo whispers to him.
Prince.
That’s a pretty sick name. He’s wearing a red leather jacket and black jeans, with cherry Docs on his feet. Dazai’s quite intrigued to see what lies beneath the (and this is a real shocker) also red helmet.
Fingerless gloves cover the hands that reach up to yank it off.
Oh, brother.
Is there a bit of this guy that isn’t red?
Dazai stares down the little half-mullet thing Prince has got going on down his left shoulder.
If he could just turn around, that’d be great.
At least, that’s what Dazai’s thinking before he actually does turn around, because fuck, he’s pretty. No, actually. Like, problematically pretty.
Every single feature of his is sharp and slender, from his eyes to his nose and chin to his entire jaw structure. It’s ironic, really, given how his driving is everything except sharp and slender. Dazai wonders what fuckery occurred with Prince’s genetics. His eyes are bright, bright blue, piercing holes into Dazai’s chest even though he’s not even looking at him, and even though the moonlight surely isn't even doing them the same justice that sunlight would.
So this is the guy that Dazai… lost to, huh?
The word’s foreign to his mind, but Dazai’s a good sport.
This is fine.
It’s fine.
… It is.
Back at Mayonaka, Dazai’s accepting the umpteenth show of sympathy, which truth be told, was an incredibly annoying task from the first.
It’s almost time to escape everyone, he thinks, because the night’s all starting to catch up with him and he’d like to go home before he has to deal with Fukuzawa.
Coping with himself might be even harder than Fukuzawa, honestly. Dazai wants. No. Needs to go to California, for reasons beyond a simple boyish desire to be a famous driver.
He can’t take it so lightly now that he has some actual competition. Even without Prince around, Fyodor and the others would still be waiting to give him a run for his money.
He has to prove to himself that Yosano and Ranpo’s confidence isn’t misplaced.
Dazai closes his eyes and tilts his head back. He brings his bottle of beer down to his side as he rolls his shoulders back to release some tension, breathing some of the cold 3 AM air while walking towards the trailer in the center of Mayonaka, where conversations are louder and it’s harder to think.
People are already starting to head out now that the night’s theatrics are over, but Dazai’s stuck trying to get Prince out of his head.
He bumps into someone, and his eyes shoot open.
Well. Speak of the devil.
“Ah,” Dazai quietly greets. “Prince.”
He doesn’t know what to expect, but a smile that sly and that difficult to decipher isn’t on the plate of possibilities. Prince appears to hate him as much as he admires him. But that’s just Dazai making assumptions.
“So. McQueen. The notorious prodigy.”
“Call me Dazai, please. We’re frien—”
“Do you have any words about how you just got fuckin’ humbled?” Prince asks, his initial grin widening into a cocky smile lined with perfect teeth. “Don’t have an identity crisis. It’s alright.”
Oh, God. I’m embarrassed for you.
As if him being pretty wasn’t bad enough, he’s a childish dick on top of it. Dazai has to resist the urge to laugh at the phrase, “You just got fuckin’ humbled.”
It’s genuinely funny.
Consider me charmed.
“Beginner’s luck,” Dazai lightly accuses with a smile, because he’s comfortable fighting fire with fire.
He dismisses the disappointment that comes with being beaten for the first time in three years for now. It did have to happen at some point. Doesn’t mean it needs to happen again.
“You, the great McQueen, are equating me beating you… to beginner’s luck? Are you really that pathetic?” Prince asks with a brilliant, cunning smile, his tongue peeking out between his teeth as he looks up at Dazai with those very, very blue eyes.
“Yes,” he replies, keeping his cool. Prince isn’t worth his anger. “I am equating it to beginner’s luck. Your lack of respect humors me, though.”
“Please. Don’t make me laugh,” he scoffs, patting Dazai’s shoulder as he walks away to who knows where. Dazai’s jaw stiffens.
“Where’s the booze? Oh—hello, ladies,” he hears Prince boisterously shout from behind him. “Gin! I think you owe me a drink…” his voice fades.
It seems to be his goal is to make a ruckus wherever he steps foot.
Dazai resists the urge to turn around and watch him go. Prince is… intriguing.
Incredibly annoying, of course. Cocky.
But he still beat Dazai.
He’s got this sudden urge to wipe that grin off Prince’s face. Maybe he’ll start by yanking that stupid ginger strand straight off his head.
Prince isn’t a better driver than him. He’s sloppy. He sacrifices clean turns, efficiency, and safety for raw speed.
He’s got talent. Dazai will admit that. But he obviously doesn’t know the road or the car like Dazai does. It’s like a 14 year old anime fanartist criticizing Michelangelo for his understanding of human anatomy. Prince is the type of driver to get himself killed trying to show off.
This isn’t even about who’s better, though. Just about who the crowd likes more. Dazai needs that California offer, more than anyone.
He’s still more popular. He has more connections, and more reasons to be liked in town.
Driving is his legacy.
Dazai narrows his eyes as he hears the dry, dead grass crinkle and crease under something rolling over it, a sound more familiar to him than he wishes it ever was.
He is a more popular driver. For now.
Dazai looks over at the man in the wheelchair. His jet black hair’s sloppily tied back in a bun at the back of his head.
“What do you want, Mori?”
Mori gives him a conniving grin, like he’s just put Dazai in check in a game of chess. Like he’s asking Dazai, What are you going to do now?
“Well. McQueen. Looks like Jackson Storm has come to town.”