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ninoexchange2019-07-14 07:37 pm
nino_mod) wrote in ninoexchange2019-07-14 07:37 pm
Entry tags:
fic for semikusa!
For: semikusa
From: :3.
Title: Trial Run
Pairing/Focus: Matsumiya
Rating: PG
Word count: 6300
Warnings: Mentions of minor injuries
Summary: Compared to the people around him, Nino takes things slow in every sense of the word, but a new man on the scene threatens to change all that. (Street racing AU!)
Notes: Hi, semikusa! I wasn’t able to make this fic as slow-burn as I wanted to, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. :D I know nothing about cars or street racing, so just pretend whatever I’ve written makes sense, heh. Thanks to the usual folks! <3
It isn’t until the unsubtle throat-clearing has turned into exaggerated hacking that Nino finally looks up from his desk. A tall figure stands in the doorway of his office, eyes narrowed and long fingers rubbing tenderly at his throat.
“Oh. Aiba-san. I didn’t realize you were there.”
Aiba just rolls his eyes and steps into the room, planting a can of black coffee at the edge of the invoice Nino’s looking at. Condensation drips down from the rim where his fingers last touched it, and Nino shifts his papers aside before taking the proffered drink.
Seemingly satisfied, Aiba asks the question he poses every Friday afternoon. “You’re coming tonight, right?”
Nino pulls the tab of his coffee down with two fingers, taking his standard small sip before giving his standard answer. “If I can make it.”
It’s been more years than Nino cares to admit that Aiba’s been coming to Ninomiya Motors for repairs. It started back when Nino was still on the garage floor more than in the office, still fine-tuning his technique to give each and every car the love it deserves. Even back then, it only took one look under the hood to know that Aiba was one of those people who loved his car far too much and at the same time far too little.
Nino finds him in the waiting room, flipping errantly through a travel magazine like he’s too impatient for anything more than the pictures. ”Excuse me, Aiba-san?” He waits until Aiba looks up, straightening in his seat in anticipation. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do about your vehicle.”
Aiba’s brow furrows. “You can’t fix it?”
Nino frowns. “I didn’t say that. It’s just that I’d have to make major adjustments to the modifications you’ve already made to it. The aluminum is nice but that crankshaft isn’t keeping up, and whoever did the rewiring doesn’t seem to be concerned about whether or not your brakes work.” He catches himself and hesitates; there are a dozen other changes he wants to make, but from what his mother’s told him, street racers are notoriously snotty about their mods. Best not to risk losing business just because he’s a better mechanic.
Aiba simply smirks. “Then fix it.”
Nino still walks to the front of the garage to bid Aiba farewell, even though he sees him every week, even though it’s Aiba. Nishihata trots forward to join him, smile bright. “Thank you very much!” he calls enthusiastically, not an ounce of freshness lost over the years.
Aiba leans through his open window and throws a charming grin in their direction. “You’d better make it tonight, Nino.”
Nino nods and lifts his empty coffee can in non-acknowledgment.
“There’s a new guy on the crew. I think you’ll like him.” And with that, he revs his engine once – it sounds nice; Nishihata’s done a good job – and drives off without another word.
.
“Like” isn’t a strong enough word for what Nino feels that night. The classic American-made slicks its way through hairpins, clips at the wings of anything trying to fly into its territory. Each turn is perfectly timed, the taillights a streak of red that curves and bows like the wind itself. It blows past the finish line well ahead of the rest, and the reverb from the engine roars through the air, rumbles down the streets and straight into Nino’s gut where he’s seated on the hood of his car in the spectators’ area.
“Holy shit,” he whispers.
A low chuckle from beside him flutters into his ears, and he can feel them heating up in embarrassment. Even if it’s just Ohno, an additional spectator because there isn’t a bike race tonight, Nino hates being caught with his feelings out in the open. “He’s good, right?” Ohno says, quietly pleased. “He just joined us last month but Sho-kun’s already booking new races like crazy just to see how far he can take us.”
Like clockwork (because he’s nothing if not clockwork), Sakurai comes into earshot, fast-talking into his phone propped up between his ear and his shoulder. His pen scritch-scratches at the page in his planner, and he bows his head in thanks even though the person he’s talking to can’t see him. He ends the call and slips his phone into his pocket with one hand, clapping his planner shut with the other. “Nino, long time no see,” he says with a grin wide enough to suggest he’s more excited about their win than he is about seeing Nino; Nino can’t blame him. “I think we’re going to have to hire you full time with the amount of races we’re taking on these days.”
“Mm, sorry, I’m pretty sure I already have a full-time job.”
Sakurai guffaws – he truly is in a good mood – and claps his hand on Nino’s back. “Matsumoto should be coming over soon. You’re sticking around to celebrate with us, right?”
The car comes first, almost sexy in its precision when it stops right in front of them, windows tinted enough that Nino’s throat tightens in anticipation. Aiba’s car comes skimming up behind, rattled from a hard race but still looking good after a third-place finish.
Both drivers get out of their cars at the same time, and out of his peripheral vision Nino can see that Aiba’s changed out of his daytime clothes into what he likes to wear on nights like these: an oversized hoodie over loose shorts, something comfortable as he takes to the streets. But what catches Nino’s attention is the man who comes out of the other vehicle, strong eyes and defined angles, a plain white tee pulled snug across broad shoulders down to his slim hips, where they meet a pair of black skinny jeans. He looks the way he drives: slick and cool, attentive to his surroundings, with everything in its rightful place and nothing wasted, like he knows exactly what he wants and how to get it.
His eyes slide over toward Nino, and a silent moment between them overwhelms him when he’s caught in a piercing gaze beneath long lashes. And then Matsumoto’s face broadens into jolly cheeks, his lips stretching over a wide grin. It’s so unexpected, so disarming that all of the sounds Nino had stopped hearing come back to him: the boisterous chatter of crews around them, carried on the warm summer breeze like tacky humidity sticking to their skin; the screeching of critters at the nearby riverbank since they’re far enough away from the city center to still have a home there; the posturing rip-roar of cars that have something to prove now that everything’s all over, precisely because they couldn’t do it when it counted.
“Hi, you must be Nino,” he says warmly, extending a hand. Whatever Nino had been anticipating, it hadn’t been this. He turns the wrench in his mind to recalibrate his expectations. “Matsumoto Jun.”
.
The three of them – four of them now, with Matsumoto newly introduced into the mix – make up the modest crew of Team Storm. As the story goes (as so many stories go), it all began at a bar. Aiba and Ohno were sitting next to each other at a counter too classy for either of them, and they’d ended up chatting, about a whole lot of everything and a whole lot of nothing. At some point they’d touched on their hobbies: cars and motorcycles respectively, the faster the better. Deep into the night, Ohno had tried to run off, disappearing after he said he’d just be going to the bathroom, but Aiba had noticed and chased after him. In a twist of Aiba-logic, he’d determined that anyone that slippery would be great at maneuvering on the streets, and since Ohno had taken a liking to him (Nino still argues that the fact that he ran away seems to suggest otherwise), he’d asked him to trade contact information. Their night had ended on a promise to meet up at a race just beyond the city border the following week.
The rest, somehow, is history. They watched a few races as spectators before deciding to dive in and sign up for their own taste of the thrill. Sakurai, Ohno’s childhood friend, came on as manager as soon as they realized they needed someone to keep track of their races for them – so, very early on. And then, later, so much later that Nino is surprised the crew’s garage didn’t fall in on itself from the sudden change in equilibrium, Matsumoto came along.
Matsumoto is a man whose arrival on the street racing scene was immediately noticed, not only because of his skills behind the wheel but also because of his charisma in person. He started as an independent racer and immediately received offers from multiple crews, but it wasn’t until Aiba approached him that he decided to give the team thing a shot. Maybe it was because they’re a small crew, established enough to be known but still underdogs, giving Matsumoto enough space to grow and enough leverage to offer suggestions for improvement. Maybe that’s the kind of thing that appeals to Matsumoto; maybe he knows how to spot a diamond in the rough worth polishing.
(Aiba mentions between his fourth and fifth beer that Matsumoto had also been interested in the other benefits Team Storm had to offer, specifically access to the best mechanics this side of the legal fence, which explains Matsumoto’s excitement in seeing him, if not the flutter in Nino’s stomach when he realized he’d been seen.)
Ah, and speaking of Nino. Nino’s just an average guy who took over the family business. He’s not necessarily interested in cars specifically, but rather in the way things work, the logistics of piecing things together to make them better than before. He leads a simple but not uncomfortable life, and he doesn’t have any specific ambitions beyond successfully paying the bills and successfully getting to the next save point in his life. He’s content to float along, latch onto whatever interesting project drifts by every once in a while.
But Matsumoto? Matsumoto has plenty of ambitions. Right now, after hours at the Storm garage, their vehicles safely parked and the alcohol flowing freely, his main goal is to talk Nino’s ear off in incrementally increasing volume about what’s under the hood of his car. They head over together – sure to deposit their drinks elsewhere before approaching the vehicle – and when Matsumoto cranks the hood up, Nino is impressed by what he sees. All of the parts are laid out in a poetic kind of mechanical logic, with very few opportunities to lose speed or power; with just a little more practice, Matsumoto would make a great mechanic. Nino says as much out loud and Matsumoto preens, his big grin back in full force and his broad chest puffing the tiniest bit. He likes having enough knowledge to be able to take care of his car on his own, he explains; it’s important to him to know the fine details of what’s happening where.
In the end, though, Nino guesses that Matsumoto prefers to be behind the wheel. He’s only known him for a few hours, but Matsumoto is the kind of man who lives for the thrill, lives to be better than before. He loves the attention he receives when he sweeps through another circuit, but as much as it is for himself, it’s also for the people around him. He’s an entertainer. Not everyone can drive the way he drives, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t get to experience the excitement he feels. He comes alive every race, stays alive when he crosses the finish line; racing gives him the chance to share the joy of living.
Despite himself, just from hearing the other man talk, Nino is starting to enjoy the feeling, too.
.
Nino spends his time these days split between the two garages – the one he’s actually in charge of and the one he’s been entrusted with by his motley crew of friends. They technically have another very capable mechanic on duty, someone like Nino who comes in on his time off to support the team. But they (well, everyone besides Aiba) only recently found out that Kazama actually has a three-year-old at home, and they all but threw him out of the garage, telling him to spend his time with the people who really matter. (They get regular photo updates now, and there are shots of a sweet-looking toddler pinned up on the cork board next to the upcoming race schedule; Kazama promises to bring his son in when he’s old enough to hang out in a grungy garage with a bunch of old men.)
Nino brings Nishihata one day after hours, and he nearly glows in his excitement. Aiba and Ohno greet him a good evening and Nishihata all but hollers it back in response, eliciting a small chuckle from Ohno as he returns his attention to the sketchbook full of doodles in his lap.
Nino walks toward the lonely folding chair, Nishihata in tow. “What are you working on, Ohno-san?”
“Ah, MatsuJun said that we should come up with a logo for our team,” Ohno responds, not looking up from his drawing. It’s an exaggerated version of the character for “storm” in Japanese, stylized to look like a king wearing a crown. “Building a brand and getting everyone on board will raise our morale, he says.”
“Since when has morale had anything to do with racing?”
“Since it improves our performance,” comes a response from behind them. Nino and Nishihata turn around to find Matsumoto walking toward them, wiping his hands on a dirty rag hanging from his pants pocket. Nino tries not to focus on the spots he missed, little stripes of grease along toned forearms, leading all the way up to his tank top. He addresses Nishihata next. “You’re Nishihata-kun, right? Nino’s apprentice?”
Nishihata shakes his head fervently, eyes wide. “I don’t deserve the honor of that title. I’m simply a believer.”
Matsumoto smirks and gives Nino a sidelong glance. “Little did I realize we had a god in our midst.”
Nino plays along for as long as he can manage. “I hide it well.” And then he has to tuck his giggles into his elbow, and Matsumoto only grins wider.
They let Nishihata tinker with Matsumoto’s car for practice, watching from either side as he examines the area around the engine. Matsumoto has his arm around Nishihata’s shoulders as they stoop low under the hood together, but when he tells him he’s doing a good job, his eyes are on Nino.
.
Matsumoto doesn’t have a particular reason to be there, but he shows up at Ninomiya Motors anyway. Aiba, Ohno, and even Sakurai make regular appearances so it only makes sense that Matsumoto would end up joining the ranks, but somehow Nino isn’t expecting it. His heart jumps into his throat at the sight of the other man, and it takes him a moment to respond to Matsumoto’s greeting with his own gargled, “Hey.”
Nino shows him around the mostly empty garage floor, and then leads him to the office in the back, only a single standing fan running now that it isn’t so suffocatingly hot outside. It clacks every time the head changes directions, old but sturdy, a remnant from an era when people still kept things that worked perfectly fine. The dull noises keep them company as Nino pours Matsumoto a glass of cold tea for the first and last time – regulars from Team Storm only get the guest treatment once before they’re on their own. Matsumoto takes the glass graciously, taking a seat in one of the chairs along the wall and glancing around the room.
“So you’re in charge now?” Matsumoto asks as his gaze lands on a photo from many, many years ago; Nino is still a scrawny preteen, standing in an oversized Ninomiya Motors uniform between his mom and uncle. Nino hums in affirmation, and Matsumoto nods to himself, seemingly impressed. Nino’s not sure what’s so impressive about him when Matsumoto Jun is Matsumoto Jun, a man so remarkably driven and alive that Nino’s sure he’s achieved more in the last couple of months they’ve known each other than Nino has in the thirty-some years of his entire life.
“The previous generation worked hard enough,” Nino explains. “My mom wrecked her back doing so much heavy lifting, and my uncle prefers to spend his time these days with grandkids instead of cars. There are some balding dudes still around – we stepped over one set of legs earlier – but it’s mostly just me and Daigo.”
“And you like cars?”
Nino almost laughs at the question, but something in the attentive look Matsumoto is giving him suggests he wants a real answer. He shrugs. “I like them well enough. Not as much as you and the rest of the guys do, but it’s nice to know I’m doing something with my life that I’ll probably never get bored with.”
Matsumoto tilts his head and nods a little, as if to himself, but his gaze is fixed on Nino. Nino looks down at the innocuous papers on his desk, decides it’s not rude to get some work done if they’re just sitting there. He starts typing up details of a repair in a customer’s file. Matsumoto lets him.
“Have you ever considered driving?” Matsumoto asks some time later.
Nino looks up from the computer screen. “Driving like the way you drive, right? Not the way I drive.”
Matsumoto smirks like he’s come across a challenge he can’t wait to tackle. “Right.”
“Up till now, my personal acquaintances for your kind of driving have been Aiba-san and Ohno-san. Can’t say they ever made me feel like they make sensible decisions.” Nino slumps back into his chair and folds his arms over his chest. He smiles serenely when Matsumoto mutters an amused “how mean” under his breath; he isn’t exactly disagreeing. “But then you came along, and you actually seem like a man of sound judgment.”
Matsumoto laughs suddenly at that, all broad and open, like he’s joyful that the conversation has taken this turn. He grins and scratches at his nose. “Thanks for the compliment.”
Nino can’t help but grin in return.
A knock on the door interrupts them, and following in the footsteps of Nino’s very rude mother, Katsumi walks in without waiting for a response.
“Nino, I’m done with Bluekey’s repairs so I’m going to – hello, new friend?” He spots and addresses Matsumoto before he finishes his own thought.
“Something like that,” Nino says dryly.
Matsumoto straightens in his seat and puts his hands on his knees, nodding politely. “Matsumoto Jun, nice to meet you. I’m Aiba-kun’s friend.”
Katsumi smiles warmly. “Ah, that rascal. Say no more.” He turns back to Nino. “Anyway, I’m going to head out.” He puts a paper on Nino’s desk outlining the latest repairs for Bluekey – the nickname they gave a man whose keychain becomes increasingly weighed down with blue accessories every time he comes in. Turning to leave, he addresses Matsumoto again. “Nice to meet you, Jun-kun. I’m Takahashi Katsumi; known Nino since he was in diapers.”
“And it’s only a matter of time till you’re in diapers yourself,” Nino quips, gratified to hear Matsumoto snort a little.
Katsumi ignores this. “Feel free to come back anytime. It’s been a while since this kid’s seemed so happy at work.”
Matsumoto gives Nino a sidelong glance, and Nino’s pleased feeling settles into something clammy and self-conscious. He’s not sure he dislikes it, when it’s Matsumoto looking at him. Matsumoto smiles a bit before returning his attention to Katsumi. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
.
Nino arrives at the Storm garage just as Matsumoto comes back from a practice run around a regular route they use for races. Not everyone in the street racing community embraces the idea of practice – it’s somehow counter to the “living in the moment” ideal that many racers seem to strive for – but Matsumoto is nothing if not meticulous in his quest for perfection. He seems to enjoy the risk, the spur-of-the-moment thrill, but his overriding need to be in command of everything he does is one of the main reasons he’s as good as he is.
Unfortunately for Nino, this side of Matsumoto is also unbearably hot.
But then when they run into each other at the main entrance, Matsumoto smiles a big old grin, like he’s seeing a childhood friend for the first time in years and reverting back to a younger, more candid version of himself.
“Nino,” Matsumoto says delightedly, and it makes Nino feel some kind of way to know that Matsumoto’s so happy just to see him.
“Hey.” He nods and tries to head in, but Matsumoto catches him with a hand on his arm – hot to the touch. Nino looks up to see Matsumoto right there in his space, gaze penetrating.
“Come out for a drive with me.”
All Nino can do is nod.
Nino loves Matsumoto’s car like it’s his own, but despite the months he’s spent tweaking it, he’s never actually gone for a drive in it. He settles into the passenger seat and clicks his seatbelt into place. It almost feels like he’s not supposed to be there, a layman stepping onto holy ground, but Matsumoto just grins at him as he tucks himself into the driver’s seat, like this is where Nino truly belongs.
It’s quiet at this time of night, the roads lonely, the streetlamps timid and sparse like they themselves are afraid of the dark. The route that Matsumoto likes best is the same one Nino drives at dusk to get to the garage.
They drive on in comfortable silence, nothing but the sound of the engine as it rolls smoothly between gears. Matsumoto isn’t driving for speed right now; he’s driving because he loves it and wants to share it with someone who understands.
Nino sneaks a glance and catches Matsumoto watching him out of the corner of his eye. Matsumoto grins. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Nino says. He’s feeling a lot right now, but “good” seems to be a good way to put it.
“Good.” And then the engine roars to life, Matsumoto’s foot pressing harder and harder into the floor, the tightness in Nino’s chest rising as the view outside starts to blur around them.
Nino feels each turn before it comes, leans into the laws of physics as the metal beast they ride begins to tear itself apart. Somehow, despite his sweaty palms and his hammering heart, he finds serenity in the moment. He’s at peace with where he is, whom he’s with, what could (but won’t) happen to them as the world spins and they dare to spin faster.
They arrive on a long, open strip by the river. It’s a stretch that typically lasts a few minutes, threatening to be swallowed up between this breath and the next.
Nino doesn’t bother to be subtle when he turns his head to look at Matsumoto. Matsumoto’s staring right at him, face bright, eyes shining, his entire being a flash of light in the darkness.
Nino can’t look away.
.
It’s Friday afternoon, and Aiba is in for his usual repairs. He places a can of coffee on Nino’s desk, and Nino holds it between his hands, letting it warm his palms until it feels too hot to the touch. He curls his hands into loose fists and rolls the can slowly between the backs of his fingers until they feel hot, too.
“Maybe you should get your heater fixed,” Aiba suggests idly.
“I would do it myself if I could feel my fingers,” Nino says with a wry grin.
Aiba grins back. “I see your dilemma.”
Nino doesn’t have to be invited to the race that night; he already knows what’s happening and who’s driving, what he can expect to see at the finish line. He finds Sakurai in the spectators’ area when he arrives, nodding a greeting and settling into one of the folding lawn chairs that have already been set out for them; as expected of Sakurai, always prepared. Nino thanks him with one of the beers he picked up at the convenience store on the way.
They raise their aluminum cans to a valiant effort by Ohno in the bike race, literally scraping by another racer to win third place – enough money to pay for the so-called “turbo-charge” components Kazama had added to the engine last week.
Aiba also puts in a valiant effort, though he lands in fourth place after a bad crash from a nearby driver forces him off course for too long to recover from. Even so, he rushes back to the other driver after he finishes, putting an arm around him to help him walk away from the wreck his car has become. Nino lets out a long, slow breath; this has always been his least favorite part of what they do.
Unexpectedly, Matsumoto loses his race, just barely, and Nino can tell even from the distance that he’s in a bad mood because of it, though he still heads over to congratulate the winner. It’s Yamazaki, a kid who’s just shown up this season but is already making a name for himself. Maybe Matsumoto sees himself in him, though Nino’s not sure if that makes it better or worse.
Sakurai excuses himself and rushes forward with a large paper bag, handing it to Yamazaki. Excitedly, Yamazaki pulls out a long coat, which Nino recognizes immediately as belonging to Matsumoto (because he looks stupidly good in it). Matsumoto grins gamely, saying something as he gestures at the coat, and Nino promises himself that he’ll be there to see Matsumoto win it back.
Matsumoto looks up at his surroundings and is visibly startled when he notices Nino watching. He must really be in a different headspace, because it’s usually Nino who’s being watched (or more accurately, though they haven’t acknowledged it out loud, they’re usually watching each other). He excuses himself and jogs up to Nino, a little of his usual confidence buried beneath the shame of his loss.
“Nice race,” Nino says.
Matsumoto shakes his head. “Kento’s good. I need to work on my cornering. It’s still not as tight as it could be.”
Matsumoto’s cornering is perfect, of course. As close to art as this sport gets. “We can look over your car later and see if there’s any tweaking we can do,” Nino says instead.
He gets a smile in response, lips spreading unevenly across Matsumoto’s face. Nino blinks and looks back up at Matsumoto’s eyes just in time to watch them crinkle a little before he speaks. “Thanks, Nino.”
He hitches a ride back to the garage in Matsumoto’s car, because he’s had two beers and not enough food to make up for it. Their silence is charged with something Nino is too afraid to put into words, and he knows Matsumoto must also be working through his own disappointment that the night didn’t turn out the way it was supposed to. He reaches out and clasps a hand on Matsumoto’s shoulder, letting it linger before he slides away again.
Matsumoto’s eyes flicker toward him and then back to the road ahead. He opens his mouth to speak, clearing his throat the tiniest bit before the words come out. “I’ll definitely win next time.” His tone is unsteady, but his eyes are looking straight ahead.
Nino nods. “I know you will.”
.
When Ohno shifts in his seat, the chairs squeaks with him.
“Shut up,” Nino mutters without malice, not looking up from his desk.
“You shut up,” Ohno responds automatically, continuing to stare at the wall.
They meet eyes and snicker together for a moment before falling back into silence.
Nino doesn’t (usually) bring his multiplayer video game consoles to work, so when he’s done sorting through the accounts for the day, he tosses an old eraser nub in Ohno’s direction; Ohno knocks it away gracefully with the end of his pencil before resuming his drawing in the sketchbook in his lap.
After a few minutes, Ohno turns to a new page and doodles quickly in the top left corner, placing the sketchbook on Nino’s desk and sliding it over. It’s a squirrel today, ri-su, starting as always from the ri in shiritori.
su, su... Nino thinks to himself before he settles on something easy. They have a couple of hours to kill before the garage closes and Nino doesn’t anticipate any other customers coming in, so they’re allowed to start slow. He draws a sloppy circle with some squiggly lines through it. Watermelon, su-i-ka.
Nishihata comes in sometime later to bid them farewell for the evening, and Ohno hands him the sketchbook to throw an entry into the ring. After a considerable amount of time and concentration, he hands the sketchbook over to Nino, who immediately figures out that he’s drawn o-mu-ra-i-su because he’s taken the time to write out Nino ♡ in what would be the ketchup on top.
Nino shoos him away, feigning disinterest. Nishihata just beams and scurries off.
They continue to draw until closing time. Ohno has somehow divined that Nino’s latest masterpiece is a peacock, ku-ja-ku, because Aiba had been by earlier, talking about the unbelievable childhood home he grew up in that surely turned him into the mess he is today.
“This is terrible,” Ohno remarks with a small frown. “Why does it have a moustache?”
“Because it’s male,” Nino says matter-of-factly.
Ohno snorts and his hand flits across the page in a few swift strokes. He turns the sketchbook back around and slides it over with a smug expression on his face.
Nino looks down at the drawing, a quick but beautiful car, ku-ru-ma. The first and only thing that comes to mind is: Matsumoto Jun.
Ah. Game over.
.
The first race of the spring isn’t kind to Aiba’s car (by no fault of his own), and Nino, Kazama, and Nishihata take turns bringing it back to life. It’s still far from race-ready when Nino finishes with it that evening, but at least it looks like a car again; Aiba will no longer find himself on the brink of guilty tears whenever he looks at it, like he has for the past couple of weeks. He and Ohno have gone to the scrapyard – Ohno had insisted on coming along since Aiba’s still getting over his sprained ankle – so all Nino has for company is Sakurai and the thumping hip hop he’s plugged into the garage stereo system.
It takes about three glances toward the empty spot where Matsumoto parks his car for Sakurai to speak up. “I don’t think he’s coming by today.”
Nino shrugs and pretends not to be disappointed, rearranging the grip on his phone before moving on to the next round of his game.
“Are you interested in driving at all?” There’s a contemplative tone to Sakurai’s voice, and when Nino looks up at him, he can tell it’s not the first time he’s wondered; between the members of Team Storm, it’s not the first time Nino’s been asked.
“Why do you ask that?” Nino responds carefully. His answer would have been a breezy, definitive “no” nine months ago, but he’s not really sure anymore. The more time he spends with them, the blurrier the line becomes, like a streak of paint on the road that he might be imagining altogether.
Sakurai smiles a diplomatic kind of smile, friendly eyes and upturned lips giving away nothing of what he’s actually thinking. “You know these cars as well as anyone here, and you have observational skills that most of us don’t.” His smile turns genuine. “I think you’d be good at it.”
“Yeah, I’d just have to get past the part where it’s terrifying.”
“Not with the right teacher,” comes a voice from the main entrance. Somehow Sakurai’s music had masked the low rumble of the engine, but nothing can hide the way Nino responds to Matsumoto’s voice, quaking through him. Matsumoto’s standing in front of his car, the lights and engine still on, disproving Sakurai’s shitty opinion about Nino’s observational skills because he’s almost mad at himself for missing what must have been an amazing entrance.
The weather’s still cool enough for Matsumoto to be wearing the coat that he successfully won back from Yamazaki (though Nino suspects he’ll be wearing it into the murderous summer heat just to prove his point), and Nino lets his eyes sweep down and back up before addressing him. “Elaborate.”
Matsumoto just tips his head back toward his car and walks to the passenger door, getting in without another word. Nino has no choice but to follow.
Nino knows how cars work and doesn’t need to be told how to drive one, but he lets Matsumoto move him around like a marionette anyway – hand on the wheel here, working the manual gear shift here. Matsumoto leans over him to adjust the seat, mirrors, anything he can reach, and his hand drags across Nino’s chest to fasten his seatbelt.
“I can do this by myself,” Nino says, his voice coming out lower than he expects it to.
“I know,” Matsumoto says, voice just as low, continuing anyway.
They head out onto the road, leaving the safety of the garage and Sakurai’s booming bass behind them. All that’s left is the dark night and the quiet between them.
They’ve done this route once before, their positions switched. Nino feels the purr of the engine under his fingertips, finds himself a little breathless even though they’re coasting at a normal speed. They hit a turn that Nino drives like he always does, and when they straighten out again, Nino slowly puts more pressure on the pedal; the car responds with a level of sensitivity that Nino takes pride in. Each driver has his quirks, his own driving style – Matsumoto lives in the spaces between, revels in the minute details, and his car is built to match, painstakingly precise.
Nino picks up speed for the next turn, slightly sharper than the last, and he’s prepared when the car skids a bit, unable to keep up. His grip tightens on the steering wheel as he pulls them onto the next section of the route, a long, open strip by the river. It’s a stretch that typically lasts a few minutes, threatening to be swallowed up between this breath and the next – though Nino’s not sure he’s still breathing. But then Matsumoto’s hand lands on Nino’s, squeezing a bit as if to steer for the both of them. Nino takes in a deep breath and turns to look at Matsumoto, who’s already grinning back at him, and then he returns his attention to the road, pressing his foot more solidly into the floor.
Eventually they end up at a clearing, in one piece, far from the twinkling lights of Tokyo and its surrounding areas. This trial run was nothing like how it was when Matsumoto drove it last time, the way Nino handling the course still timid and sloppy. But he can feel his heartbeat thumping all over his body, in his fingertips, across his chest, all the way down to his still-shaking feet. His eyes are wide and his throat is dry, and he has to swallow again and again as his breathing gradually regulates.
But then it hits him. He’s alive, in every sense of the word. The adrenaline pumps through him all at once, and he grins so hard his cheeks hurt. He turns to Matsumoto to state the obvious – he’s alive, they’re alive – but Matsumoto is already leaning in for a kiss.
Nino is still a little breathless and he gasps as soon as their lips come together. Matsumoto’s tongue slides in, and Nino hears rather than sees Matsumoto unbuckle his seatbelt, feels rather than hears the small noise that escapes him; his eyes have fallen closed and the rest of his senses are shutting down one by one until all that’s left is Matsumoto – his hair soft between Nino’s fingers, his hands firm against Nino’s neck and waist, tugging him in closer, his voice low and guttural in a way that leaves Nino moaning back.
They break apart, and Nino lets Matsumoto fall back the tiniest bit, even though all he wants to do is chase after him. He opens his eyes again, and Matsumoto looks just as breathless as Nino feels.
Nino’s not sure what he’s doing right now, in this moment, sitting in a souped-up car in the middle of a clearing after having defied death to get here. He’s not sure whether he needs to be more ambitious than he is now, taking to the streets on his own even though he’s perfectly happy to be the guy behind the scenes, under the hood. He’s not sure what he wants to do about the man in front of him, eyes wide and searching to match his own. But whatever’s going on with his body, mind, and heart, he is sure of one thing: he’s ready to throw himself head-first into whatever makes him feel like this.
“Let’s do that again,” Matsumoto says.
Nino has no idea which part he’s talking about, but his answer is the same either way.
Absolutely.
semikusaFrom: :3.
Title: Trial Run
Pairing/Focus: Matsumiya
Rating: PG
Word count: 6300
Warnings: Mentions of minor injuries
Summary: Compared to the people around him, Nino takes things slow in every sense of the word, but a new man on the scene threatens to change all that. (Street racing AU!)
Notes: Hi, semikusa! I wasn’t able to make this fic as slow-burn as I wanted to, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. :D I know nothing about cars or street racing, so just pretend whatever I’ve written makes sense, heh. Thanks to the usual folks! <3
It isn’t until the unsubtle throat-clearing has turned into exaggerated hacking that Nino finally looks up from his desk. A tall figure stands in the doorway of his office, eyes narrowed and long fingers rubbing tenderly at his throat.
“Oh. Aiba-san. I didn’t realize you were there.”
Aiba just rolls his eyes and steps into the room, planting a can of black coffee at the edge of the invoice Nino’s looking at. Condensation drips down from the rim where his fingers last touched it, and Nino shifts his papers aside before taking the proffered drink.
Seemingly satisfied, Aiba asks the question he poses every Friday afternoon. “You’re coming tonight, right?”
Nino pulls the tab of his coffee down with two fingers, taking his standard small sip before giving his standard answer. “If I can make it.”
It’s been more years than Nino cares to admit that Aiba’s been coming to Ninomiya Motors for repairs. It started back when Nino was still on the garage floor more than in the office, still fine-tuning his technique to give each and every car the love it deserves. Even back then, it only took one look under the hood to know that Aiba was one of those people who loved his car far too much and at the same time far too little.
Nino finds him in the waiting room, flipping errantly through a travel magazine like he’s too impatient for anything more than the pictures. ”Excuse me, Aiba-san?” He waits until Aiba looks up, straightening in his seat in anticipation. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do about your vehicle.”
Aiba’s brow furrows. “You can’t fix it?”
Nino frowns. “I didn’t say that. It’s just that I’d have to make major adjustments to the modifications you’ve already made to it. The aluminum is nice but that crankshaft isn’t keeping up, and whoever did the rewiring doesn’t seem to be concerned about whether or not your brakes work.” He catches himself and hesitates; there are a dozen other changes he wants to make, but from what his mother’s told him, street racers are notoriously snotty about their mods. Best not to risk losing business just because he’s a better mechanic.
Aiba simply smirks. “Then fix it.”
Nino still walks to the front of the garage to bid Aiba farewell, even though he sees him every week, even though it’s Aiba. Nishihata trots forward to join him, smile bright. “Thank you very much!” he calls enthusiastically, not an ounce of freshness lost over the years.
Aiba leans through his open window and throws a charming grin in their direction. “You’d better make it tonight, Nino.”
Nino nods and lifts his empty coffee can in non-acknowledgment.
“There’s a new guy on the crew. I think you’ll like him.” And with that, he revs his engine once – it sounds nice; Nishihata’s done a good job – and drives off without another word.
.
“Like” isn’t a strong enough word for what Nino feels that night. The classic American-made slicks its way through hairpins, clips at the wings of anything trying to fly into its territory. Each turn is perfectly timed, the taillights a streak of red that curves and bows like the wind itself. It blows past the finish line well ahead of the rest, and the reverb from the engine roars through the air, rumbles down the streets and straight into Nino’s gut where he’s seated on the hood of his car in the spectators’ area.
“Holy shit,” he whispers.
A low chuckle from beside him flutters into his ears, and he can feel them heating up in embarrassment. Even if it’s just Ohno, an additional spectator because there isn’t a bike race tonight, Nino hates being caught with his feelings out in the open. “He’s good, right?” Ohno says, quietly pleased. “He just joined us last month but Sho-kun’s already booking new races like crazy just to see how far he can take us.”
Like clockwork (because he’s nothing if not clockwork), Sakurai comes into earshot, fast-talking into his phone propped up between his ear and his shoulder. His pen scritch-scratches at the page in his planner, and he bows his head in thanks even though the person he’s talking to can’t see him. He ends the call and slips his phone into his pocket with one hand, clapping his planner shut with the other. “Nino, long time no see,” he says with a grin wide enough to suggest he’s more excited about their win than he is about seeing Nino; Nino can’t blame him. “I think we’re going to have to hire you full time with the amount of races we’re taking on these days.”
“Mm, sorry, I’m pretty sure I already have a full-time job.”
Sakurai guffaws – he truly is in a good mood – and claps his hand on Nino’s back. “Matsumoto should be coming over soon. You’re sticking around to celebrate with us, right?”
The car comes first, almost sexy in its precision when it stops right in front of them, windows tinted enough that Nino’s throat tightens in anticipation. Aiba’s car comes skimming up behind, rattled from a hard race but still looking good after a third-place finish.
Both drivers get out of their cars at the same time, and out of his peripheral vision Nino can see that Aiba’s changed out of his daytime clothes into what he likes to wear on nights like these: an oversized hoodie over loose shorts, something comfortable as he takes to the streets. But what catches Nino’s attention is the man who comes out of the other vehicle, strong eyes and defined angles, a plain white tee pulled snug across broad shoulders down to his slim hips, where they meet a pair of black skinny jeans. He looks the way he drives: slick and cool, attentive to his surroundings, with everything in its rightful place and nothing wasted, like he knows exactly what he wants and how to get it.
His eyes slide over toward Nino, and a silent moment between them overwhelms him when he’s caught in a piercing gaze beneath long lashes. And then Matsumoto’s face broadens into jolly cheeks, his lips stretching over a wide grin. It’s so unexpected, so disarming that all of the sounds Nino had stopped hearing come back to him: the boisterous chatter of crews around them, carried on the warm summer breeze like tacky humidity sticking to their skin; the screeching of critters at the nearby riverbank since they’re far enough away from the city center to still have a home there; the posturing rip-roar of cars that have something to prove now that everything’s all over, precisely because they couldn’t do it when it counted.
“Hi, you must be Nino,” he says warmly, extending a hand. Whatever Nino had been anticipating, it hadn’t been this. He turns the wrench in his mind to recalibrate his expectations. “Matsumoto Jun.”
.
The three of them – four of them now, with Matsumoto newly introduced into the mix – make up the modest crew of Team Storm. As the story goes (as so many stories go), it all began at a bar. Aiba and Ohno were sitting next to each other at a counter too classy for either of them, and they’d ended up chatting, about a whole lot of everything and a whole lot of nothing. At some point they’d touched on their hobbies: cars and motorcycles respectively, the faster the better. Deep into the night, Ohno had tried to run off, disappearing after he said he’d just be going to the bathroom, but Aiba had noticed and chased after him. In a twist of Aiba-logic, he’d determined that anyone that slippery would be great at maneuvering on the streets, and since Ohno had taken a liking to him (Nino still argues that the fact that he ran away seems to suggest otherwise), he’d asked him to trade contact information. Their night had ended on a promise to meet up at a race just beyond the city border the following week.
The rest, somehow, is history. They watched a few races as spectators before deciding to dive in and sign up for their own taste of the thrill. Sakurai, Ohno’s childhood friend, came on as manager as soon as they realized they needed someone to keep track of their races for them – so, very early on. And then, later, so much later that Nino is surprised the crew’s garage didn’t fall in on itself from the sudden change in equilibrium, Matsumoto came along.
Matsumoto is a man whose arrival on the street racing scene was immediately noticed, not only because of his skills behind the wheel but also because of his charisma in person. He started as an independent racer and immediately received offers from multiple crews, but it wasn’t until Aiba approached him that he decided to give the team thing a shot. Maybe it was because they’re a small crew, established enough to be known but still underdogs, giving Matsumoto enough space to grow and enough leverage to offer suggestions for improvement. Maybe that’s the kind of thing that appeals to Matsumoto; maybe he knows how to spot a diamond in the rough worth polishing.
(Aiba mentions between his fourth and fifth beer that Matsumoto had also been interested in the other benefits Team Storm had to offer, specifically access to the best mechanics this side of the legal fence, which explains Matsumoto’s excitement in seeing him, if not the flutter in Nino’s stomach when he realized he’d been seen.)
Ah, and speaking of Nino. Nino’s just an average guy who took over the family business. He’s not necessarily interested in cars specifically, but rather in the way things work, the logistics of piecing things together to make them better than before. He leads a simple but not uncomfortable life, and he doesn’t have any specific ambitions beyond successfully paying the bills and successfully getting to the next save point in his life. He’s content to float along, latch onto whatever interesting project drifts by every once in a while.
But Matsumoto? Matsumoto has plenty of ambitions. Right now, after hours at the Storm garage, their vehicles safely parked and the alcohol flowing freely, his main goal is to talk Nino’s ear off in incrementally increasing volume about what’s under the hood of his car. They head over together – sure to deposit their drinks elsewhere before approaching the vehicle – and when Matsumoto cranks the hood up, Nino is impressed by what he sees. All of the parts are laid out in a poetic kind of mechanical logic, with very few opportunities to lose speed or power; with just a little more practice, Matsumoto would make a great mechanic. Nino says as much out loud and Matsumoto preens, his big grin back in full force and his broad chest puffing the tiniest bit. He likes having enough knowledge to be able to take care of his car on his own, he explains; it’s important to him to know the fine details of what’s happening where.
In the end, though, Nino guesses that Matsumoto prefers to be behind the wheel. He’s only known him for a few hours, but Matsumoto is the kind of man who lives for the thrill, lives to be better than before. He loves the attention he receives when he sweeps through another circuit, but as much as it is for himself, it’s also for the people around him. He’s an entertainer. Not everyone can drive the way he drives, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t get to experience the excitement he feels. He comes alive every race, stays alive when he crosses the finish line; racing gives him the chance to share the joy of living.
Despite himself, just from hearing the other man talk, Nino is starting to enjoy the feeling, too.
.
Nino spends his time these days split between the two garages – the one he’s actually in charge of and the one he’s been entrusted with by his motley crew of friends. They technically have another very capable mechanic on duty, someone like Nino who comes in on his time off to support the team. But they (well, everyone besides Aiba) only recently found out that Kazama actually has a three-year-old at home, and they all but threw him out of the garage, telling him to spend his time with the people who really matter. (They get regular photo updates now, and there are shots of a sweet-looking toddler pinned up on the cork board next to the upcoming race schedule; Kazama promises to bring his son in when he’s old enough to hang out in a grungy garage with a bunch of old men.)
Nino brings Nishihata one day after hours, and he nearly glows in his excitement. Aiba and Ohno greet him a good evening and Nishihata all but hollers it back in response, eliciting a small chuckle from Ohno as he returns his attention to the sketchbook full of doodles in his lap.
Nino walks toward the lonely folding chair, Nishihata in tow. “What are you working on, Ohno-san?”
“Ah, MatsuJun said that we should come up with a logo for our team,” Ohno responds, not looking up from his drawing. It’s an exaggerated version of the character for “storm” in Japanese, stylized to look like a king wearing a crown. “Building a brand and getting everyone on board will raise our morale, he says.”
“Since when has morale had anything to do with racing?”
“Since it improves our performance,” comes a response from behind them. Nino and Nishihata turn around to find Matsumoto walking toward them, wiping his hands on a dirty rag hanging from his pants pocket. Nino tries not to focus on the spots he missed, little stripes of grease along toned forearms, leading all the way up to his tank top. He addresses Nishihata next. “You’re Nishihata-kun, right? Nino’s apprentice?”
Nishihata shakes his head fervently, eyes wide. “I don’t deserve the honor of that title. I’m simply a believer.”
Matsumoto smirks and gives Nino a sidelong glance. “Little did I realize we had a god in our midst.”
Nino plays along for as long as he can manage. “I hide it well.” And then he has to tuck his giggles into his elbow, and Matsumoto only grins wider.
They let Nishihata tinker with Matsumoto’s car for practice, watching from either side as he examines the area around the engine. Matsumoto has his arm around Nishihata’s shoulders as they stoop low under the hood together, but when he tells him he’s doing a good job, his eyes are on Nino.
.
Matsumoto doesn’t have a particular reason to be there, but he shows up at Ninomiya Motors anyway. Aiba, Ohno, and even Sakurai make regular appearances so it only makes sense that Matsumoto would end up joining the ranks, but somehow Nino isn’t expecting it. His heart jumps into his throat at the sight of the other man, and it takes him a moment to respond to Matsumoto’s greeting with his own gargled, “Hey.”
Nino shows him around the mostly empty garage floor, and then leads him to the office in the back, only a single standing fan running now that it isn’t so suffocatingly hot outside. It clacks every time the head changes directions, old but sturdy, a remnant from an era when people still kept things that worked perfectly fine. The dull noises keep them company as Nino pours Matsumoto a glass of cold tea for the first and last time – regulars from Team Storm only get the guest treatment once before they’re on their own. Matsumoto takes the glass graciously, taking a seat in one of the chairs along the wall and glancing around the room.
“So you’re in charge now?” Matsumoto asks as his gaze lands on a photo from many, many years ago; Nino is still a scrawny preteen, standing in an oversized Ninomiya Motors uniform between his mom and uncle. Nino hums in affirmation, and Matsumoto nods to himself, seemingly impressed. Nino’s not sure what’s so impressive about him when Matsumoto Jun is Matsumoto Jun, a man so remarkably driven and alive that Nino’s sure he’s achieved more in the last couple of months they’ve known each other than Nino has in the thirty-some years of his entire life.
“The previous generation worked hard enough,” Nino explains. “My mom wrecked her back doing so much heavy lifting, and my uncle prefers to spend his time these days with grandkids instead of cars. There are some balding dudes still around – we stepped over one set of legs earlier – but it’s mostly just me and Daigo.”
“And you like cars?”
Nino almost laughs at the question, but something in the attentive look Matsumoto is giving him suggests he wants a real answer. He shrugs. “I like them well enough. Not as much as you and the rest of the guys do, but it’s nice to know I’m doing something with my life that I’ll probably never get bored with.”
Matsumoto tilts his head and nods a little, as if to himself, but his gaze is fixed on Nino. Nino looks down at the innocuous papers on his desk, decides it’s not rude to get some work done if they’re just sitting there. He starts typing up details of a repair in a customer’s file. Matsumoto lets him.
“Have you ever considered driving?” Matsumoto asks some time later.
Nino looks up from the computer screen. “Driving like the way you drive, right? Not the way I drive.”
Matsumoto smirks like he’s come across a challenge he can’t wait to tackle. “Right.”
“Up till now, my personal acquaintances for your kind of driving have been Aiba-san and Ohno-san. Can’t say they ever made me feel like they make sensible decisions.” Nino slumps back into his chair and folds his arms over his chest. He smiles serenely when Matsumoto mutters an amused “how mean” under his breath; he isn’t exactly disagreeing. “But then you came along, and you actually seem like a man of sound judgment.”
Matsumoto laughs suddenly at that, all broad and open, like he’s joyful that the conversation has taken this turn. He grins and scratches at his nose. “Thanks for the compliment.”
Nino can’t help but grin in return.
A knock on the door interrupts them, and following in the footsteps of Nino’s very rude mother, Katsumi walks in without waiting for a response.
“Nino, I’m done with Bluekey’s repairs so I’m going to – hello, new friend?” He spots and addresses Matsumoto before he finishes his own thought.
“Something like that,” Nino says dryly.
Matsumoto straightens in his seat and puts his hands on his knees, nodding politely. “Matsumoto Jun, nice to meet you. I’m Aiba-kun’s friend.”
Katsumi smiles warmly. “Ah, that rascal. Say no more.” He turns back to Nino. “Anyway, I’m going to head out.” He puts a paper on Nino’s desk outlining the latest repairs for Bluekey – the nickname they gave a man whose keychain becomes increasingly weighed down with blue accessories every time he comes in. Turning to leave, he addresses Matsumoto again. “Nice to meet you, Jun-kun. I’m Takahashi Katsumi; known Nino since he was in diapers.”
“And it’s only a matter of time till you’re in diapers yourself,” Nino quips, gratified to hear Matsumoto snort a little.
Katsumi ignores this. “Feel free to come back anytime. It’s been a while since this kid’s seemed so happy at work.”
Matsumoto gives Nino a sidelong glance, and Nino’s pleased feeling settles into something clammy and self-conscious. He’s not sure he dislikes it, when it’s Matsumoto looking at him. Matsumoto smiles a bit before returning his attention to Katsumi. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
.
Nino arrives at the Storm garage just as Matsumoto comes back from a practice run around a regular route they use for races. Not everyone in the street racing community embraces the idea of practice – it’s somehow counter to the “living in the moment” ideal that many racers seem to strive for – but Matsumoto is nothing if not meticulous in his quest for perfection. He seems to enjoy the risk, the spur-of-the-moment thrill, but his overriding need to be in command of everything he does is one of the main reasons he’s as good as he is.
Unfortunately for Nino, this side of Matsumoto is also unbearably hot.
But then when they run into each other at the main entrance, Matsumoto smiles a big old grin, like he’s seeing a childhood friend for the first time in years and reverting back to a younger, more candid version of himself.
“Nino,” Matsumoto says delightedly, and it makes Nino feel some kind of way to know that Matsumoto’s so happy just to see him.
“Hey.” He nods and tries to head in, but Matsumoto catches him with a hand on his arm – hot to the touch. Nino looks up to see Matsumoto right there in his space, gaze penetrating.
“Come out for a drive with me.”
All Nino can do is nod.
Nino loves Matsumoto’s car like it’s his own, but despite the months he’s spent tweaking it, he’s never actually gone for a drive in it. He settles into the passenger seat and clicks his seatbelt into place. It almost feels like he’s not supposed to be there, a layman stepping onto holy ground, but Matsumoto just grins at him as he tucks himself into the driver’s seat, like this is where Nino truly belongs.
It’s quiet at this time of night, the roads lonely, the streetlamps timid and sparse like they themselves are afraid of the dark. The route that Matsumoto likes best is the same one Nino drives at dusk to get to the garage.
They drive on in comfortable silence, nothing but the sound of the engine as it rolls smoothly between gears. Matsumoto isn’t driving for speed right now; he’s driving because he loves it and wants to share it with someone who understands.
Nino sneaks a glance and catches Matsumoto watching him out of the corner of his eye. Matsumoto grins. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Nino says. He’s feeling a lot right now, but “good” seems to be a good way to put it.
“Good.” And then the engine roars to life, Matsumoto’s foot pressing harder and harder into the floor, the tightness in Nino’s chest rising as the view outside starts to blur around them.
Nino feels each turn before it comes, leans into the laws of physics as the metal beast they ride begins to tear itself apart. Somehow, despite his sweaty palms and his hammering heart, he finds serenity in the moment. He’s at peace with where he is, whom he’s with, what could (but won’t) happen to them as the world spins and they dare to spin faster.
They arrive on a long, open strip by the river. It’s a stretch that typically lasts a few minutes, threatening to be swallowed up between this breath and the next.
Nino doesn’t bother to be subtle when he turns his head to look at Matsumoto. Matsumoto’s staring right at him, face bright, eyes shining, his entire being a flash of light in the darkness.
Nino can’t look away.
.
It’s Friday afternoon, and Aiba is in for his usual repairs. He places a can of coffee on Nino’s desk, and Nino holds it between his hands, letting it warm his palms until it feels too hot to the touch. He curls his hands into loose fists and rolls the can slowly between the backs of his fingers until they feel hot, too.
“Maybe you should get your heater fixed,” Aiba suggests idly.
“I would do it myself if I could feel my fingers,” Nino says with a wry grin.
Aiba grins back. “I see your dilemma.”
Nino doesn’t have to be invited to the race that night; he already knows what’s happening and who’s driving, what he can expect to see at the finish line. He finds Sakurai in the spectators’ area when he arrives, nodding a greeting and settling into one of the folding lawn chairs that have already been set out for them; as expected of Sakurai, always prepared. Nino thanks him with one of the beers he picked up at the convenience store on the way.
They raise their aluminum cans to a valiant effort by Ohno in the bike race, literally scraping by another racer to win third place – enough money to pay for the so-called “turbo-charge” components Kazama had added to the engine last week.
Aiba also puts in a valiant effort, though he lands in fourth place after a bad crash from a nearby driver forces him off course for too long to recover from. Even so, he rushes back to the other driver after he finishes, putting an arm around him to help him walk away from the wreck his car has become. Nino lets out a long, slow breath; this has always been his least favorite part of what they do.
Unexpectedly, Matsumoto loses his race, just barely, and Nino can tell even from the distance that he’s in a bad mood because of it, though he still heads over to congratulate the winner. It’s Yamazaki, a kid who’s just shown up this season but is already making a name for himself. Maybe Matsumoto sees himself in him, though Nino’s not sure if that makes it better or worse.
Sakurai excuses himself and rushes forward with a large paper bag, handing it to Yamazaki. Excitedly, Yamazaki pulls out a long coat, which Nino recognizes immediately as belonging to Matsumoto (because he looks stupidly good in it). Matsumoto grins gamely, saying something as he gestures at the coat, and Nino promises himself that he’ll be there to see Matsumoto win it back.
Matsumoto looks up at his surroundings and is visibly startled when he notices Nino watching. He must really be in a different headspace, because it’s usually Nino who’s being watched (or more accurately, though they haven’t acknowledged it out loud, they’re usually watching each other). He excuses himself and jogs up to Nino, a little of his usual confidence buried beneath the shame of his loss.
“Nice race,” Nino says.
Matsumoto shakes his head. “Kento’s good. I need to work on my cornering. It’s still not as tight as it could be.”
Matsumoto’s cornering is perfect, of course. As close to art as this sport gets. “We can look over your car later and see if there’s any tweaking we can do,” Nino says instead.
He gets a smile in response, lips spreading unevenly across Matsumoto’s face. Nino blinks and looks back up at Matsumoto’s eyes just in time to watch them crinkle a little before he speaks. “Thanks, Nino.”
He hitches a ride back to the garage in Matsumoto’s car, because he’s had two beers and not enough food to make up for it. Their silence is charged with something Nino is too afraid to put into words, and he knows Matsumoto must also be working through his own disappointment that the night didn’t turn out the way it was supposed to. He reaches out and clasps a hand on Matsumoto’s shoulder, letting it linger before he slides away again.
Matsumoto’s eyes flicker toward him and then back to the road ahead. He opens his mouth to speak, clearing his throat the tiniest bit before the words come out. “I’ll definitely win next time.” His tone is unsteady, but his eyes are looking straight ahead.
Nino nods. “I know you will.”
.
When Ohno shifts in his seat, the chairs squeaks with him.
“Shut up,” Nino mutters without malice, not looking up from his desk.
“You shut up,” Ohno responds automatically, continuing to stare at the wall.
They meet eyes and snicker together for a moment before falling back into silence.
Nino doesn’t (usually) bring his multiplayer video game consoles to work, so when he’s done sorting through the accounts for the day, he tosses an old eraser nub in Ohno’s direction; Ohno knocks it away gracefully with the end of his pencil before resuming his drawing in the sketchbook in his lap.
After a few minutes, Ohno turns to a new page and doodles quickly in the top left corner, placing the sketchbook on Nino’s desk and sliding it over. It’s a squirrel today, ri-su, starting as always from the ri in shiritori.
su, su... Nino thinks to himself before he settles on something easy. They have a couple of hours to kill before the garage closes and Nino doesn’t anticipate any other customers coming in, so they’re allowed to start slow. He draws a sloppy circle with some squiggly lines through it. Watermelon, su-i-ka.
Nishihata comes in sometime later to bid them farewell for the evening, and Ohno hands him the sketchbook to throw an entry into the ring. After a considerable amount of time and concentration, he hands the sketchbook over to Nino, who immediately figures out that he’s drawn o-mu-ra-i-su because he’s taken the time to write out Nino ♡ in what would be the ketchup on top.
Nino shoos him away, feigning disinterest. Nishihata just beams and scurries off.
They continue to draw until closing time. Ohno has somehow divined that Nino’s latest masterpiece is a peacock, ku-ja-ku, because Aiba had been by earlier, talking about the unbelievable childhood home he grew up in that surely turned him into the mess he is today.
“This is terrible,” Ohno remarks with a small frown. “Why does it have a moustache?”
“Because it’s male,” Nino says matter-of-factly.
Ohno snorts and his hand flits across the page in a few swift strokes. He turns the sketchbook back around and slides it over with a smug expression on his face.
Nino looks down at the drawing, a quick but beautiful car, ku-ru-ma. The first and only thing that comes to mind is: Matsumoto Jun.
Ah. Game over.
.
The first race of the spring isn’t kind to Aiba’s car (by no fault of his own), and Nino, Kazama, and Nishihata take turns bringing it back to life. It’s still far from race-ready when Nino finishes with it that evening, but at least it looks like a car again; Aiba will no longer find himself on the brink of guilty tears whenever he looks at it, like he has for the past couple of weeks. He and Ohno have gone to the scrapyard – Ohno had insisted on coming along since Aiba’s still getting over his sprained ankle – so all Nino has for company is Sakurai and the thumping hip hop he’s plugged into the garage stereo system.
It takes about three glances toward the empty spot where Matsumoto parks his car for Sakurai to speak up. “I don’t think he’s coming by today.”
Nino shrugs and pretends not to be disappointed, rearranging the grip on his phone before moving on to the next round of his game.
“Are you interested in driving at all?” There’s a contemplative tone to Sakurai’s voice, and when Nino looks up at him, he can tell it’s not the first time he’s wondered; between the members of Team Storm, it’s not the first time Nino’s been asked.
“Why do you ask that?” Nino responds carefully. His answer would have been a breezy, definitive “no” nine months ago, but he’s not really sure anymore. The more time he spends with them, the blurrier the line becomes, like a streak of paint on the road that he might be imagining altogether.
Sakurai smiles a diplomatic kind of smile, friendly eyes and upturned lips giving away nothing of what he’s actually thinking. “You know these cars as well as anyone here, and you have observational skills that most of us don’t.” His smile turns genuine. “I think you’d be good at it.”
“Yeah, I’d just have to get past the part where it’s terrifying.”
“Not with the right teacher,” comes a voice from the main entrance. Somehow Sakurai’s music had masked the low rumble of the engine, but nothing can hide the way Nino responds to Matsumoto’s voice, quaking through him. Matsumoto’s standing in front of his car, the lights and engine still on, disproving Sakurai’s shitty opinion about Nino’s observational skills because he’s almost mad at himself for missing what must have been an amazing entrance.
The weather’s still cool enough for Matsumoto to be wearing the coat that he successfully won back from Yamazaki (though Nino suspects he’ll be wearing it into the murderous summer heat just to prove his point), and Nino lets his eyes sweep down and back up before addressing him. “Elaborate.”
Matsumoto just tips his head back toward his car and walks to the passenger door, getting in without another word. Nino has no choice but to follow.
Nino knows how cars work and doesn’t need to be told how to drive one, but he lets Matsumoto move him around like a marionette anyway – hand on the wheel here, working the manual gear shift here. Matsumoto leans over him to adjust the seat, mirrors, anything he can reach, and his hand drags across Nino’s chest to fasten his seatbelt.
“I can do this by myself,” Nino says, his voice coming out lower than he expects it to.
“I know,” Matsumoto says, voice just as low, continuing anyway.
They head out onto the road, leaving the safety of the garage and Sakurai’s booming bass behind them. All that’s left is the dark night and the quiet between them.
They’ve done this route once before, their positions switched. Nino feels the purr of the engine under his fingertips, finds himself a little breathless even though they’re coasting at a normal speed. They hit a turn that Nino drives like he always does, and when they straighten out again, Nino slowly puts more pressure on the pedal; the car responds with a level of sensitivity that Nino takes pride in. Each driver has his quirks, his own driving style – Matsumoto lives in the spaces between, revels in the minute details, and his car is built to match, painstakingly precise.
Nino picks up speed for the next turn, slightly sharper than the last, and he’s prepared when the car skids a bit, unable to keep up. His grip tightens on the steering wheel as he pulls them onto the next section of the route, a long, open strip by the river. It’s a stretch that typically lasts a few minutes, threatening to be swallowed up between this breath and the next – though Nino’s not sure he’s still breathing. But then Matsumoto’s hand lands on Nino’s, squeezing a bit as if to steer for the both of them. Nino takes in a deep breath and turns to look at Matsumoto, who’s already grinning back at him, and then he returns his attention to the road, pressing his foot more solidly into the floor.
Eventually they end up at a clearing, in one piece, far from the twinkling lights of Tokyo and its surrounding areas. This trial run was nothing like how it was when Matsumoto drove it last time, the way Nino handling the course still timid and sloppy. But he can feel his heartbeat thumping all over his body, in his fingertips, across his chest, all the way down to his still-shaking feet. His eyes are wide and his throat is dry, and he has to swallow again and again as his breathing gradually regulates.
But then it hits him. He’s alive, in every sense of the word. The adrenaline pumps through him all at once, and he grins so hard his cheeks hurt. He turns to Matsumoto to state the obvious – he’s alive, they’re alive – but Matsumoto is already leaning in for a kiss.
Nino is still a little breathless and he gasps as soon as their lips come together. Matsumoto’s tongue slides in, and Nino hears rather than sees Matsumoto unbuckle his seatbelt, feels rather than hears the small noise that escapes him; his eyes have fallen closed and the rest of his senses are shutting down one by one until all that’s left is Matsumoto – his hair soft between Nino’s fingers, his hands firm against Nino’s neck and waist, tugging him in closer, his voice low and guttural in a way that leaves Nino moaning back.
They break apart, and Nino lets Matsumoto fall back the tiniest bit, even though all he wants to do is chase after him. He opens his eyes again, and Matsumoto looks just as breathless as Nino feels.
Nino’s not sure what he’s doing right now, in this moment, sitting in a souped-up car in the middle of a clearing after having defied death to get here. He’s not sure whether he needs to be more ambitious than he is now, taking to the streets on his own even though he’s perfectly happy to be the guy behind the scenes, under the hood. He’s not sure what he wants to do about the man in front of him, eyes wide and searching to match his own. But whatever’s going on with his body, mind, and heart, he is sure of one thing: he’s ready to throw himself head-first into whatever makes him feel like this.
“Let’s do that again,” Matsumoto says.
Nino has no idea which part he’s talking about, but his answer is the same either way.
Absolutely.
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I love the setting you've created for this story and the way you played with the concept of adrenaline. Honestly, very enjoyable! Thanks :)
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I love it! Thank you for writing this dear Anon!
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Thank you for writing!