je_united gift fic for yoru_no_hikaru Part 1/3
Lovely fic for yoru_no_hikaru
Title: All Our Lives
Pairing: Matsuoka Masahiro/Nagase Tomoya
Rating: R for non-graphic sex
Warnings: Some fleeting mentions of child abuse
Summary: Tomoya’s dream of being in a band is crushed when the band flops out of existence. A friend of his offers him a position on a motorbike racing team, and believing it to be a new start, Tomoya agrees.
Notes: This got soooooo far away from me. I wanted to put more porn in it, but the half-bit plot captured me and I ended up writing a whole bunch of words instead. (21k!!) I’m sorry if this isn’t quite what you were looking for, anon; it’s got its shippy moments, but there’re a lot of themes regarding family and starting a new life in it more than romance. Still, I hope you enjoy all the same.
This is home now.
The dirt under his boots, the helmet on his head, his hands wrapped around a set of handlebars; he can feel the wind blow on the back of his neck, and Tomoya takes a deep breath, follows its direction, looks straight ahead, and lets himself fly.
He can remember his father’s voice, but only a little bit, the sound of it reminiscent of a worn out record on a phonograph. He can remember him saying that there’s nothing quite like bikes and nothing quite like the rush of riding them, can remember the way his lips curved into a smile around the hushed light of a cigarette. Among all the awful memories, this one is perhaps the only pleasant one he has; Tomoya wasn’t even ten yet, and papa had yet to fall in love with alcohol.
The air smells like sea salt, though Tomoya supposes that’d be the norm for biking with the sea at your side. As he races down the empty road, as the sun beats on him, as he remembers the gentle expression on his father’s face, the ocean to his right sparkles with life and beauty, and the bike beneath him purrs with an elegance he’d never felt before.
In the back of his mind are these words: It’s been a pleasure working with you guys, but I think this is where we pull the plug. In the back of his mind are these images: his hands tightening around a guitar, his eyes widening in shock, his palms filling with sweat, and every dream he might’ve had shattering beneath his eyelids. In the back of his mind is this idea: after music, what left is there to turn to?
But maybe his father was right about some things after all, like freedom coming in the form of wheels and handlebars and the wind in your face, like the fact that Tomoya didn’t have what it took to be a musician in the first place.
In the end, though, Tomoya laughs, and the world laughs with him.
This whole bike gig might not be half-bad.
Land Snail Racing’s an up-and-coming motorcycle team, started by Shinsuke Takizawa (lovingly called Shin) and a couple of his friends. At the time of its creation Tomoya hadn’t had the opportunity to be one of the founding members--he’d been far too busy in a foolish dream of becoming a musician--but as things turned out, LSR needed a new member for a new race for four members, and Tomoya was happy to step up to plate.
“Someone’s looking good,” Aki teases when Tomoya’s all suited up. The leather feels good on his skin, the boots on his feet even more so, and when he looks down at the 47 written on his bicep he knows he’s grinning like mad. Aki has a similar number on his own bicep: he’s number 53.
“You think so?” Tomoya asks, looking over his shoulder and at the same number splayed on his back. Above it is TOM, written in all-capital letters, and he tingles from head to toe in anticipation. “Dude, the real amazing thing is that Shin-chan got to make this so quick! He just asked me to ride with you guys last week, you know?”
Aki laughs, lighting a cigarette up. “That’s Shin for ya,” he says easily. “That or he’s had that suit just lying around for ages. He’s been wanting you on LSR for years.”
“What lie is this fool spreading now?” asks Shin himself as he comes to stand by Tomoya’s side. The number on Shin’s back reads 46, and in true camaraderie his arm curls around Tomoya’s shoulders at the precise time Tomoya mirrors it. Not one to forget, Shin makes sure to give Aki a proper flip of his middle finger before talking again. “You two goons ready? We’ll have to be on the track with our bikes in ten, so I called our ‘chanics over.”
“’chanics?” Tomoya echoes.
Aki takes a puff of his cigarette, moving to pick his helmet up with his other hand. “Yeah, like mechanics. You’ve seen ‘em at races, right?”
“Like F1 races and stuff?” Tomoya offers, head tilting. Then his eyes go wide, and there’s visible laughter from the men at his side. “Wait--seriously!? This race is at that level? Shin-chan, I thought you said it’d just be a casual track--”
Shin gives the top of his head a little pat. “It’s not the level that matters, Tom. You always gotta make sure your bike’s in tune.”
“Otherwise it’ll explode on track,” Aki continues, all his fingers spreading outward in a flash, “and you’ll have to kiss your sweet life goodbye.”
Tomoya’s face pales at the same time Shin gives Aki a kick, and number 53 walks off towards his bike with a laugh and a ‘just kidding, I swear!’.
Shin shakes his head. “Dumbass,” he says, but the smile on his lips betrays him as he watches Aki go. The arm around Tomoya’s shoulders squeezes before releasing, Shin’s hand resting on Tomoya’s upper back as he leads him along. “You’re gonna be fine, man, trust me. And maybe you won’t explode, but you still gotta make sure your engine won’t suddenly stall and all that. That’s what we have mechanics for.”
“Huh,” Tomoya muses, lips pursing, but he doesn’t argue. “Okay. Is there just one guy doing all our bikes or something?”
“Well, my ‘chanic’s a girl.” There’s a little twinkle in Shin’s eyes that has Tomoya nudging him with a ‘gross!’, and Shin’s happy to nudge him back with a grin that isn’t short of lecherous. “But since we had an addition to the team, you, we got a new ‘chanic on, too. He’s kind of a character, but…”
“Ah.” When they reach Tomoya’s bike there’s a man already crouched to work on it, and Tomoya points with a curious expression. “Is that him?”
Shin gently smacks Tomoya’s hand down. “Matsuoka-san,” he says instead, and the man by the bike pauses in his work and glances up through thick-framed lenses and beneath the rim of a cap. Expression changing in recognition, he moves to stand and gives a quick bow, the corners of his mouth pulled up into a relatively polite smile.
“Takizawa-san,” he greets. It’s a pleasant voice to listen to; Tomoya finds himself smiling before he can resist it. “Hello. I thought I’d get to work right away, if you don’t mind. Or rather--” Now his gaze shifts, eyes on Tomoya, and on instinct Tomoya straightens to full height and rests his arms at his sides. “--if you don’t mind, Nagase-san.”
Tomoya blinks. “You know my name?” he asks, awed. This is where Shin laughs, lightly giving Tomoya a pat on the back while Matsuoka shakes his head from side to side. “He’s your partner, idiot, of course he knows your name. We had to tell him whose bike he’d be working on, after all.”
“Oh!” Tomoya pipes, then nods with a sheepish expression of his own. “That makes sense! But, uh, nah, I don’t mind, Matsu--Ma… Ma…”
“Matsuoka,” says the mechanic, his lips curled just vaguely in amusement. “Masahiro Matsuoka. It’s nice to meet you.”
Tomoya returns the tiny smile with a huge one, holding his hand out. “Tomoya Nagase! The feeling’s mutual.”
Matsuoka’s grip is firm when their hands meet. He’s warm enough Tomoya thinks he can feel it through their gloves, but the single shake the other man gives distracts him before he can think about it any further.
“Let’s get along well,” Matsuoka claims, grinning.
Tomoya agrees with ease.
It feels different on the track than it did on the beach.
There’re butterflies in his stomach Tomoya’s sure he’s never had before; they flit and flutter and make Tomoya feel pretty much sick. The race is going to start in two minutes, and while Shin had assured him that Matsuoka knew what he was doing, watching the man go about affixing parts to his bike had made anxiety rumble in his chest like nothing else.
“But what could possibly go wrong?” Tomoya mumbles under his breath, and from panic alone he feels sweat pool beneath his helmet and drip down his cheek. “You’re gonna be fine, Tomoya. You’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine.”
The announcer starts to speak: “Welcome to round 1 of this year’s A.C.T.S. VMX! We’ve got a number of teams on the track today, folks, featuring BUNKERSTUD, KONGS, White Rain…”
And Tomoya tunes out almost immediately.
All around him he hears purring bikes, a few engines revving here and there in preparation. His grip on his own handles goes white-knuckled, Tomoya’s lungs expanding as he takes in a breath, and he gives a hard blink and keeps his eyes on the track. In the back of his mind he knows the announcer’s still talking, but his brows furrow as he tries to quell the nerves that threaten to swallow him up.
He remembers the seaside. He remembers his first motorbike kicking to life. He remembers the rumble of the engine beneath his thighs, the scent of salt in his nose, and the wind tickling his neck. And when his eyes close, he remembers the colour of the sky.
He doesn’t think about guitars.
“Home,” he says. His voice is low, his lips pressing together, and he gives a definitive nod of his head.
The gun sounds.
And Tomoya’s eyes flick open.
The atmosphere changes in an instant, the heat in the air replaced by the cool wind of having the world whip around him. His surroundings dim into a blur; Tomoya’s eyes stay straight ahead, following the curves of the track and every mechanism, and before he knows it’s happening the frightened feeling fades away.
He stops biting his lip, lets his mouth open instead, and laughs even behind the mouth guard of his helmet. He laughs and curls his hand backward, engine giving a snarl beneath him in turn; Tomoya tells himself he’s going to fly, and as the needle of his speedometre fights to move to the right, he does just that. He swerves around competitors, hears nothing but the race and the bikes and the joy in his ears, and his heart thrums and beats with all the passion of a taiko drum as he passes person after person after person.
“Yeah!” he yells, leaning forward and forcing his bike to move faster. “Come on, come on, come on!”
So come his bike does as it passes the finish line in its last lap.
Tomoya stops, tires skidding over dirt, and when both his legs move out to push his feet against the ground he feels his knees trembling. His hands shake, too, his eyes fixed on the dashboard beneath him, and before he knows it he feels Aki barrel into his side with a scream, strong arms wrapping tight around him.
“Fifth place!”
Tomoya tries to hide his face in embarrassment while Joshima stares at him. They’re sitting in a Lotteria joint and Joshima’s only eaten about three of his consomme fries; Tomoya’s hands fumble a little around his burger while he chews, but he does nod his head.
“Damn,” Joshima says with a whistle, his fourth fry in his fingers. It’s been there the past ten minutes as Tomoya narrated the whole thing--from coming to the track to meeting his new teammates to actually running on the road--and it’s likely Joshima’s forgotten it’s there at all. “Maybe you really do have a talent for this kind of stuff! Tatsuya’s still worried about you, obviously, but I told him to have a little more faith and it looks like I was right.”
“You’re always right, Leader,” Tomoya praises after he swallows. Joshima laughs and shakes his head with a smile, moving to grab another fry, and the expression on his face when he realises he already has one in his fingers is one Tomoya wishes he could put on a polaroid.
He’d been a musician before the whole racing thing--or, rather, a struggling one. Along with Joshima and Tatsuya they’d been an indie three-man band called JURIA: a guitarist, a bassist, and a singer. They’d had some gigs here and there, playing mostly at open mic nights and the very rare event, but when even their third album failed to sell they decided to call it quits. Or, rather, their manager did, and apparently Taichi’s band after JURIA had been doing especially well in the underground rock genre before he dropped out himself to start a family.
“So you like it?” Joshima asks. Tomoya notes he still hasn’t eaten that fourth fry, but says nothing about it as he nods his head. “It’s great stuff,” he promises, ripping another ketchup packet open and spreading some over his burger. “I thought I’d panic, what with it being a competition and all, but it’s not so bad. It’s like… I already dig bikes, so it doesn’t feel like something to be pressured about. You know?”
“I wish I did,” Joshima says with a sigh. “I still don’t know how to swim, so I don’t know how this lifeguard thing is going to work out.”
Tomoya makes some vague gesture with his hand. “But you’re doing it with Gussan, so it can’t be awful.”
“Tatsuya can’t swim for me all the time!”
“Then go into the ocean.”
“Hell no.”
Tomoya laughs at that, holding his hands up in surrender. He finishes the last of his burger, gets to work on his own fries, and this time doesn’t hide the stupid grin on his face when Joshima’s surprised he already has a fry in his hand again.
“It must be nice, though, right?” Tomoya asks, popping fries into his mouth like potato chips. “Getting to work with a friend and all.”
Joshima nods, finally unwrapping his burger and crinkling his nose when he finds it cold. Then again, given it’d been about fifteen minutes since they sat down, Tomoya wonders how these things can slip Joshima’s mind. “He makes it a lot easier to deal with… and then harder to deal with, when we argue. But I suppose that goes for any friendship, huh?”
“I definitely see Aki-kun and Shin-chan fighting heaps, and I’ve only been in LSR for a day,” Tomoya agrees, nodding. Joshima takes a big bite of his burger, cheeks bulging, and then gently waves his hand from side to side to match his shrug.
When he swallows, he says, “What matters is you’re having fun.”
“I am,” Tomoya promises. He finishes the last of his fries and steals some from Joshima without any argument. “This is the second most awesome thing I could do after music, Leader. For real!”
“Whoa!” Tomoya jumps, surprised. “You’re early!”
Matsuoka lifts his head to afford Tomoya a smile before looking back down at the parts in his hands and fitting them together with a twist. It’s been two weeks since their first race and Matsuoka looks exactly the same, even down to his wardrobe; Tomoya’s hair is growing too long and he really needs a shave. “I could say the same for you,” is what Matsuoka says in reply. “You know your race doesn’t start for another nine hours, right?”
“Well, yeah.” Tomoya pulls his cap up off his head, wringing it in his fingers before setting it aside on the floor with his backpack. In front of Matsuoka is the skeleton of his Harley. So many parts have been removed from it that the whole thing looks like a sci-fi robot slaughter scene. “But I thought I’d sneak in a ride before you came to do maintenance and…”
“Your bike’s disassembled,” Matsuoka says easily. Tomoya manages a sheepish smile and a nod, moving to grab a chair and sitting in it backwards. His arms fold atop the rest, his chin resting on his forearm, and he resists the urge to yawn.
“Do you do that all the time?” Tomoya asks.
“Taking the bike apart?”
“Mmhmm.”
Matsuoka makes a noise in the back of his throat, moving to pull a wrench and fit a nut in. Tomoya’s eyes flit briefly to the movements of his arms and shoulders, then settle on his hands instead. “I do,” Matsuoka answers, putting the wrench aside once the nut’s tightened good enough. Like clockwork, he sets this piece of the bike aside and moves onto the next one, working like a well-oiled machine.
“And then you put it together again.” Tomoya finishes the thought with a smile, and from this angle he gets a nice view of Matsuoka’s profile and how he’s smiling a little, too. “That’s amazing, Matsuoka-san.”
“Old habits die hard,” Matsuoka says in return, moving to pick up a screwdriver. Tomoya waits for more, watching Matsuoka work, but when he doesn’t add more he asks, “Old habits from what?”
A pensive sound comes from Matsuoka’s closed mouth. He pauses in his work with the driver, its head still poised in the necessary position. Like he’d had some internal war with himself and made some decision, Matsuoka finally answers after much delay: “I used to work for MotoGP teams.”
To which Tomoya aptly screams, “What!?”
The most unbelievable thing is how casually Matsuoka says it. As if it isn’t incredible he’d been at worldwide competitions--as if it isn’t blowing Tomoya’s mind that someone at that level of expertise is working on his miserable little Harley now.
Tomoya stands from his seat, fingers curled around the top of the chair’s backrest. “Are you serious?”
“I wouldn’t lie about that, Nagase-san.”
“Holy shit!”
He drops back onto his seat with a little thud, and in return Matsuoka laughs at him. Tomoya’s not sure what’s so funny, but he does keep leaning in, eyes wide in shock and fingers curled tight around the chair he’s sitting on. “MotoGP?” he chirps. “All the bikes they use there aren’t even in normal distribution, man! Those’re prototype levels! Untested levels! Like, unsafe for regular roads levels, dead man walking lev--”
“I know,” Matsuoka interjects. “I was there, Nagase-san.”
“What was that even like!?” Tomoya asks, and he knows he’s shouting now, but all Matsuoka does is give a little roll of his eyes in reply. His mouth, however, flirts with the promise of a smile; unfortunately, Tomoya misses it entirely in the veritable shock of his mechanic’s apparent prowess.
“It was work,” Matsuoka says plainly. “You know how work goes.”
“But that’s so cool!” Tomoya whines, hands flailing like mad in Matsuoka’s general direction. Questions fly like bullets, crashing and banging in the air in a shrieking D minor. “How did you get in? How long were you there? Why did you quit? Do you miss it?”
Matsuoka makes that expression again--the one that makes it look like he’s thinking--and then finally turns to look at Tomoya with a smile. “How about you come help me finish up here quick, and maybe we use that extra time after to talk?”
“But I’ve never…” Tomoya trails off awkwardly, excitement deflating like a balloon, but Matsuoka shakes his head and pats the floorspace by his side regardless. So Tomoya inhales, stands from his seat, and plops over to where Matsuoka is.
The other man hands him a screwdriver, flipping it so the handle is facing Tomoya’s way. “I’ll show you what it’s like to put a bike back together and you tell me how cool it is.”
“Eh--”
“And make sure to listen, huh, Nagase?” Matsuoka continues, blatantly ignoring Tomoya’s growing distress as a perfectly cheerful smile plays on his lips. “We don’t want you exploding on the track.”
Tomoya pales drastically. “Why does everyone say that!?”
A few hours later they roll the bike out to the track without incident, Tomoya’s fingers tingling still. In a way he gets what Matsuoka meant by work being work--he can’t deny that it’d been frustrating here and there, especially when Matsuoka started using technical terms--but at the same time, there’s a stunning new feeling of knowing what’d happened to get his bike into the shape it is now. Tomoya looks down at his Harley and the number 47 on it, looks at how it shines under natural sunlight, and looks back at Matsuoka as he trails after him to offer a happy grin. Matsuoka catches this, chuckles, and offers him a smile and a little sideways tilt of his head in return.
What Tomoya’d learned was that the work is meticulous; that Matsuoka takes every single bit of the motorbike apart to check every little thing and polish each metal piece to shining. The less dirt is in a bike, the smoother it’ll go, and with an expression Tomoya dares to call soft Matsuoka had admitted I want my racer to have the best bike on the team.
And isn’t that a funny thing--his racer--though Tomoya supposes he can’t say it isn’t true. In the same way Shin has that girl Tomoya hasn’t met yet, Tomoya has Matsuoka: Matsuoka who walks with his hands in his pockets and with a terrible posture, whose legs seem to be bowed and whose feet point at funny angles whenever he takes a step. There’s a pair of sunglasses perched on Matsuoka’s nose now, his cap on backwards, and while half of Tomoya mourns the fact that his face is obscured, the other half of him gets mad about it mattering.
The sun is relatively high in the sky, but it isn’t late enough for the circuit crew to be working on preparations for the race in the afternoon. The track itself is still open for any stragglers wanting somewhere to play before the big event; meanwhile, Tomoya feels a little selfish for how happy he is that nobody else is here but them.
“All right,” Tomoya says, swinging his leg over the bike and sitting down. He secures his helmet on his head, gives it a hearty pat, and turns to offer Matsuoka a smile. “Let’s hope this baby runs the way she’s gotta.”
Matsuoka’s nose crinkles. “Nothing’s going to be wrong with it, though.”
“It’s the thought that counts!”
So he puts the bike into ignition, listening to the engine growl in awakening and then purr in satisfaction. It feels different like this; perhaps not in general feeling, nor in the way the bike is beneath him or how it rumbles against his thighs, but in the sense that Tomoya knows it sounds so good because of what he and Matsuoka had done together. Small a gesture it is, tiny a detail it is, but it causes satisfaction to curl in the corner of Tomoya’s heart regardless.
Matsuoka stands the standard safety measure away. “What do you think?”
“I think she’s never sounded this good before in my life,” Tomoya replies, and even though Matsuoka’s eyes are hidden, the white of his teeth tell Tomoya enough of the proud grin on the other man’s face.
“As expected,” Matsuoka says, chest puffing with pride as his posture straightens. “Good. Now give that thing a whirl, Nagase. Let’s see if she runs as good as she sounds.”
Tomoya laughs, tilting his head back and turning to look Matsuoka’s way. “I thought nothing was gonna be wrong with it?”
But Matsuoka expected that, and he bends forward just a bit to tease, “It’s the thought that counts.”
Naomi thumps her little fist on Tomoya’s nose and Tomoya makes a little ‘ow!’ noise just to make her giggle. The air smells like chocolate chip cookies being baked to perfection; in the kitchen just a few metres away from where Tomoya sits on the couch with Naomi, Taichi does dishes in the sink.
“Y’know, you encourage her to be violent like that and she’ll be punching boys for real,” Taichi snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. Tomoya sets Naomi back down on his lap in response, feeling her squirm against him while she whines about wanting to fight more. It takes picking Anpanman up and making his stuffed toy fist punch Naomi in the face for her to stop whining, but she fights the tragic hero with all the scrappy willpower of a puppy backed in a corner.
Tomoya grins. She’s so god damn cute. “I thought you want her to punch boys?”
“Yeah, sure, but not when that boy is her daddy.”
The sink stops running, and moments after that Taichi’s coming over to pick Naomi up and carry her in his arms. Unlike Tomoya, she doesn’t greet him with a punch--a tiny kiss is pressed to Taichi’s cheek--but he’s pretty sure that has something to do with the fact that Taichi’s her dad.
“I don’t think she’s gonna punch you any time soon, Taichi-kun.” Tomoya scoots over to give Taichi some space, and down he plops onto the sofa with Naomi babbling absently on his lap. Not once do Taichi’s big hands leave her, save for one being used to point at the television, and when Naomi’s attention is caught by the screen it stays; she watches with big eyes and an open mouth, a little hand coming up to press to her lips.
Taichi smiles fondly, the corners of his eyes crinkling, then leans his head back until it lands on the backrest. “So?” He turns. “How’d that race last weekend go?”
“Oh!” Tomoya stops watching Naomi to look at her father instead, shooting a thumbs up and a determined nod. “It was great! Got seventh place this time, but this race was a notch harder than the other one so I didn’t expect to do as good.” He beams, rubbing the side of his neck. “Shin-chan saved us at the end--he came in fourth--so we moved on to the next round and that’s happening next month.”
“Huh.” Taichi’s lips pucker, head nodding. “Look at you, Mr. Go-getter.”
“Coming from you, that’s kind of a big deal.”
“I’m glad you cherish me so much.”
Tomoya laughs at the same time Taichi waggles his brows at him; Naomi doesn’t care in the least, but that’s how these things are supposed to go, anyway. Shifting the toddler on his lap has Naomi clambering off and resting her head on Taichi’s thigh to watch her movie, but otherwise she’s too engrossed in it to complain.
“I’m learning how to do bike stuff, too,” Tomoya mentions, legs spreading in comfort and his body slumping to the side. His head lands on Taichi’s shoulder, Taichi makes some grunt in return, and then the reaction passes and they stay that way, comfy and easy. “I have my own mechanic, see, for my bike, and this guy’s pro level.” His hands lift, fingers curled the slightest bit towards his palms like claws. “He used to work for MotoGP teams, so you can imagine how cool it is he’s my guy now. All LSR even does is small-time track races! I don’t think Shin-chan plans on us going national level or anything, he probably wouldn’t have the time, so I’m not sure what anyone who’d gone worldwide would want out of such a tiny team.”
Taichi’s cheek rests atop Tomoya’s head. “Who knows?”
“I’m just curious,” Tomoya admits. Bright animated characters flit across the television screen, and he’s got to admit for small kids like Naomi it’s got to be an enticing thing to look at. “I mean, when I think about it--like, if JURIA got famous? I wouldn’t wanna give up all that to suddenly be a nobody again, not after all the suffering.”
“But JURIA didn’t get famous,” Taichi points out. “JURIA sold pretty okay with their first album, sold enough to stay afloat with the second, and then screwed up so bad on the third only their most die-hard fans thought it was worth buying.”
Tomoya winces at the memory. “Thanks, man.” The incident happened years ago, but it’s still a particularly sore spot for him. Being a musician had been his childhood dream, though as it turns out, songwriting is a lot harder than the Beatles made it look. Tomoya could play guitar riff after guitar riff, but with lyrics that’re essentially vocal horseshit, anything he churned out was pretty much crap.
“Dude, I’m just saying--as your former manager, you guys were not doing well on the musical front.” Taichi shrugs, clear-cut and simple, and when Naomi stands and says ‘bathroom’, he gives her a little push towards the direction of the hall. “But you all had a good attitude and that’s what the fans liked, so it’s not all that bad, is it? At least you know you aren’t an asshole.”
“I guess so,” Tomoya agrees, his right thigh starting to jump up and down. “Still doesn’t explain why Matsuoka-san quit the MotoGP.”
“Maybe there isn’t a big reason or anything,” Taichi offers in consolation. He lets out a yawn soon after, free hand moving to scratch his tummy where it peeks beneath his shirt. “Maybe he was just tired of it. Giving up a career for happiness isn’t so out of this world any more.”
“I guess so,” Tomoya says a second time. Taichi gives Tomoya’s knee a reassuring squeeze before getting up on his feet. “Don’t think about it too much, Nagase. The cookies are done, so let’s focus on that instead.”
And true enough, the oven timer rings. Taichi walks over to take the tray out, thick mitts on his hands and all, and is just about done putting all the cookies on a plate when Naomi comes back into the living room with her knuckles in her mouth. Taichi rushes over to scold her, gently pulling her hand out with a shake of his head, but Naomi’s so transfixed on the cookies she doesn’t seem to mind.
Taichi hands her one with a paper towel wrapped around the bottom, but instead of eating it, Naomi walks the distance to give it to Tomoya instead.
Something in Tomoya melts about how tiny her hand is, how big the cookie looks in her strong grip, but he smiles and takes it. “Thank you, Naomi-chan.”
The vibration of the engine under his legs is perfect. It’s another bright and sunny day, the track stretches out before him, and Tomoya’d come early to tune his motorbike up with Matsuoka again a few hours ago. If he turns to his left he’ll see Matsuoka standing off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest and the reassurance, while subtle, is comforting in some way. The thought of it makes him smile.
To his right, Aki gives a harsh rev of his engine, proud and ready. Shin’s somewhere up front, but that’s because he got third place, and Tomoya mentally wishes him good luck. Another teammate, number 14, is behind both him and Aki, and while they’ve never really spoken Tomoya knows he’s going to do his best, too.
The announcer speaks. The starting pistol is lifted.
A shot rings in the air and Tomoya shoots forward in a breeze.
“That was just mental, dude!” Aki yells, drunk and laughing and his arm wrapped around Tomoya while he grins like a cheese. Shin rolls his eyes, but he does smile as he reaches for another cold one. Gonzo, number 14, laughs his own laugh as he tries to pry Aki off of Tomoya’s person; Aki whines and touches Gonzo’s face, moaning about how distressed he is that Gonzo isn’t a pretty woman, but is otherwise fine. This might be the first time Tomoya’s ever spent time with the third member of LSR, but given that he balances the life of a salaryman with the life of a racer, he can imagine why he doesn’t come too early or leave too late to races. At least he holds Aki steady while he giggles into his shoulder.
“I think I did pretty okay,” Tomoya says sheepishly.
“Don’t be modest, Tom,” Shin scolds, taking a few gulps of his beer and reaching for the dried squid on the table. “You came in second--that’s a big deal! Sure, Aki came in third, but we don’t really talk about his accomplishments.”
“Hey!” Aki slurs, but Gonzo shushes him with a piece of squid.
Tomoya grins, taking a picture of them with his phone. “I don’t know--I can’t say it was all ‘cause of me or anything.” He sets it down in favour of reaching for more of the snacks on the table, dipping them in vinegar and popping them into his mouth. The crunch is fantastic and Tomoya tingles all the way down his spine. “Gotta give the bike some credit, too,” he indicates, then pauses to add, “and Matsuoka-san for taking care of it so nicely.”
“Oh, hey,” Gonzo remarks around Aki’s octopus arms on his neck, “Matsuoka-san.” His brows furrow. “Never actually got to talk to him.”
“You haven’t talked to anyone,” Shin says, kicking at Gonzo’s shin for emphasis. Gonzo smiles and ducks his head away from Aki’s nuzzling.
“He’s really cool,” Tomoya promises. “He’s legitimate pro level--MotoGP and all--so he can take my bike apart and put it together in, what, fifteen minutes?” His voice rises in pitch a little, his lips curving up into a bright smile. “He’s amazing… and real interesting to talk to, too.”
“Talk to?” Shin repeats.
“Yeah.” Tomoya perks up, making a little grabby motion for some beer and watching as Gonzo expertly reaches over despite the heavy weight of Aki at his side. With a gracious ‘thanks’, Tomoya pops the tab open, washing the taste of salt and seafood and sourness out of his mouth. “I’ve been coming to the track early to help him do things with my bike, so we get to talk a little between work. It’s a serious learning experience, man.”
Shin’s mouth forms some version of a grin. “Wow, Tom. Didn’t think you had it in you,” he says, and Tomoya almost replies if not for Gonzo interjecting.
“How about off-track?” he asks.
Tomoya’s head tilts. “Off-track--?”
“Like--damn it, Aki--” Gonzo pushes the other man’s face away to a great measure of argument, but apparently the sight of the squid on the table has Aki’s fingers moving out to grab a handful and start eating instead. Tomoya can’t help but think his attention span reminds him of Naomi. “--you know, like friends. You should invite him to our after-race drinks next time.”
“What--” Somehow the prospect of it has Tomoya’s cheeks warming, but he attributes it to the beer he’s already drank two-thirds’ of. “Eh, I thought this was supposed to be a just-us thing?”
“You kidding me?” Gonzo scoffs. “Trust me, if Shin here could get Mariko to even think of him as anyone other than her employer, she’d be here.”
“Mariko…” Tomoya trails off, but a little turn of his head and the sight of Shin clearing his throat into his fist tells him enough about that matter. “Seriously? You want me to take Matsuoka-san with me?”
Gonzo shrugs, smiling as he moves to light up a cigarette. Aki burps after a hefty gulp of beer, but he does offer a grin and a thumbs-up. “Yeah, Tom!”
“Do you even know what we’re talking about?” Shin accuses, waving a hand in front of Aki’s flushed, drunken face. In turn Aki pushes that hand away with a huff. “You gotta stop bullying me!”
“But do you know?”
Aki grins sheepishly, putting both hands on his lap and dipping his head. “No.”
Shin’s shaking his head from side to side while Gonzo laughs. Tomoya looks at the squid left on the plate and takes it, dipping the last piece in vinegar.
The handkerchief rubbing against his face is unexpected, but Tomoya’s embarrassed all the same by the blush that appears on his cheeks.
“You had grease there, idiot,” Matsuoka tells him.
“Sorry,” Tomoya says in reply, and when he notices Matsuoka’s expression turning mildly concerned, he shakes his head and waves his head in front of him. “I’m fine, I’m fine!”
“You know what I said about spacing out,” is all Matsuoka warns, and Tomoya laughs awkwardly and nods his head. Attention--he’s got to pay attention.
They work on his Harley in relatively comfortable silence, or at least it’s comfortable on Matsuoka’s end. Tomoya keeps glancing at him, keeps biting the inside of his cheek, and then tells himself to quit it--to not be so freaking weird about it, because what the hell could go wrong? Shin said it was okay, Gonzo was the one who suggested it, Aki was drunk as hell so whatever opinion he might’ve had doesn’t matter (now he’s starting to sound like Shin), and Matsuoka is… cool. Tomoya’d said so himself.
But it’s the fact that he’s so cool that makes this so hard. He presses his lips into a thin line and releases, then repeats this action a couple more times. Tomoya does it again and again until Matsuoka finally puts the pieces in his hand on the floor and looks over at him with a raised brow; Tomoya pretends he doesn’t see and keeps on working.
“Are you sick or something?” Matsuoka asks regardless, cutting straight to the point. “Maybe chapped lips? I have chapstick for that, you know.”
Indirect k-- “No, no!” Tomoya answers, throat tightening as he fumbles with the metal in his hand and tries to fit it in the right space. “No, I’m not sick, I promise.” Matsuoka doesn’t look convinced. “And it’s not that my lips are dry! They’re doing just fine, Matsuoka-san.”
“So what’re you doing that for?”
“Doing what for?”
“That,” Matsuoka says plainly. “The thing with your mouth.”
Being called out so bluntly makes Tomoya’s face warm again, but he laughs to quell any instantaneous want to run away. He hopes his sheepish expression works--that Matsuoka won’t dismiss him as some weirdo--and then puts on his best attempt at earnest truth. “I just, ah… I was talking to the guys, you know, after our last race.”
“Uhuh.”
“And I said that… we’ve been working together.”
Matsuoka actually pauses at that, and for a moment Tomoya thinks it’s because he’s mad. Instead of yelling, however, Matsuoka takes the cylinder in Tomoya’s fingers and fits it into the bike himself. More relieved than anything, Tomoya swallows the spit that’d built up in his throat.
But what comes after Matsuoka purses his lips is surprising. “What, were they against it?”
“Huh?”
“Did they not like that we were talking?” Matsuoka clarifies, pulling his glasses off and cleaning them with the hem of his shirt. His brows are furrowed the slightest bit while he looks down; Tomoya might think he was trying to concentrate, but given they aren’t doing anything, that can’t possibly be it. “I guess it’s pretty unprofessional to talk so casually outside of work--”
“No!” Tomoya interrupts, shaking his head. “No, no! Matsuoka-san, it’s the complete opposite. They told me to invite you.”
Matsuoka’s hand stops moving. “Invite me?”
“Yeah,” Tomoya insists. “Like… to drinks and stuff. After the race. We usually go out to a bar, eat some seafood and drink some beer…” Matsuoka’s expression doesn’t change, and neither does his position save for the way he brings his glasses back up to rest on his nose. Tomoya bites his lip, his head tilting a little to watch for any particular signs of agreement or disagreement, but Matsuoka doesn’t smile or frown.
After a few moments of consideration, he says, “Sure.”
And Tomoya blinks. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Matsuoka picks up the pieces he’d put down, once more affixing them to the bike and picking a wrench up to seal the deal. “You’re going to be there, right?”
Tomoya nods, unable to stop himself from smiling. “I’m going to be there,” he promises.
“Nice,” Matsuoka replies, picking a screwdriver up and shoving it into Tomoya’s palm. “Now get back to work, moron.” The corners of his mouth tug up, the expression charming and handsome and the perfect complement to the brighter quality of his eyes. “What’re we gonna do if you explode out there?”
“I’m not gonna explode!” Tomoya yells, but his grin never disappears.
And just like that, things become easy. Gonzo’s the one who makes it to the top five next, having won fifth place by a hair, and this sends Land Snail Racing on their way to the fifth round. As promised, Matsuoka goes drinking with them after, and while he starts out awkward and polite, his fourth beer or so gets him singing--going so far as to stand on the table and give his best impression of Eikichi Yazawa (“I love him!” Matsuoka had declared, voice booming throughout the bar and his head pushing into Tomoya’s shoulder with a grin once he moved to hide it). It’s a fun thing, a cheerful thing, and by the end of the night the entire team’s got Matsuoka’s number in their mobile phones for any future excursions (Tomoya, while Matsuoka wasn’t looking, punched him in as ‘Masahiro’).
Now they’re walking from the bar, Matsuoka’s arm around Tomoya’s shoulder and Tomoya’s arm curled protectively around his waist. It’s remarkable how much the other man drank, but Tomoya’s just happy he had fun doing it.
“Where do you live?” Tomoya asks as they stand on the sidewalk, getting up on his tiptoes and watching for any passing cabs. Matsuoka lets out a low hum in response, leaning a little heavier against him, but Tomoya keeps himself stiff and steady to make sure they don’t topple over.
“Yokohama,” Matsuoka says, laughing a bit after he speaks, a hand lifting to touch his throat. “Ah… my voice, it’s weird. I sound weird.”
Tomoya grins. “You drank a lot.”
“I did.”
“You sang on a table.”
“I…” Matsuoka laughs once more, looking over at Tomoya with a surprised gleam in his eyes. “I did?”
“You did,” Tomoya agrees, and he can’t stop himself from giggling at the memory, either--that and the way Matsuoka makes some weak, embarrassed sound after he confirms it. “I took a video of it and everything too, just to make sure you won’t be able to deny it.”
“I must’ve looked like a giant idiot,” Matsuoka gripes.
“Actually--” Tomoya nudges him a little, the corners of his eyes crinkling fondly. “--I thought you were great.”
In return Matsuoka snickers, the arm around Tomoya’s shoulders giving a little squeeze. It sends warmth over Tomoya’s skin; it doesn’t matter that he’s wearing several layers of clothing. In some instinctive gesture Tomoya almost leans into Matsuoka’s hold, but resists well enough before it becomes too obvious, the inside of his throat running dry instead. “You’re too nice,” Matsuoka says to him, none the wiser, “or really easily impressed? Dunno which one I prefer, but…”
“As long as Matsuoka-san doesn’t mind, then we can say I’m both,” Tomoya teases, hoping that the pink on his cheeks can be attributed to the cold around them or the alcohol they drank, but the way Matsuoka looks at him after--well, maybe he can’t tell Tomoya’s blushing at all.
His glasses have fogged a little, but his eyes become crescents as he grins. “Then both it is.”
They stay standing like that, Matsuoka swaying every so often until Tomoya moves to steady him. Every cab that passes by seems to be full already, but given they’re in a popular district, it’s not like Tomoya can expect anything else. Sometimes Matsuoka will swear at them as they pass by--fucking shits, god damn bastards, assfuck shitty lazy piece of shit drunkards--and Tomoya will laugh, and no matter how many minutes pass or how many variations of shit Masahiro says, it never seems to get old.
“You know,” Tomoya says after maybe the ten minute mark, resisting yet another giggle as Matsuoka squints in accusation at another cab rushing away, “I can take you home if you don’t mind telling me where you live.”
Matsuoka snorts. “What, you live near Yokohama or something?”
“In Yokohama, actually,” Tomoya says, chipper and bright, and the way Matsuoka’s expression changes from deadpan to amazed is something he wishes he had on video, too.
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“Because--” But Tomoya’s interrupted by Matsuoka swaying and hobbling along, his hand slipping to clasp Tomoya’s in a firm grip. Stupefied (and relishing the warmth of it, just a little), Tomoya returns that hold, his heart leaping up in his throat. His brain wrinkles at the sensation of it--that’s weird--but all the same he follows in Matsuoka’s footsteps, the back of his neck starting to prickle with heat.
It takes some guts, but Tomoya clears his throat and says, “Matsuoka-san?”
“Hm?”
“I parked my car the other way.”
All in all, the drive itself is uneventful. Matsuoka’s reached a level of drunk mixed with a level of tired that can only result in him practically conking out in the passenger seat, and while it proves to make the whole thing a silent affair, Tomoya finds it more adorable than bothersome. At stoplights he catches himself looking, stealing glances of Matsuoka’s softened features and the way his glasses are slipping off his nose, and under a particularly orange streetlight he realises that Matsuoka’s already got some facial hair growing in. Tomoya tells himself it’s because he’s worried--that even though Matsuoka’s belted in, maybe he’ll hurt his neck somehow and Tomoya will have to adjust him--but in the end, all he can really conclude is that Matsuoka’s cute when he’s sleeping.
Matsuoka lives in a nice neighbourhood--the kind where there’s a convenience store only a three minute walk away from where everyone lives. Tomoya rolls his car through these darkened streets with a curious expression, and in a feat of incredible multitasking he does his best to pay attention to each house number he passes.
“Number 1101,” Tomoya murmurs under his breath once he sees it: gold numbers sparkling in the dimly lit night. Then he sees the rest of the house and takes in a sharp breath.
Matsuoka’s home is spacious, complete with a gated front garden and a garage, but Tomoya has to admit he isn’t surprised. He can’t even begin to imagine how much Matsuoka used to earn before--how much he must’ve saved over the years--and the clean design, the economic size, the straight lines and neutral colours, all tell him that Matsuoka at least knew how to use his money. Usefulness and style; in his mind his image of Matsuoka becomes even cooler.
Tomoya looks away and touches the sleeping man in his car, gently tapping him on the shoulder. “Matsuoka-san?” And if he thought Matsuoka’s sleeping face was precious, seeing him twitch and grumble is even cuter.
Dangerous, his mind says.
“We’re here,” his mouth says.
Matsuoka’s head dips down, his eyelids shutting hard. “Wuh?” His glasses fall off entirely and land on his lap in the process, but he picks those up and holds them in clumsy fingers. Tomoya smiles a bit and points at the house just beyond the open passenger window. “This is it, right?”
Matsuoka puts his glasses back on, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He squints, and then recognises: “Oh, shit. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” Tomoya says, and he chuckles only a little.
“Damn, Nagase--sorry for knocking out on you.” Matsuoka undoes his seatbelt and yawns. “I didn’t know I was that far down… uh.”
Tomoya shakes his head. “No problem,” he assures. “I’m just glad you got home okay. Can you go in on your own?”
“Yeah,” Matsuoka answers after some delay. He feels his pockets, patting at his thighs, and then visibly relaxes when he brushes over his keys. “Slept some of the booze away--anyone ever tell you your car’s comfy as hell?”
“No.” Tomoya laughs, his hand lifting and curling into a fist for him to clear his throat into.
“Well,” Matsuoka starts, opening the door, “they gotta start. Your air freshener’s great.” Then his legs slip out, he stands to his full height, and to Tomoya’s amazement, he remains standing without even the slightest wobble. “And your seats were nice… that leather’s gotta be A-grade.”
Tomoya’s still laughing. “Are you seriously complimenting me on my car?” he asks, disbelieving.
Not skipping a beat, Matsuoka says, “In my line of work, that’s pretty much the highest honour you could ever get.” He straightens his jacket, looks over to his house, and lets out a little huff. “But… I guess you were an okay driver if I stayed conked out the whole time. Thanks, Nagase.”
“Any time,” Tomoya assures, and the way Matsuoka looks at him when he turns back to say goodbye has his heart doing that funny thing again.
There’s a pause--Tomoya wonders if Matsuoka’s going to say good night or just go in, and then is surprised when he does neither and sticks his head in through the open passenger window instead.
“Text me,” is what Matsuoka says.
“What?”
“Like… message me.” Matsuoka reaches his arm in to give Tomoya a light smack to the forehead; Tomoya’s eyes close on instinct as he’s hit, then open again as astounded as they were when they shut. “You got my number, right?”
“Yeah.” Tomoya’s throat is going all tight and dry and he tells himself stop being weird! “Yeah, I have your number, but…”
“But what?”
“... I’m not good at the whole texting first thing.”
“Oh.” Matsuoka blinks at that, then gives a few nods. “I see. No problem.”
Tomoya’s about to ask what he means by that, but Matsuoka’s already pulled back from the window and started to walk to his front gate. He doesn’t turn back, much to Tomoya’s distress; in fact, Matsuoka walks with his head bowed, pointedly deciding not to look at anything. An apology wells up his throat as Matsuoka sticks the key to his gate in, but something on his dashboard vibrates and distracts Tomoya aptly enough for him to pick his phone up instead.
Masahiro: Texted you first, it says on the lock screen.
Tomoya looks to where Matsuoka’s standing, but the front gate swings shut with a soft creak. His phone buzzes in his hand again, and with nowhere else to focus, he dips his head and glances down at it.
Masahiro: Now you don’t have a choice but to text back, do you?
Part 3
Title: All Our Lives
Pairing: Matsuoka Masahiro/Nagase Tomoya
Rating: R for non-graphic sex
Warnings: Some fleeting mentions of child abuse
Summary: Tomoya’s dream of being in a band is crushed when the band flops out of existence. A friend of his offers him a position on a motorbike racing team, and believing it to be a new start, Tomoya agrees.
Notes: This got soooooo far away from me. I wanted to put more porn in it, but the half-bit plot captured me and I ended up writing a whole bunch of words instead. (21k!!) I’m sorry if this isn’t quite what you were looking for, anon; it’s got its shippy moments, but there’re a lot of themes regarding family and starting a new life in it more than romance. Still, I hope you enjoy all the same.
This is home now.
The dirt under his boots, the helmet on his head, his hands wrapped around a set of handlebars; he can feel the wind blow on the back of his neck, and Tomoya takes a deep breath, follows its direction, looks straight ahead, and lets himself fly.
He can remember his father’s voice, but only a little bit, the sound of it reminiscent of a worn out record on a phonograph. He can remember him saying that there’s nothing quite like bikes and nothing quite like the rush of riding them, can remember the way his lips curved into a smile around the hushed light of a cigarette. Among all the awful memories, this one is perhaps the only pleasant one he has; Tomoya wasn’t even ten yet, and papa had yet to fall in love with alcohol.
The air smells like sea salt, though Tomoya supposes that’d be the norm for biking with the sea at your side. As he races down the empty road, as the sun beats on him, as he remembers the gentle expression on his father’s face, the ocean to his right sparkles with life and beauty, and the bike beneath him purrs with an elegance he’d never felt before.
In the back of his mind are these words: It’s been a pleasure working with you guys, but I think this is where we pull the plug. In the back of his mind are these images: his hands tightening around a guitar, his eyes widening in shock, his palms filling with sweat, and every dream he might’ve had shattering beneath his eyelids. In the back of his mind is this idea: after music, what left is there to turn to?
But maybe his father was right about some things after all, like freedom coming in the form of wheels and handlebars and the wind in your face, like the fact that Tomoya didn’t have what it took to be a musician in the first place.
In the end, though, Tomoya laughs, and the world laughs with him.
This whole bike gig might not be half-bad.
Land Snail Racing’s an up-and-coming motorcycle team, started by Shinsuke Takizawa (lovingly called Shin) and a couple of his friends. At the time of its creation Tomoya hadn’t had the opportunity to be one of the founding members--he’d been far too busy in a foolish dream of becoming a musician--but as things turned out, LSR needed a new member for a new race for four members, and Tomoya was happy to step up to plate.
“Someone’s looking good,” Aki teases when Tomoya’s all suited up. The leather feels good on his skin, the boots on his feet even more so, and when he looks down at the 47 written on his bicep he knows he’s grinning like mad. Aki has a similar number on his own bicep: he’s number 53.
“You think so?” Tomoya asks, looking over his shoulder and at the same number splayed on his back. Above it is TOM, written in all-capital letters, and he tingles from head to toe in anticipation. “Dude, the real amazing thing is that Shin-chan got to make this so quick! He just asked me to ride with you guys last week, you know?”
Aki laughs, lighting a cigarette up. “That’s Shin for ya,” he says easily. “That or he’s had that suit just lying around for ages. He’s been wanting you on LSR for years.”
“What lie is this fool spreading now?” asks Shin himself as he comes to stand by Tomoya’s side. The number on Shin’s back reads 46, and in true camaraderie his arm curls around Tomoya’s shoulders at the precise time Tomoya mirrors it. Not one to forget, Shin makes sure to give Aki a proper flip of his middle finger before talking again. “You two goons ready? We’ll have to be on the track with our bikes in ten, so I called our ‘chanics over.”
“’chanics?” Tomoya echoes.
Aki takes a puff of his cigarette, moving to pick his helmet up with his other hand. “Yeah, like mechanics. You’ve seen ‘em at races, right?”
“Like F1 races and stuff?” Tomoya offers, head tilting. Then his eyes go wide, and there’s visible laughter from the men at his side. “Wait--seriously!? This race is at that level? Shin-chan, I thought you said it’d just be a casual track--”
Shin gives the top of his head a little pat. “It’s not the level that matters, Tom. You always gotta make sure your bike’s in tune.”
“Otherwise it’ll explode on track,” Aki continues, all his fingers spreading outward in a flash, “and you’ll have to kiss your sweet life goodbye.”
Tomoya’s face pales at the same time Shin gives Aki a kick, and number 53 walks off towards his bike with a laugh and a ‘just kidding, I swear!’.
Shin shakes his head. “Dumbass,” he says, but the smile on his lips betrays him as he watches Aki go. The arm around Tomoya’s shoulders squeezes before releasing, Shin’s hand resting on Tomoya’s upper back as he leads him along. “You’re gonna be fine, man, trust me. And maybe you won’t explode, but you still gotta make sure your engine won’t suddenly stall and all that. That’s what we have mechanics for.”
“Huh,” Tomoya muses, lips pursing, but he doesn’t argue. “Okay. Is there just one guy doing all our bikes or something?”
“Well, my ‘chanic’s a girl.” There’s a little twinkle in Shin’s eyes that has Tomoya nudging him with a ‘gross!’, and Shin’s happy to nudge him back with a grin that isn’t short of lecherous. “But since we had an addition to the team, you, we got a new ‘chanic on, too. He’s kind of a character, but…”
“Ah.” When they reach Tomoya’s bike there’s a man already crouched to work on it, and Tomoya points with a curious expression. “Is that him?”
Shin gently smacks Tomoya’s hand down. “Matsuoka-san,” he says instead, and the man by the bike pauses in his work and glances up through thick-framed lenses and beneath the rim of a cap. Expression changing in recognition, he moves to stand and gives a quick bow, the corners of his mouth pulled up into a relatively polite smile.
“Takizawa-san,” he greets. It’s a pleasant voice to listen to; Tomoya finds himself smiling before he can resist it. “Hello. I thought I’d get to work right away, if you don’t mind. Or rather--” Now his gaze shifts, eyes on Tomoya, and on instinct Tomoya straightens to full height and rests his arms at his sides. “--if you don’t mind, Nagase-san.”
Tomoya blinks. “You know my name?” he asks, awed. This is where Shin laughs, lightly giving Tomoya a pat on the back while Matsuoka shakes his head from side to side. “He’s your partner, idiot, of course he knows your name. We had to tell him whose bike he’d be working on, after all.”
“Oh!” Tomoya pipes, then nods with a sheepish expression of his own. “That makes sense! But, uh, nah, I don’t mind, Matsu--Ma… Ma…”
“Matsuoka,” says the mechanic, his lips curled just vaguely in amusement. “Masahiro Matsuoka. It’s nice to meet you.”
Tomoya returns the tiny smile with a huge one, holding his hand out. “Tomoya Nagase! The feeling’s mutual.”
Matsuoka’s grip is firm when their hands meet. He’s warm enough Tomoya thinks he can feel it through their gloves, but the single shake the other man gives distracts him before he can think about it any further.
“Let’s get along well,” Matsuoka claims, grinning.
Tomoya agrees with ease.
It feels different on the track than it did on the beach.
There’re butterflies in his stomach Tomoya’s sure he’s never had before; they flit and flutter and make Tomoya feel pretty much sick. The race is going to start in two minutes, and while Shin had assured him that Matsuoka knew what he was doing, watching the man go about affixing parts to his bike had made anxiety rumble in his chest like nothing else.
“But what could possibly go wrong?” Tomoya mumbles under his breath, and from panic alone he feels sweat pool beneath his helmet and drip down his cheek. “You’re gonna be fine, Tomoya. You’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine.”
The announcer starts to speak: “Welcome to round 1 of this year’s A.C.T.S. VMX! We’ve got a number of teams on the track today, folks, featuring BUNKERSTUD, KONGS, White Rain…”
And Tomoya tunes out almost immediately.
All around him he hears purring bikes, a few engines revving here and there in preparation. His grip on his own handles goes white-knuckled, Tomoya’s lungs expanding as he takes in a breath, and he gives a hard blink and keeps his eyes on the track. In the back of his mind he knows the announcer’s still talking, but his brows furrow as he tries to quell the nerves that threaten to swallow him up.
He remembers the seaside. He remembers his first motorbike kicking to life. He remembers the rumble of the engine beneath his thighs, the scent of salt in his nose, and the wind tickling his neck. And when his eyes close, he remembers the colour of the sky.
He doesn’t think about guitars.
“Home,” he says. His voice is low, his lips pressing together, and he gives a definitive nod of his head.
The gun sounds.
And Tomoya’s eyes flick open.
The atmosphere changes in an instant, the heat in the air replaced by the cool wind of having the world whip around him. His surroundings dim into a blur; Tomoya’s eyes stay straight ahead, following the curves of the track and every mechanism, and before he knows it’s happening the frightened feeling fades away.
He stops biting his lip, lets his mouth open instead, and laughs even behind the mouth guard of his helmet. He laughs and curls his hand backward, engine giving a snarl beneath him in turn; Tomoya tells himself he’s going to fly, and as the needle of his speedometre fights to move to the right, he does just that. He swerves around competitors, hears nothing but the race and the bikes and the joy in his ears, and his heart thrums and beats with all the passion of a taiko drum as he passes person after person after person.
“Yeah!” he yells, leaning forward and forcing his bike to move faster. “Come on, come on, come on!”
So come his bike does as it passes the finish line in its last lap.
Tomoya stops, tires skidding over dirt, and when both his legs move out to push his feet against the ground he feels his knees trembling. His hands shake, too, his eyes fixed on the dashboard beneath him, and before he knows it he feels Aki barrel into his side with a scream, strong arms wrapping tight around him.
“Fifth place!”
Tomoya tries to hide his face in embarrassment while Joshima stares at him. They’re sitting in a Lotteria joint and Joshima’s only eaten about three of his consomme fries; Tomoya’s hands fumble a little around his burger while he chews, but he does nod his head.
“Damn,” Joshima says with a whistle, his fourth fry in his fingers. It’s been there the past ten minutes as Tomoya narrated the whole thing--from coming to the track to meeting his new teammates to actually running on the road--and it’s likely Joshima’s forgotten it’s there at all. “Maybe you really do have a talent for this kind of stuff! Tatsuya’s still worried about you, obviously, but I told him to have a little more faith and it looks like I was right.”
“You’re always right, Leader,” Tomoya praises after he swallows. Joshima laughs and shakes his head with a smile, moving to grab another fry, and the expression on his face when he realises he already has one in his fingers is one Tomoya wishes he could put on a polaroid.
He’d been a musician before the whole racing thing--or, rather, a struggling one. Along with Joshima and Tatsuya they’d been an indie three-man band called JURIA: a guitarist, a bassist, and a singer. They’d had some gigs here and there, playing mostly at open mic nights and the very rare event, but when even their third album failed to sell they decided to call it quits. Or, rather, their manager did, and apparently Taichi’s band after JURIA had been doing especially well in the underground rock genre before he dropped out himself to start a family.
“So you like it?” Joshima asks. Tomoya notes he still hasn’t eaten that fourth fry, but says nothing about it as he nods his head. “It’s great stuff,” he promises, ripping another ketchup packet open and spreading some over his burger. “I thought I’d panic, what with it being a competition and all, but it’s not so bad. It’s like… I already dig bikes, so it doesn’t feel like something to be pressured about. You know?”
“I wish I did,” Joshima says with a sigh. “I still don’t know how to swim, so I don’t know how this lifeguard thing is going to work out.”
Tomoya makes some vague gesture with his hand. “But you’re doing it with Gussan, so it can’t be awful.”
“Tatsuya can’t swim for me all the time!”
“Then go into the ocean.”
“Hell no.”
Tomoya laughs at that, holding his hands up in surrender. He finishes the last of his burger, gets to work on his own fries, and this time doesn’t hide the stupid grin on his face when Joshima’s surprised he already has a fry in his hand again.
“It must be nice, though, right?” Tomoya asks, popping fries into his mouth like potato chips. “Getting to work with a friend and all.”
Joshima nods, finally unwrapping his burger and crinkling his nose when he finds it cold. Then again, given it’d been about fifteen minutes since they sat down, Tomoya wonders how these things can slip Joshima’s mind. “He makes it a lot easier to deal with… and then harder to deal with, when we argue. But I suppose that goes for any friendship, huh?”
“I definitely see Aki-kun and Shin-chan fighting heaps, and I’ve only been in LSR for a day,” Tomoya agrees, nodding. Joshima takes a big bite of his burger, cheeks bulging, and then gently waves his hand from side to side to match his shrug.
When he swallows, he says, “What matters is you’re having fun.”
“I am,” Tomoya promises. He finishes the last of his fries and steals some from Joshima without any argument. “This is the second most awesome thing I could do after music, Leader. For real!”
“Whoa!” Tomoya jumps, surprised. “You’re early!”
Matsuoka lifts his head to afford Tomoya a smile before looking back down at the parts in his hands and fitting them together with a twist. It’s been two weeks since their first race and Matsuoka looks exactly the same, even down to his wardrobe; Tomoya’s hair is growing too long and he really needs a shave. “I could say the same for you,” is what Matsuoka says in reply. “You know your race doesn’t start for another nine hours, right?”
“Well, yeah.” Tomoya pulls his cap up off his head, wringing it in his fingers before setting it aside on the floor with his backpack. In front of Matsuoka is the skeleton of his Harley. So many parts have been removed from it that the whole thing looks like a sci-fi robot slaughter scene. “But I thought I’d sneak in a ride before you came to do maintenance and…”
“Your bike’s disassembled,” Matsuoka says easily. Tomoya manages a sheepish smile and a nod, moving to grab a chair and sitting in it backwards. His arms fold atop the rest, his chin resting on his forearm, and he resists the urge to yawn.
“Do you do that all the time?” Tomoya asks.
“Taking the bike apart?”
“Mmhmm.”
Matsuoka makes a noise in the back of his throat, moving to pull a wrench and fit a nut in. Tomoya’s eyes flit briefly to the movements of his arms and shoulders, then settle on his hands instead. “I do,” Matsuoka answers, putting the wrench aside once the nut’s tightened good enough. Like clockwork, he sets this piece of the bike aside and moves onto the next one, working like a well-oiled machine.
“And then you put it together again.” Tomoya finishes the thought with a smile, and from this angle he gets a nice view of Matsuoka’s profile and how he’s smiling a little, too. “That’s amazing, Matsuoka-san.”
“Old habits die hard,” Matsuoka says in return, moving to pick up a screwdriver. Tomoya waits for more, watching Matsuoka work, but when he doesn’t add more he asks, “Old habits from what?”
A pensive sound comes from Matsuoka’s closed mouth. He pauses in his work with the driver, its head still poised in the necessary position. Like he’d had some internal war with himself and made some decision, Matsuoka finally answers after much delay: “I used to work for MotoGP teams.”
To which Tomoya aptly screams, “What!?”
The most unbelievable thing is how casually Matsuoka says it. As if it isn’t incredible he’d been at worldwide competitions--as if it isn’t blowing Tomoya’s mind that someone at that level of expertise is working on his miserable little Harley now.
Tomoya stands from his seat, fingers curled around the top of the chair’s backrest. “Are you serious?”
“I wouldn’t lie about that, Nagase-san.”
“Holy shit!”
He drops back onto his seat with a little thud, and in return Matsuoka laughs at him. Tomoya’s not sure what’s so funny, but he does keep leaning in, eyes wide in shock and fingers curled tight around the chair he’s sitting on. “MotoGP?” he chirps. “All the bikes they use there aren’t even in normal distribution, man! Those’re prototype levels! Untested levels! Like, unsafe for regular roads levels, dead man walking lev--”
“I know,” Matsuoka interjects. “I was there, Nagase-san.”
“What was that even like!?” Tomoya asks, and he knows he’s shouting now, but all Matsuoka does is give a little roll of his eyes in reply. His mouth, however, flirts with the promise of a smile; unfortunately, Tomoya misses it entirely in the veritable shock of his mechanic’s apparent prowess.
“It was work,” Matsuoka says plainly. “You know how work goes.”
“But that’s so cool!” Tomoya whines, hands flailing like mad in Matsuoka’s general direction. Questions fly like bullets, crashing and banging in the air in a shrieking D minor. “How did you get in? How long were you there? Why did you quit? Do you miss it?”
Matsuoka makes that expression again--the one that makes it look like he’s thinking--and then finally turns to look at Tomoya with a smile. “How about you come help me finish up here quick, and maybe we use that extra time after to talk?”
“But I’ve never…” Tomoya trails off awkwardly, excitement deflating like a balloon, but Matsuoka shakes his head and pats the floorspace by his side regardless. So Tomoya inhales, stands from his seat, and plops over to where Matsuoka is.
The other man hands him a screwdriver, flipping it so the handle is facing Tomoya’s way. “I’ll show you what it’s like to put a bike back together and you tell me how cool it is.”
“Eh--”
“And make sure to listen, huh, Nagase?” Matsuoka continues, blatantly ignoring Tomoya’s growing distress as a perfectly cheerful smile plays on his lips. “We don’t want you exploding on the track.”
Tomoya pales drastically. “Why does everyone say that!?”
A few hours later they roll the bike out to the track without incident, Tomoya’s fingers tingling still. In a way he gets what Matsuoka meant by work being work--he can’t deny that it’d been frustrating here and there, especially when Matsuoka started using technical terms--but at the same time, there’s a stunning new feeling of knowing what’d happened to get his bike into the shape it is now. Tomoya looks down at his Harley and the number 47 on it, looks at how it shines under natural sunlight, and looks back at Matsuoka as he trails after him to offer a happy grin. Matsuoka catches this, chuckles, and offers him a smile and a little sideways tilt of his head in return.
What Tomoya’d learned was that the work is meticulous; that Matsuoka takes every single bit of the motorbike apart to check every little thing and polish each metal piece to shining. The less dirt is in a bike, the smoother it’ll go, and with an expression Tomoya dares to call soft Matsuoka had admitted I want my racer to have the best bike on the team.
And isn’t that a funny thing--his racer--though Tomoya supposes he can’t say it isn’t true. In the same way Shin has that girl Tomoya hasn’t met yet, Tomoya has Matsuoka: Matsuoka who walks with his hands in his pockets and with a terrible posture, whose legs seem to be bowed and whose feet point at funny angles whenever he takes a step. There’s a pair of sunglasses perched on Matsuoka’s nose now, his cap on backwards, and while half of Tomoya mourns the fact that his face is obscured, the other half of him gets mad about it mattering.
The sun is relatively high in the sky, but it isn’t late enough for the circuit crew to be working on preparations for the race in the afternoon. The track itself is still open for any stragglers wanting somewhere to play before the big event; meanwhile, Tomoya feels a little selfish for how happy he is that nobody else is here but them.
“All right,” Tomoya says, swinging his leg over the bike and sitting down. He secures his helmet on his head, gives it a hearty pat, and turns to offer Matsuoka a smile. “Let’s hope this baby runs the way she’s gotta.”
Matsuoka’s nose crinkles. “Nothing’s going to be wrong with it, though.”
“It’s the thought that counts!”
So he puts the bike into ignition, listening to the engine growl in awakening and then purr in satisfaction. It feels different like this; perhaps not in general feeling, nor in the way the bike is beneath him or how it rumbles against his thighs, but in the sense that Tomoya knows it sounds so good because of what he and Matsuoka had done together. Small a gesture it is, tiny a detail it is, but it causes satisfaction to curl in the corner of Tomoya’s heart regardless.
Matsuoka stands the standard safety measure away. “What do you think?”
“I think she’s never sounded this good before in my life,” Tomoya replies, and even though Matsuoka’s eyes are hidden, the white of his teeth tell Tomoya enough of the proud grin on the other man’s face.
“As expected,” Matsuoka says, chest puffing with pride as his posture straightens. “Good. Now give that thing a whirl, Nagase. Let’s see if she runs as good as she sounds.”
Tomoya laughs, tilting his head back and turning to look Matsuoka’s way. “I thought nothing was gonna be wrong with it?”
But Matsuoka expected that, and he bends forward just a bit to tease, “It’s the thought that counts.”
Naomi thumps her little fist on Tomoya’s nose and Tomoya makes a little ‘ow!’ noise just to make her giggle. The air smells like chocolate chip cookies being baked to perfection; in the kitchen just a few metres away from where Tomoya sits on the couch with Naomi, Taichi does dishes in the sink.
“Y’know, you encourage her to be violent like that and she’ll be punching boys for real,” Taichi snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. Tomoya sets Naomi back down on his lap in response, feeling her squirm against him while she whines about wanting to fight more. It takes picking Anpanman up and making his stuffed toy fist punch Naomi in the face for her to stop whining, but she fights the tragic hero with all the scrappy willpower of a puppy backed in a corner.
Tomoya grins. She’s so god damn cute. “I thought you want her to punch boys?”
“Yeah, sure, but not when that boy is her daddy.”
The sink stops running, and moments after that Taichi’s coming over to pick Naomi up and carry her in his arms. Unlike Tomoya, she doesn’t greet him with a punch--a tiny kiss is pressed to Taichi’s cheek--but he’s pretty sure that has something to do with the fact that Taichi’s her dad.
“I don’t think she’s gonna punch you any time soon, Taichi-kun.” Tomoya scoots over to give Taichi some space, and down he plops onto the sofa with Naomi babbling absently on his lap. Not once do Taichi’s big hands leave her, save for one being used to point at the television, and when Naomi’s attention is caught by the screen it stays; she watches with big eyes and an open mouth, a little hand coming up to press to her lips.
Taichi smiles fondly, the corners of his eyes crinkling, then leans his head back until it lands on the backrest. “So?” He turns. “How’d that race last weekend go?”
“Oh!” Tomoya stops watching Naomi to look at her father instead, shooting a thumbs up and a determined nod. “It was great! Got seventh place this time, but this race was a notch harder than the other one so I didn’t expect to do as good.” He beams, rubbing the side of his neck. “Shin-chan saved us at the end--he came in fourth--so we moved on to the next round and that’s happening next month.”
“Huh.” Taichi’s lips pucker, head nodding. “Look at you, Mr. Go-getter.”
“Coming from you, that’s kind of a big deal.”
“I’m glad you cherish me so much.”
Tomoya laughs at the same time Taichi waggles his brows at him; Naomi doesn’t care in the least, but that’s how these things are supposed to go, anyway. Shifting the toddler on his lap has Naomi clambering off and resting her head on Taichi’s thigh to watch her movie, but otherwise she’s too engrossed in it to complain.
“I’m learning how to do bike stuff, too,” Tomoya mentions, legs spreading in comfort and his body slumping to the side. His head lands on Taichi’s shoulder, Taichi makes some grunt in return, and then the reaction passes and they stay that way, comfy and easy. “I have my own mechanic, see, for my bike, and this guy’s pro level.” His hands lift, fingers curled the slightest bit towards his palms like claws. “He used to work for MotoGP teams, so you can imagine how cool it is he’s my guy now. All LSR even does is small-time track races! I don’t think Shin-chan plans on us going national level or anything, he probably wouldn’t have the time, so I’m not sure what anyone who’d gone worldwide would want out of such a tiny team.”
Taichi’s cheek rests atop Tomoya’s head. “Who knows?”
“I’m just curious,” Tomoya admits. Bright animated characters flit across the television screen, and he’s got to admit for small kids like Naomi it’s got to be an enticing thing to look at. “I mean, when I think about it--like, if JURIA got famous? I wouldn’t wanna give up all that to suddenly be a nobody again, not after all the suffering.”
“But JURIA didn’t get famous,” Taichi points out. “JURIA sold pretty okay with their first album, sold enough to stay afloat with the second, and then screwed up so bad on the third only their most die-hard fans thought it was worth buying.”
Tomoya winces at the memory. “Thanks, man.” The incident happened years ago, but it’s still a particularly sore spot for him. Being a musician had been his childhood dream, though as it turns out, songwriting is a lot harder than the Beatles made it look. Tomoya could play guitar riff after guitar riff, but with lyrics that’re essentially vocal horseshit, anything he churned out was pretty much crap.
“Dude, I’m just saying--as your former manager, you guys were not doing well on the musical front.” Taichi shrugs, clear-cut and simple, and when Naomi stands and says ‘bathroom’, he gives her a little push towards the direction of the hall. “But you all had a good attitude and that’s what the fans liked, so it’s not all that bad, is it? At least you know you aren’t an asshole.”
“I guess so,” Tomoya agrees, his right thigh starting to jump up and down. “Still doesn’t explain why Matsuoka-san quit the MotoGP.”
“Maybe there isn’t a big reason or anything,” Taichi offers in consolation. He lets out a yawn soon after, free hand moving to scratch his tummy where it peeks beneath his shirt. “Maybe he was just tired of it. Giving up a career for happiness isn’t so out of this world any more.”
“I guess so,” Tomoya says a second time. Taichi gives Tomoya’s knee a reassuring squeeze before getting up on his feet. “Don’t think about it too much, Nagase. The cookies are done, so let’s focus on that instead.”
And true enough, the oven timer rings. Taichi walks over to take the tray out, thick mitts on his hands and all, and is just about done putting all the cookies on a plate when Naomi comes back into the living room with her knuckles in her mouth. Taichi rushes over to scold her, gently pulling her hand out with a shake of his head, but Naomi’s so transfixed on the cookies she doesn’t seem to mind.
Taichi hands her one with a paper towel wrapped around the bottom, but instead of eating it, Naomi walks the distance to give it to Tomoya instead.
Something in Tomoya melts about how tiny her hand is, how big the cookie looks in her strong grip, but he smiles and takes it. “Thank you, Naomi-chan.”
The vibration of the engine under his legs is perfect. It’s another bright and sunny day, the track stretches out before him, and Tomoya’d come early to tune his motorbike up with Matsuoka again a few hours ago. If he turns to his left he’ll see Matsuoka standing off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest and the reassurance, while subtle, is comforting in some way. The thought of it makes him smile.
To his right, Aki gives a harsh rev of his engine, proud and ready. Shin’s somewhere up front, but that’s because he got third place, and Tomoya mentally wishes him good luck. Another teammate, number 14, is behind both him and Aki, and while they’ve never really spoken Tomoya knows he’s going to do his best, too.
The announcer speaks. The starting pistol is lifted.
A shot rings in the air and Tomoya shoots forward in a breeze.
“That was just mental, dude!” Aki yells, drunk and laughing and his arm wrapped around Tomoya while he grins like a cheese. Shin rolls his eyes, but he does smile as he reaches for another cold one. Gonzo, number 14, laughs his own laugh as he tries to pry Aki off of Tomoya’s person; Aki whines and touches Gonzo’s face, moaning about how distressed he is that Gonzo isn’t a pretty woman, but is otherwise fine. This might be the first time Tomoya’s ever spent time with the third member of LSR, but given that he balances the life of a salaryman with the life of a racer, he can imagine why he doesn’t come too early or leave too late to races. At least he holds Aki steady while he giggles into his shoulder.
“I think I did pretty okay,” Tomoya says sheepishly.
“Don’t be modest, Tom,” Shin scolds, taking a few gulps of his beer and reaching for the dried squid on the table. “You came in second--that’s a big deal! Sure, Aki came in third, but we don’t really talk about his accomplishments.”
“Hey!” Aki slurs, but Gonzo shushes him with a piece of squid.
Tomoya grins, taking a picture of them with his phone. “I don’t know--I can’t say it was all ‘cause of me or anything.” He sets it down in favour of reaching for more of the snacks on the table, dipping them in vinegar and popping them into his mouth. The crunch is fantastic and Tomoya tingles all the way down his spine. “Gotta give the bike some credit, too,” he indicates, then pauses to add, “and Matsuoka-san for taking care of it so nicely.”
“Oh, hey,” Gonzo remarks around Aki’s octopus arms on his neck, “Matsuoka-san.” His brows furrow. “Never actually got to talk to him.”
“You haven’t talked to anyone,” Shin says, kicking at Gonzo’s shin for emphasis. Gonzo smiles and ducks his head away from Aki’s nuzzling.
“He’s really cool,” Tomoya promises. “He’s legitimate pro level--MotoGP and all--so he can take my bike apart and put it together in, what, fifteen minutes?” His voice rises in pitch a little, his lips curving up into a bright smile. “He’s amazing… and real interesting to talk to, too.”
“Talk to?” Shin repeats.
“Yeah.” Tomoya perks up, making a little grabby motion for some beer and watching as Gonzo expertly reaches over despite the heavy weight of Aki at his side. With a gracious ‘thanks’, Tomoya pops the tab open, washing the taste of salt and seafood and sourness out of his mouth. “I’ve been coming to the track early to help him do things with my bike, so we get to talk a little between work. It’s a serious learning experience, man.”
Shin’s mouth forms some version of a grin. “Wow, Tom. Didn’t think you had it in you,” he says, and Tomoya almost replies if not for Gonzo interjecting.
“How about off-track?” he asks.
Tomoya’s head tilts. “Off-track--?”
“Like--damn it, Aki--” Gonzo pushes the other man’s face away to a great measure of argument, but apparently the sight of the squid on the table has Aki’s fingers moving out to grab a handful and start eating instead. Tomoya can’t help but think his attention span reminds him of Naomi. “--you know, like friends. You should invite him to our after-race drinks next time.”
“What--” Somehow the prospect of it has Tomoya’s cheeks warming, but he attributes it to the beer he’s already drank two-thirds’ of. “Eh, I thought this was supposed to be a just-us thing?”
“You kidding me?” Gonzo scoffs. “Trust me, if Shin here could get Mariko to even think of him as anyone other than her employer, she’d be here.”
“Mariko…” Tomoya trails off, but a little turn of his head and the sight of Shin clearing his throat into his fist tells him enough about that matter. “Seriously? You want me to take Matsuoka-san with me?”
Gonzo shrugs, smiling as he moves to light up a cigarette. Aki burps after a hefty gulp of beer, but he does offer a grin and a thumbs-up. “Yeah, Tom!”
“Do you even know what we’re talking about?” Shin accuses, waving a hand in front of Aki’s flushed, drunken face. In turn Aki pushes that hand away with a huff. “You gotta stop bullying me!”
“But do you know?”
Aki grins sheepishly, putting both hands on his lap and dipping his head. “No.”
Shin’s shaking his head from side to side while Gonzo laughs. Tomoya looks at the squid left on the plate and takes it, dipping the last piece in vinegar.
The handkerchief rubbing against his face is unexpected, but Tomoya’s embarrassed all the same by the blush that appears on his cheeks.
“You had grease there, idiot,” Matsuoka tells him.
“Sorry,” Tomoya says in reply, and when he notices Matsuoka’s expression turning mildly concerned, he shakes his head and waves his head in front of him. “I’m fine, I’m fine!”
“You know what I said about spacing out,” is all Matsuoka warns, and Tomoya laughs awkwardly and nods his head. Attention--he’s got to pay attention.
They work on his Harley in relatively comfortable silence, or at least it’s comfortable on Matsuoka’s end. Tomoya keeps glancing at him, keeps biting the inside of his cheek, and then tells himself to quit it--to not be so freaking weird about it, because what the hell could go wrong? Shin said it was okay, Gonzo was the one who suggested it, Aki was drunk as hell so whatever opinion he might’ve had doesn’t matter (now he’s starting to sound like Shin), and Matsuoka is… cool. Tomoya’d said so himself.
But it’s the fact that he’s so cool that makes this so hard. He presses his lips into a thin line and releases, then repeats this action a couple more times. Tomoya does it again and again until Matsuoka finally puts the pieces in his hand on the floor and looks over at him with a raised brow; Tomoya pretends he doesn’t see and keeps on working.
“Are you sick or something?” Matsuoka asks regardless, cutting straight to the point. “Maybe chapped lips? I have chapstick for that, you know.”
Indirect k-- “No, no!” Tomoya answers, throat tightening as he fumbles with the metal in his hand and tries to fit it in the right space. “No, I’m not sick, I promise.” Matsuoka doesn’t look convinced. “And it’s not that my lips are dry! They’re doing just fine, Matsuoka-san.”
“So what’re you doing that for?”
“Doing what for?”
“That,” Matsuoka says plainly. “The thing with your mouth.”
Being called out so bluntly makes Tomoya’s face warm again, but he laughs to quell any instantaneous want to run away. He hopes his sheepish expression works--that Matsuoka won’t dismiss him as some weirdo--and then puts on his best attempt at earnest truth. “I just, ah… I was talking to the guys, you know, after our last race.”
“Uhuh.”
“And I said that… we’ve been working together.”
Matsuoka actually pauses at that, and for a moment Tomoya thinks it’s because he’s mad. Instead of yelling, however, Matsuoka takes the cylinder in Tomoya’s fingers and fits it into the bike himself. More relieved than anything, Tomoya swallows the spit that’d built up in his throat.
But what comes after Matsuoka purses his lips is surprising. “What, were they against it?”
“Huh?”
“Did they not like that we were talking?” Matsuoka clarifies, pulling his glasses off and cleaning them with the hem of his shirt. His brows are furrowed the slightest bit while he looks down; Tomoya might think he was trying to concentrate, but given they aren’t doing anything, that can’t possibly be it. “I guess it’s pretty unprofessional to talk so casually outside of work--”
“No!” Tomoya interrupts, shaking his head. “No, no! Matsuoka-san, it’s the complete opposite. They told me to invite you.”
Matsuoka’s hand stops moving. “Invite me?”
“Yeah,” Tomoya insists. “Like… to drinks and stuff. After the race. We usually go out to a bar, eat some seafood and drink some beer…” Matsuoka’s expression doesn’t change, and neither does his position save for the way he brings his glasses back up to rest on his nose. Tomoya bites his lip, his head tilting a little to watch for any particular signs of agreement or disagreement, but Matsuoka doesn’t smile or frown.
After a few moments of consideration, he says, “Sure.”
And Tomoya blinks. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Matsuoka picks up the pieces he’d put down, once more affixing them to the bike and picking a wrench up to seal the deal. “You’re going to be there, right?”
Tomoya nods, unable to stop himself from smiling. “I’m going to be there,” he promises.
“Nice,” Matsuoka replies, picking a screwdriver up and shoving it into Tomoya’s palm. “Now get back to work, moron.” The corners of his mouth tug up, the expression charming and handsome and the perfect complement to the brighter quality of his eyes. “What’re we gonna do if you explode out there?”
“I’m not gonna explode!” Tomoya yells, but his grin never disappears.
And just like that, things become easy. Gonzo’s the one who makes it to the top five next, having won fifth place by a hair, and this sends Land Snail Racing on their way to the fifth round. As promised, Matsuoka goes drinking with them after, and while he starts out awkward and polite, his fourth beer or so gets him singing--going so far as to stand on the table and give his best impression of Eikichi Yazawa (“I love him!” Matsuoka had declared, voice booming throughout the bar and his head pushing into Tomoya’s shoulder with a grin once he moved to hide it). It’s a fun thing, a cheerful thing, and by the end of the night the entire team’s got Matsuoka’s number in their mobile phones for any future excursions (Tomoya, while Matsuoka wasn’t looking, punched him in as ‘Masahiro’).
Now they’re walking from the bar, Matsuoka’s arm around Tomoya’s shoulder and Tomoya’s arm curled protectively around his waist. It’s remarkable how much the other man drank, but Tomoya’s just happy he had fun doing it.
“Where do you live?” Tomoya asks as they stand on the sidewalk, getting up on his tiptoes and watching for any passing cabs. Matsuoka lets out a low hum in response, leaning a little heavier against him, but Tomoya keeps himself stiff and steady to make sure they don’t topple over.
“Yokohama,” Matsuoka says, laughing a bit after he speaks, a hand lifting to touch his throat. “Ah… my voice, it’s weird. I sound weird.”
Tomoya grins. “You drank a lot.”
“I did.”
“You sang on a table.”
“I…” Matsuoka laughs once more, looking over at Tomoya with a surprised gleam in his eyes. “I did?”
“You did,” Tomoya agrees, and he can’t stop himself from giggling at the memory, either--that and the way Matsuoka makes some weak, embarrassed sound after he confirms it. “I took a video of it and everything too, just to make sure you won’t be able to deny it.”
“I must’ve looked like a giant idiot,” Matsuoka gripes.
“Actually--” Tomoya nudges him a little, the corners of his eyes crinkling fondly. “--I thought you were great.”
In return Matsuoka snickers, the arm around Tomoya’s shoulders giving a little squeeze. It sends warmth over Tomoya’s skin; it doesn’t matter that he’s wearing several layers of clothing. In some instinctive gesture Tomoya almost leans into Matsuoka’s hold, but resists well enough before it becomes too obvious, the inside of his throat running dry instead. “You’re too nice,” Matsuoka says to him, none the wiser, “or really easily impressed? Dunno which one I prefer, but…”
“As long as Matsuoka-san doesn’t mind, then we can say I’m both,” Tomoya teases, hoping that the pink on his cheeks can be attributed to the cold around them or the alcohol they drank, but the way Matsuoka looks at him after--well, maybe he can’t tell Tomoya’s blushing at all.
His glasses have fogged a little, but his eyes become crescents as he grins. “Then both it is.”
They stay standing like that, Matsuoka swaying every so often until Tomoya moves to steady him. Every cab that passes by seems to be full already, but given they’re in a popular district, it’s not like Tomoya can expect anything else. Sometimes Matsuoka will swear at them as they pass by--fucking shits, god damn bastards, assfuck shitty lazy piece of shit drunkards--and Tomoya will laugh, and no matter how many minutes pass or how many variations of shit Masahiro says, it never seems to get old.
“You know,” Tomoya says after maybe the ten minute mark, resisting yet another giggle as Matsuoka squints in accusation at another cab rushing away, “I can take you home if you don’t mind telling me where you live.”
Matsuoka snorts. “What, you live near Yokohama or something?”
“In Yokohama, actually,” Tomoya says, chipper and bright, and the way Matsuoka’s expression changes from deadpan to amazed is something he wishes he had on video, too.
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“Because--” But Tomoya’s interrupted by Matsuoka swaying and hobbling along, his hand slipping to clasp Tomoya’s in a firm grip. Stupefied (and relishing the warmth of it, just a little), Tomoya returns that hold, his heart leaping up in his throat. His brain wrinkles at the sensation of it--that’s weird--but all the same he follows in Matsuoka’s footsteps, the back of his neck starting to prickle with heat.
It takes some guts, but Tomoya clears his throat and says, “Matsuoka-san?”
“Hm?”
“I parked my car the other way.”
All in all, the drive itself is uneventful. Matsuoka’s reached a level of drunk mixed with a level of tired that can only result in him practically conking out in the passenger seat, and while it proves to make the whole thing a silent affair, Tomoya finds it more adorable than bothersome. At stoplights he catches himself looking, stealing glances of Matsuoka’s softened features and the way his glasses are slipping off his nose, and under a particularly orange streetlight he realises that Matsuoka’s already got some facial hair growing in. Tomoya tells himself it’s because he’s worried--that even though Matsuoka’s belted in, maybe he’ll hurt his neck somehow and Tomoya will have to adjust him--but in the end, all he can really conclude is that Matsuoka’s cute when he’s sleeping.
Matsuoka lives in a nice neighbourhood--the kind where there’s a convenience store only a three minute walk away from where everyone lives. Tomoya rolls his car through these darkened streets with a curious expression, and in a feat of incredible multitasking he does his best to pay attention to each house number he passes.
“Number 1101,” Tomoya murmurs under his breath once he sees it: gold numbers sparkling in the dimly lit night. Then he sees the rest of the house and takes in a sharp breath.
Matsuoka’s home is spacious, complete with a gated front garden and a garage, but Tomoya has to admit he isn’t surprised. He can’t even begin to imagine how much Matsuoka used to earn before--how much he must’ve saved over the years--and the clean design, the economic size, the straight lines and neutral colours, all tell him that Matsuoka at least knew how to use his money. Usefulness and style; in his mind his image of Matsuoka becomes even cooler.
Tomoya looks away and touches the sleeping man in his car, gently tapping him on the shoulder. “Matsuoka-san?” And if he thought Matsuoka’s sleeping face was precious, seeing him twitch and grumble is even cuter.
Dangerous, his mind says.
“We’re here,” his mouth says.
Matsuoka’s head dips down, his eyelids shutting hard. “Wuh?” His glasses fall off entirely and land on his lap in the process, but he picks those up and holds them in clumsy fingers. Tomoya smiles a bit and points at the house just beyond the open passenger window. “This is it, right?”
Matsuoka puts his glasses back on, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He squints, and then recognises: “Oh, shit. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” Tomoya says, and he chuckles only a little.
“Damn, Nagase--sorry for knocking out on you.” Matsuoka undoes his seatbelt and yawns. “I didn’t know I was that far down… uh.”
Tomoya shakes his head. “No problem,” he assures. “I’m just glad you got home okay. Can you go in on your own?”
“Yeah,” Matsuoka answers after some delay. He feels his pockets, patting at his thighs, and then visibly relaxes when he brushes over his keys. “Slept some of the booze away--anyone ever tell you your car’s comfy as hell?”
“No.” Tomoya laughs, his hand lifting and curling into a fist for him to clear his throat into.
“Well,” Matsuoka starts, opening the door, “they gotta start. Your air freshener’s great.” Then his legs slip out, he stands to his full height, and to Tomoya’s amazement, he remains standing without even the slightest wobble. “And your seats were nice… that leather’s gotta be A-grade.”
Tomoya’s still laughing. “Are you seriously complimenting me on my car?” he asks, disbelieving.
Not skipping a beat, Matsuoka says, “In my line of work, that’s pretty much the highest honour you could ever get.” He straightens his jacket, looks over to his house, and lets out a little huff. “But… I guess you were an okay driver if I stayed conked out the whole time. Thanks, Nagase.”
“Any time,” Tomoya assures, and the way Matsuoka looks at him when he turns back to say goodbye has his heart doing that funny thing again.
There’s a pause--Tomoya wonders if Matsuoka’s going to say good night or just go in, and then is surprised when he does neither and sticks his head in through the open passenger window instead.
“Text me,” is what Matsuoka says.
“What?”
“Like… message me.” Matsuoka reaches his arm in to give Tomoya a light smack to the forehead; Tomoya’s eyes close on instinct as he’s hit, then open again as astounded as they were when they shut. “You got my number, right?”
“Yeah.” Tomoya’s throat is going all tight and dry and he tells himself stop being weird! “Yeah, I have your number, but…”
“But what?”
“... I’m not good at the whole texting first thing.”
“Oh.” Matsuoka blinks at that, then gives a few nods. “I see. No problem.”
Tomoya’s about to ask what he means by that, but Matsuoka’s already pulled back from the window and started to walk to his front gate. He doesn’t turn back, much to Tomoya’s distress; in fact, Matsuoka walks with his head bowed, pointedly deciding not to look at anything. An apology wells up his throat as Matsuoka sticks the key to his gate in, but something on his dashboard vibrates and distracts Tomoya aptly enough for him to pick his phone up instead.
Masahiro: Texted you first, it says on the lock screen.
Tomoya looks to where Matsuoka’s standing, but the front gate swings shut with a soft creak. His phone buzzes in his hand again, and with nowhere else to focus, he dips his head and glances down at it.
Masahiro: Now you don’t have a choice but to text back, do you?
Part 3