Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

| SEPTEMBER 23RD 1:32AM |

It's a quiet ride. Tachihara white-knuckles the steering wheel the entire trip out, and Atsushi finds himself staring out the windshield and focusing on the sound of Junichirou's breathing in the backseat.

Both of the other passengers are still alive, as far as Atsushi knows. He'd like to keep it that way.

Tachihara drives them out, and out, and out. They're not in Yokohama by the time he pulls off, onto some dark back-road in the middle of nowhere. The Mazda isn't a fan of it, and the sound of mud slicking up against the side of the car makes Atsushi cringe, but no annoyance is enough to break the silence.

The road is long, and winding. The trees push by silently, cold and impassive as they cover swathes of the night sky with dull green leaves. They won't be green for long, Atsushi thinks.

Tachihara stops the car with little fanfare; killing the engine with a sharp huff of breath, and then they're up and moving, with all the slow frenzy of the nearly-dead.

They're parked in front of veritable mansion, old and traditional in its architecture; it would soar up into the sky, if not for the sin of being in the middle of nowhere.

Tachihara slides out of the car with a practiced ease for too-much-stress that makes Atsushi sick, and Atsushi follows suit; pushing the back door open and gently nudging Higuchi, lulling in and out of consciousness.

"You're going to need to carry her," Tachihara murmurs, barely loud enough for Atsushi to hear; the trees and the foliage seem to swallow all sound. There are no lights on nor noise coming from the mansion; it feels like the lull of the forest before walking into the bear trap.

Atsushi nods. Doesn't know if Tachihara sees it, and doesn't really care.

He isn't physically strong. He once tweaked his shoulder for three weeks by trying to carry a messenger bag for an hour-and-a-half. But Atsushi was sickly and malnourished, then, and there was no real need for a show of strength.

As it is, Atsushi murmurs some reassurance to Higuchi when she stirs enough to get concerned, and maneuvers into a better position to hold her bridal-style. It isn't the most glamorous, and he doesn't look heroic, but it keeps the road-rash running up her leg from pushing against his hold like a fireman's carry would.

On the other side of the car, Tachihara is bitching with a mostly-conscious Junichirou, who's griping about being up and about as he slings his arm across Tachihara's shoulders.

The two continue bickering, and it brings some life back to the scene; but Atsushi can't bring himself to join with Higuchi in his arms.

Tachihara approaches the house of a practiced and calculated ease, apparent in the way that there's still a line of tension in his shoulders and even Atsushi knows the snort he lets out is manufactured; as good as plastic.

Still, he knocks on the door. The heavy sound echoes — for a moment, Atsushi has an irrational fear that a monster will open the door, that they will be the victims of those trashy horror movies that Ranpo puts on at the Agency sometimes.

(For a mechanic, Atsushi doesn't spend that much time at the garage. Given the stereotypes, it's on par for the course.)

The door opens, and there's no monster to eat them. Instead, a light is flipped on in the living room, and Atsushi doesn't see their host, but Tachihara starts shuffling with a now-silent Junichirou; Atsushi follows suit, again.

(He doesn't seem to be good for much more.)

"Sorry it's late, Boss," Tachihara says, properly breaking the silence for the first time. He's standing in the entryway, not moving further; and why would he, as he hasn't been invited further in. "I know it's s'posed to be your day off. Think you have time for a check-up?"

There's no answer, until Tachihara shifts slightly; as soon as he does, it puts Higuchi into view, and their host is visible enough for Atsushi to see.

Oh, Atsushi thinks.

And maybe their host thinks the same, though for different reasons, as the don of the Portside Circuit begins to stride over, all work now. "What happened? Debrief."

Atsushi's never personally met the man before, but he finds himself stuttering a report out anyway. "I received a — a call from, uh — Snow, who swerved off the road after seeing a body. I told him to call Midwinter, and — and went to find the body myself. Here… she is. She's alive. She doesn't look good, though."

"I can see that much," ELISE mutters, the legendary former racer himself, turning on his heel. "Follow me."

Atsushi does as he's told.

In this mansion, there must be rooms that are used more than others. Atsushi hopes that's the case, because the ability of this smaller room off the kitchen to almost perfectly mimic the hospital is… startling. All its missing is a bright shade of white paint slapped over the mood-colored walls, and that's that. It's already got the obnoxious lighting and an obscene amount of medical equipment.

Higuchi is, at ELISE's request, set gently against one of the make-shift beds — that look like wartime cots —, and Junichirou is gestured to sit in one, too. Atsushi and Tachihara stand to the side, shifting from foot-to-foot while waiting for instructions that aren't given.

Atsushi's been in a hospital roughly three times in his life. The first time is one he doesn't remember, as he was a baby. The second and third are blurry — all he remembers is pain and numbing and a hundred other little fears. Still, it isn't an atmosphere one forgets. As ELISE grabs a box out of a pristine white cupboard, Atsushi can feel his own heart race.

"Do you know what happened?" ELISE asks. It's unclear who he's talking to, but Higuchi still seems too out of it to answer.

Because of that, Atsushi takes over again, clearing his throat awkwardly as ELISE ambles over to Higuchi.

"Not quite sure. If I had to guess, I think someone pushed her out of a car," Atsushi says. "As for Snow, I think he's just on an upper, probably coming down about now."

ELISE barely glances over at Snow. When he takes a flashlight out of the small bag, it's to push Higuchi's head back. "Follow the light to the best of your ability," he tells her, calm, reassuring. Better than Atsushi. Then, louder, he says. "And you — Snow. What's your vice?"

Maybe it's the dim atmosphere and the slouch to his shoulders, but Junichirou doesn't even try to object. Junichirou shrugs. "My namesake."

"Understood. You're Agency?"

Junichirou nods.

ELISE sighs, but doesn't push the matter further. The longer Higuchi sits, stock still, in the cot, the more injuries Atsushi notices. There wasn't much blood at the site because most of it is dried, and it'd been hidden in the low light.

Under the harsh lighting of the make-shift infirmary, it's a wonder she's alive, even if she's concussed.

"Will she be able to race?" is the first thing out of Tachihara's mouth.

Atsushi has the irrational urge to smack him.

ELISE considers this, humming thoughtfully. He sets the flashlight down, rummaging through the bag. He begins laying the items out — butterfly bandages, gauze, disinfectant, cotton balls. "In the near future? Likely not."

"The October Races —"

ELISE's glare shuts Tachihara up with barely a glance. "Yes, Midwinter. I am aware the line-up was announced. I'm not able to X-Ray, so I'd like to keep Higuchi here for observation. Undoubtedly, there's a concussion. That's two to four weeks out of range at the least. Worst case scenario, she also has a hairline skull fracture — that will be months of recovery time."

If Higuchi is taking in any of the information being presented to her, it doesn't show. Her eyes are glazed over, and she's even less alert than she was in the car, and when Atsushi was waiting with her. He wonders if that's because the shock has worn off.

"You two," ELISE continues, though he looks back to Higuchi to continue his patch job. "Please kindly leave us for this. There's food in the kitchen if you're hungry, but I'll hear no more circuit talk tonight."

Atsushi and Tachihara nod in tandem.

ELISE — whose name is Ougai Mori, as Tachihara is kind enough to inform him of — lives in a mansion. That much Atsushi had already determined, but wandering through the place only cements it. Half the rooms are formal and unused; the rest of it looks clinically detached. As far as Atsushi can see, the infirmary is the only room with any semblance of light in it.

Tachihara tries to talk to him. Really, Tachihara does. And Atsushi, alone in a strange house with strange people and some of Higuchi's blood stuck under his finger nails, should want to talk, too.

Something about Tachihara keeps getting on his nerves, though. Will she be able to race?

Instead, nearing hour three — when the mansion is silent, with Tachihara passed out in one of the guest rooms —, Atsushi finds himself sliding closer and closer to the landline.

They're sleek phones, too. Shiny. With less scoffs and less wear-and-tear than Kunikida's, with that nice, black finish of wealth and importance.

There are at least a dozen better people to call, but Atsushi finds himself slowly clicking out the numbers for someone he's never called on his own. For someone whose number he shouldn't know, and shouldn't want to call.

The phone rings.

Atsushi swallows.

The phone rings again.

Atsushi contemplates shoving it back into the wall. It's an absurd desire. Even Dazai would be better to talk —

"Who calls at this hour?"

And there's a pretentious scoff. Atsushi chokes up. He shouldn't — but the familiarity —

Tachihara's asking after something inane. Junichirou's too out of it to even recognize what all is wrong. Higuchi's got a thousand-yard-stare. And Atsushi's here.

"Hey," Atsushi says eventually, when he gets the words out of his throat. It's Akutagawa — he doesn't deserve Atsushi's near-tears, nor his relief. Yet Atsushi can't change what rushes through his veins, slumping against the wall and holding the phone to his ear with shaking hands.

"Reaper?" If there's shock in Akutagawa's voice, Atsushi can't hear it over the sound of his own blood drumming through his ears.

Two hours too late, he supposes. Still, there's little to be done about it now.

"Why on earth are you calling?" Akutagawa asks before Atsushi has a chance to gather any of his thoughts.

What is there to gather, really?

"The Portside's a wreck," Atsushi says brazenly.

Akutagawa doesn't respond. Only waits. Atsushi can make out some raspy breathing on the other side of the line, and he doesn't want to know if Akutagawa's just gotten back from a race or not.

(Atsushi shouldn't even have this number. It was given to him by Dazai, of all people. It's absurd that Akutagawa answered. It's even more absurd that Atsushi called.)

"So you do catch on eventually." It comes out less condescending than Atsushi is expecting of the other racer. Almost considerate. Almost. Why is Atsushi even calling?

A hundred different thoughts, a hundred different —

"Do you…" Akutagawa clears his throat audibly, and the static coming through in the silence doesn't help the jumpy nature of Atsushi's heart.

Still, Atsushi thinks he knows what Akutagawa's going for. It does no good to anyone to force the words out. "Yeah," Atsushi says. "I'm out with Mori. Could you…?"

"I'll be there."

| SEPTEMBER 23RD 3:21 AM |

Sliding into the passenger side of Akutagawa's Evo — the one he drives proper — isn't how Atsushi figured he'd spend the rest of his night.

Usually, he tries to get some sleep by now. The moment he tried, attempting to pass out in the other guest bed with Tachihara's snores, the memory of Higuchi's body on the highway kept morphing itself into something monstrous behind his eyes.

"You look restless," Akutagawa says without missing a beat. He doesn't even look over as Atsushi climbs into the car.

It's clean. Very clean. Unlike the Integra — and even Tachihara's Mazda — there are no spare bags of chips, no air freshener over the rear-view mirror long-since out of scent, and no spare clothes shoved into the passenger seat footwell. There's almost no personalization other than the RASHOUMON in bold lettering emblazoned across part of the dash, next to the radio that isn't on.

"Thanks for noticing," Atsushi says dryly, the words coming out far more naturally now. Maybe it's because Atsushi's gotten too used to spitting vitriol. Maybe that's because of the circuit.

The dim red glow of the dash — did Akutagawa have that custom installed? — illuminates the gaunt hollow of Akutagawa's face, and his eye-bags are no better. The tank is full, Atsushi notes, and the hum of the engine simultaneously makes him nauseous and comforts him.

When Akutagawa begins driving, Atsushi doesn't ask their destination. Doesn't really think it matters, in the dark of night on back-roads, running from something with a near-stranger.

(They aren't near strangers, not anymore. Atsushi pays too much attention to the way Akutagawa's hands, bony knuckles and all, shift gears with expert precision as they make it to cruising speeds.)

The speedometer keeps climbing. It feels nothing like when they're racing. There's no looming sense of death, no desire for victory over all else. The lack of alcohol stench is a welcome change, rushing down old highways in a blur of tree silhouettes and the too-bright stars.

Akutagawa doesn't ask why he called, or why Atsushi was stuck at Mori's, or even why Tachihara's car was parked half-ass in the driveway. There are a thousand things to question, and Akutagawa doesn't ask any of them.

In a way, Atsushi's more grateful for that than anything else.

He tries to keep his eyes on the road. The white highway lines, the occasionally uneven pavement, the rumble of a well-cared for engine. Atsushi keeps his eyes open as long as he feasibly can.

Atsushi doesn't even make it to sunrise. He mutters a half-forgotten, "thank you," before slipping into the much-needed unconscious.

Atsushi wakes to the sun shining in his eyes and the sound of birds chirping. It's so jarring and bizarre — so reminiscent of waking by the window in a half-finished basement — that Atsushi's up and breathing too hard and alert before he has a chance to consider where he is, how he got here.

When Atsushi blinks, hard enough to rid himself of the memories, he realizes two things: the first is that there's a nasty ache in his neck, and the second is that he's still in Akutagawa's Evo.

Upon further consideration, they're in the middle of nowhere. Some dirt pull-out near one of the railroads, off the highway, with the sun streaming in through the cracks in the tree line. Akutagawa's asleep, his arms crossed and his chin slumped to his chest, with the driver's seat leaned back. His skin is pale, his nose red: it's cold, Atsushi notes.

Akutagawa doesn't snore, but as Atsushi twists to get a better sense of where they are, Akutagawa twitches in his sleep.

For a moment, Atsushi thinks Akutagawa's awoken, eyelids fluttering.

Still, no other moment.

The analog clock on the dash says it's somewhere around the order of seven — far earlier than Atsushi's woken up in a month or so.

He has work today, doesn't he?

Still, Atsushi stays still. The birds keep chirping, Akutagawa keeps moving just slightly, and his neck keeps aching.

Time keeps moving forward, despite.

Part of Atsushi feels guilty for it — being part of the inevitable march forward, when Junichirou and Higuchi are injured and beaten over at Mori's. Part of Atsushi feels guilty for being here.

He shouldn't have called, and Atsushi knows that much.

Atsushi watches the shifting of the trees through the wind while Akutagawa sleeps.

| SEPTEMBER 23RD 12:32AM |

DID YOU MISS ME?

The question is plastered across the circuit's typical Human Error memorial. There's still a memorial for Arahabaki — where Atsushi thought the return of the legend might dull down the god-prince worship, the colors are brighter than ever, with more attention and detail in the graffiti scrawl.

It's Dazai's handwriting across his own altar, but with the jacket Atsushi wears, the quiet whispers he hears are more violent than welcoming.

With the Silvia still out of commission, Atsushi has no reason to be here. He was told point-blank, not two hours ago, that he was making a target of himself.

So, Atsushi thinks, let them come.

It's reckless, and foolish, and he should want to do anything other than be reckless and foolish.

Junichirou is reckless and maybe foolish, but decidedly not both on the same night.

Higuchi wasn't reckless or foolish.

So it doesn't matter, does it? If Atsushi winds up pasted across a highway barrier, then he'll have done it of his own free, selfish, reckless will.

"This is a bad idea," Akutagawa had told him. He dropped Atsushi off at the garage, but he didn't comment on it further.

Dazai's out here tonight. Hiding among the crowd, no doubt.

Ever-lively, the Portside. Sigma's betting stand is more busy than ever, the glitter is just as prominent, and the headlights illuminating the perpetual-party are as bright and glaring as they always have.

Atsushi knows the Portside has changed, in the last few years. The Monster Generation, their god-princes, the snow and the glitter. Except — maybe he's a product of his environment, because standing on the edges of this party, with a legend's jacket over his shoulders, Atsushi can't imagine the Portside looking any different.

Tachihara's back. Junichirou and Higuchi aren't here, and no other Agency members other than Dazai were willing to make the trip out tonight. Because there isn't supposed to be a high-profile race tonight.

Tachihara's laughing and jeering, leaning over his exposed engine bay with some of his maybe-friends. Midwinter Memento's party-persona, for some reason, makes Atsushi sick to his stomach when he looks over.

Akutagawa was right. This is a terrible idea. Atsushi doesn't even have his own car to race night now.

Despite that, Atsushi still makes his way through the crowd, bumping shoulders with the ever-numbed crowd. Someone shoves a soda can in his hands, opened already, but Atsushi pays it no mind as he makes his way over to the betting stand.

The Evo lies in wait, sitting down in the garage. Atsushi's taking such a risk here.

"Hey, Sigma!" Atsushi calls as soon as there's only a small group of people in front of him. He reaches his free hand up to get the person's attention, but winces as his hand accidentally brushes way-too-much exposed skin.

Sigma barely pays him any mind, but Atsushi knows he has their attention as soon as their eyes meet, if even for a brief second. "Reaper," Sigma hums, exchanging some cash and cards in the lockbox on their counter.

The people disperse, letting Atsushi to the front of the side. He's trembling, he thinks, but only because of his reckless, fervent energy. "The roster isn't full tonight, is it?"

Sigma shrugs. A stray purple hair pushes into their eye. "Depends on what you consider full."

Atsushi eyes the lockbox. When Sigma opens it again, there's a smaller amount of cash in there than usual. It's a busier night than usual, but all the bets are small, too.

Atsushi's smile might be wry, and Dazai might say, wow, you really are finally understanding, aren't you? "Do you want it to be?"

Sigma finally, properly looks at Atsushi. At the jacket around his shoulders and the glitter sprayed in his hair — more from proximity to this place than any intentional decoration — and the keys jingling on Atsushi's belt loop. "Are you offering?"

"If you'll have me."

Sigma considers this, pausing in their actions. They take a blank card from someone who holds one out, and glances over next to the box. As Atsushi follows their gaze, he sees the line-up for tonight. Most of the names aren't people he recognizes, which doesn't surprise him in the slightest. Or maybe Atsushi is just bad at reading upside-down.

He thinks he sees a familiar name, but Sigma puts their hand over the clipboard before Atsushi is able to read it properly. "We… could find something."

"Cool," Atsushi says, that excited energy never leaving his body.

This is a bad idea. That part is a given. It's what Atsushi makes of his own bad decision that determines if it was worth all the trouble.

"And," Atsushi adds, before he can wimp out like he's known to do. His tongue twists over the words, every syllable like the gut punch he knows they'll be when they get to their intended audience. "I want to challenge Light Snow to a pink-slip race."

Rumor gets around quickly. It isn't unwarranted.

Atsushi's been seen hanging around Light Snow — as his passenger, as his friend, as his designated driver. It's no secret that they hang out, and thus, the idea that the White Reaper would challenge Light Snow to a pink slip race is the kind of hot gossip the circuit's willing to die for.

It doesn't help that Atsushi doesn't have a car to bet, not when his only engine is already promised to a pink-slip race at the end of the season.

Atsushi grimaces as he hears yet another whisper, making his way to the starting line. The Evo's already been brought up for him — even if he's not exactly comfortable leaving Akutagawa's keys with anyone else —, and he only has the trudge of shame left.

He's doing the right thing, right?

Junichirou will understand. Atsushi is doing this to help him. It's the only way Atsushi knows to get the Portside to listen. Atsushi's an amateur racer who owns a singular car and has a single win to his name. he barely knew how to drive a month ago. Junichirou's been on the circuit longer than Atsushi's known how to read.

And yet, Atsushi thinks that he won't have much problem with that race. Watching the speedometer gets higher and higher, just like Junichirou.

He shakes his head. Decides that he'll figure it out later — he might even be able to get a junker if he's able to win this race, have something to put on the line other than the promised October prize.

The crowd thins out, all eager to watch the race instead of delay it.

Atsushi never caught the name of who he was racing against. His confusion only grows as he sees the bumper of a… simple car. Like the kind of car that Atsushi usually spends the day performing oil changes on. As in, the Honda logo hasn't even been scrapped off the front. It's simple. Silver. It's just a Honda Accord.

Atsushi's confusion about the grocery-getter car is only exacerbated into dread, pooling through his intestines and slipping into the loose putridity of his insides when he catches a flash of familiar blond hair in the driver's seat.

Atsushi thinks, maybe I mistook it, maybe I'm wrong. His mind flashes to instances of boisterous laughs and confidence — and the blond hair makes sense.

The front visor of the helmet opens. When Atsushi catches Doppo Kunikida's gaze through the windshield, he knows he's fucked.

If it weren't for the sympathetic, crushingly disappointed stare Kunikida levels him with, maybe Atsushi could cope with it. He doesn't know why this time — but Atsushi doesn't think it matters. Only that he knows.

He's busy making enemies of his friends, isn't he?

Atsushi's challenged Junichirou to a pink-slip race he can't afford to lose. He's racing Kunikida, now. And he spent the morning with Akutagawa.

All of the rumors and the gossip mill and the chatting fades away, Atsushi's gaze and world narrows down to the singular familiar thing here: Kunikida's disapproving stare.

Kunikida is methodical in his movements; while Atsushi figures he's going to put his glasses on, Kunikida goes to take the helmet off.

Atsushi swallows, and gets to the driver side of the Evo before Kunikida calls out, half-hanging out the driver-side window of his own car. Atsushi's never seen Kunikida race before — and he's not exactly happy to see it now, either.

"Reaper," Kunikida calls over. It isn't in a friendly tone, and Kunikida's gray gloves against the hood of the grocery-getter fucking Honda Accord creates such a stark contrast that Atsushi almost loses his attention to the absurdity of it.

Atsushi doesn't answer. He still doesn't open his own door, either, waiting.

Kunikida continues, seemingly uncaring of Atsushi's inability to communicate under the guise of night. "I'll make you a bet."

Atsushi blinks.

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that.

"Yeah?" Atsushi calls back, hesitating more than he should. His own helmet is in the Evo, something which he's craving to reach for — but that might be because it'd shield him from Kunikida, from his disappointment to his startling presence.

Kunikida doesn't hesitate like him. There's something cold in his eyes, and Atsushi's breath tightens at every simple movement of Kunikida's hands.

"If you win this race," Kunikida says, assured and confident as per usual. Atsushi had never considered how — unnerving that would be, in a race. It's only ever been comforting, but there's a first time for everything. "I'll keep helping you with the Silvia. Since you're in the business of challenges tonight."

It occurs to Atsushi that he never got Kunikida's permission for this. Not that he necessarily needed it, but he's gone behind Kunikida's back at every turn, hasn't he?

Atsushi remembers Kunikida's former stipulations — that he could only race once he managed to beat the sticky-note test. Kunikida had cheered for him when he'd won against Twain — had still let Atsushi crash on his couch and help him with the Silvia.

He also remembers Junichirou's frantic pleading for Atsushi to call anyone other than the Agency, and a silent drive with Michizou Tachihara.

Kunikida must've been worried out of his mind. Betrayal is the word that slides, slimy and unwanted, over Atsushi's tongue, but it never leaves his mouth.

Atsushi's stomach is in knots as he solely nods, considering the terms. "And if I lose?"

Kunikida shrugs. He sounds honest — that's the worst part. "I don't… I don't know yet."

It feels like a breach of trust, losing something that Atsushi hadn't realized he had as Kunikida frowns.

"I accept." It sounds hollow, and it crawls out of Atsushi's throat with the same insistence as a parasite. He doesn't protest as Kunikida slips back into the car, shaking his head to get his thoughts straight as he pulls open the Evo.

As if Atsushi needed more excitement in his short years of life, he has a passenger.

"And here I thought you were done with me this morning," Atsushi huffs. For the most part, he ignores Akutagawa's presence — buckling up, pulling on his helmet, steeling his nerves.

Atsushi's never seen Kunikida race. Unlike the rest of this godawful circuit, he knows that isn't a guaranteed win. In fact — it means Kunikida's an unknown. To have the gall to show up to the Portside with some grocery-getter… To have been recruited by Fukuzawa from the Tokyo circuit…

Luck can't help him here.

Still, Atsushi tries to focus on anything other than his impending loss, both of whatever Kunikida decides their bet means losing the help on the Silvia. Bizarrely, Akutagawa had looked so serene in his sleep. The strangeness of Atsushi's thought is not lost on him.

Akutagawa doesn't cast his judgment, his arms crossed in the passenger seat. Akutagawa's own helmet sits in the passenger footwell, but the man himself — he's prepared for a night on the circuit. The dark circles under Akutagawa's eyes are accentuated by the charcoal, carefully drawn, on his waterline, casting a harsh gaze to an already-intense stare.

"I have to see if you're wrecking my car, don't I, Reaper?" Akutagawa says, stiff and curt around every word. "Since you're already betting something that isn't yours."

It seems the secret to their morning exchange had been the silence in which they operated, because the awkwardness — the tension, Atsushi corrects himself — is back, full-force.

And not great for his nerves.

"Just," Atsushi starts, pressing his fingers into the steering wheel so they don't shake from the sheer amount of questionable decisions he's made tonight, "Don't interrupt me."

Atsushi creeps the Evo up to the starting line proper, one foot on the break and one prepared to hit the clutch. He doesn't look over at Kunikida or Akutagawa as his hand settles on the shifter.

He does, as per usual, avert his gaze when Naomi, seemingly the permanent flag girl, walks out in her very little clothing, sequins reflected on her shirt by the twin pair of headlights.

It's good weather for a race. It's a clear night, not too cold — and the humidity isn't overbearing. It's the perfect night to bring home a win.

A wild bid, for a guy who's only won a single race, and out of sheer coincidence at that.

Atsushi swallows.

You're in a legend's jacket. Act like it.

A cleared throat from the passenger seat. Atsushi doesn't glance over. "Good luck," Akutagawa mutters.

At around the same time, Naomi brings the flag up. Atsushi's heart lives in his throat. If he can't — win this —

Then who will ever understand the weight of his decisions?

Atsushi's posture fixes itself in anticipation. Akutagawa's stare doesn't matter. Kunikida's bet doesn't matter. Junichirou's bender doesn't matter.

All that matters is the pavement in front of him. This part of the track looks eerily similar to where he picked Higuchi up off the road last night.

Naomi brings the flag down.

The crowd fades away, blurry and gone, as soon as Atsushi floors the gas. Some of Kunikida's advice about heel-toe shifting passes by Atsushi's mind in a flash — useless now, because he doesn't know how to do that.

Like usual for Atsushi's races, Kunikida overtakes him around the first turn, brake lights flaring across Atsushi's vision.

Atsushi curses, heart thumping in his chest — thumpthumpthump, a record of his sins — as the Evo's engine revs, pushing faster and faster and faster.

Akutagawa isn't even wearing a seatbelt. What a bold statement to his confidence in Atsushi.

It's almost muscle memory now, racing down the same strip — rock out-cropping, a harsh turn to the left, the resistance from the tires — the need to win — Atsushi chokes on his own spit as he jerks the steering wheel, avoiding some blurry obstacle in the road.

There's nothing like the speedometer hitting triple-digits easily that make the slight drizzle feel like downpour. He can't even tell if the road is slick or not.

You're in a legend's jacket. Act like it.

Atsushi's barely breathing. The windshield wipers don't do shit when he's barreling down a straight-away with flashes of Kunikida's brake-lights here or there, blurred and streaked from the water hitting the window.

"Don't crash my car," he thinks Akutagawa says curtly, but Atsushi could be imagining that.

Imagining a lot of this. Thumpthumpthump. Another turn.

An opportunity to catch up.

Kunikida doesn't race dirty like new racers tend to — Atsushi's not meaning to play dirty — Kunikida keeps a fair amount of space between them —

As the bend comes up, Atsushi ditches the gas far later than Kunikida, only cursing again and trying desperately to keep the steering wheel from slipping out of his grasp as his foot hits the brake. The car shoots off to the inside much faster than Atsushi anticipated — leading Atsushi into an awkward half-spin into Kunikida's direction. The front of the Evo barely hits the back of the Accord, but it's enough to rattle both drivers.

Atsushi swallows again. He thinks he might bite his tongue off if he doesn't manage to keep his mouth shut.

Kunikida tries to put more space between them. The straightaway allows it if only because Atsushi has to course-correct, the Evo determined to keep sliding into the turn.

Fuck. Atsushi needs this win. He wasn't coming to the circuit for a good time, he was coming to get some of this stupid fucking stress and burden off his chest and Kunikida is great and lovely but he —

Atsushi isn't a loser. He isn't willing to lose again. Akutagawa's red contacts peer at him, just as bright as the brake-lights, from Atsushi's peripheral.

Atsushi doesn't care. There's another bend coming up, a hairpin right that has historically left bumpers battered by Atsushi's direction. Kunikida races cautiously but skilled.

The only way to overtake skill in a game like this is with force. Skill never accounts for stupidity. Kunikida sticks to the outer lane as they come around the bend, slowing down an appropriate amount for the turn.

Atsushi doesn't. Atsushi picks up speed and doesn't bother trying to brake as the turn approaches, knowing exactly what he's risking — thumpthumpthump — as he waits, waits, waits —

"Reaper!"

Akutagawa's startled shout coincides with Atsushi's moment of action. He hits the brake hard as Kunikida's lit up, just like the last turn, but with far less margin for error —

If he thought the Evo's desire to keep sliding was bad before, the now-heavy rain seeping into the pavement makes it so much worse. Atsushi tries to take the inside in a futile attempt to avoid a collision, but the two were left uncontrollably adrift as he turned the wheel to the right— full lock.

No.

There's a screech as the Evo scraps against the Accord, and the Accord to the guardrail, but Atsushi uses the momentum of the slight collision to correct the finicky steering. No real time for lingering as the next bend comes up.

As the Evo passes the Accord, one bent side-mirror for the trouble, Atsushi swears he looks over and makes eye contact with Kunikida. He thinks he sees something like resignation in Kunikida's eyes, but there's no time for such an interaction and Atsushi never looks over from the darkening pavement anyway.

"I'm sorry," Atsushi mumbles, to the Evo, to Kunikida, to Akutagawa — to the universe and whoever decided that Atsushi needed a place in it.

His apologies make no make on the physical universe present, though. The Evo navigates through the pass without hesitation, as sharp and steady with every movement as the owner is.

He's never been on the defensive before — being on the defensive is the mark of a winner, and not something Atsushi's ever experienced.

The Evo keeps picking up speed as they descend. Atsushi's knuckles are white still against the steering wheel.

Atsushi's eyes are so frantically scanning the familiar terrain for any sign of debris as he swerves, keeping Kunikida from overtaking him on a bend.

This is easy, Atsushi realizes.

This is too easy.

Kunikida's letting me win, Atsushi thinks to himself, bizarre and apparent and all too fucking obvious as the next bend comes up and Kunikida doesn't even make Atsushi play too hard on the defense, keeping to the outer lane the same as before.

It's as calm a race as it can be.

Kunikida never tries to overtake.

Atsushi's adrenaline is wasted as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest and the rain pours and Kunikida doesn't try to win.

As they near the final straightaway, most of the pass blurred to Atsushi and known only to the scrapes against the Evo and the tires, Atsushi catches sight of Kunikida's headlights in his rear-view mirror.

In fact, Atsushi almost loses his chance to build a gap, fumbling with the gears when he hears the engine bounce off the redline, as he watches Kunikida swerve so completely to the side, pulling off the course completely.

For a second time, Atsushi crosses the finish line. His opponent does not.

Atsushi's hands are still shaking as he brings the car to a full stop, something in the engine clanking in protest as Atsushi tries to put the car in neutral after it's ground to a halt. He even stalls the car as the revs drop too low on second gear. He struggles with the helmet before he even pulls the keys out of the car, trying in vain to keep his composure as he throws open the driver side door.

Kunikida didn't crash. Atsushi knows that much.

But it doesn't change the frantic nature of his run and the way he doesn't even bother grabbing his masquerade mask, ignoring the natural queasiness from the drive as he sprints full-force to the place Kunikida had pulled off the track.

The pass is horrifyingly larger on foot. The straightaway would easily take Atsushi twenty minutes to walk on a good day.

And on a bad night, like tonight, it still takes him ten minutes of running — from the Evo, from Akutagawa, from the rush of the crowd and the perpetual haze of excitement — into the dark stretch of road until he catches something akin to smoke and dust in his nose on some half-there back-road, half a block down.

At least Atsushi thinks it's smoke and dust. The petrichor is clogging up all his senses, or maybe that's his emotions, or maybe the rain is just mixing with the childish, stupid way his eyes are starting to well up.

"Kuni — Poet!" Atsushi shouts, more desperate than he thought he'd be as he sees the outline of a figure against a car, leaned casually.

Kunikida doesn't have his helmet on anymore. The headlights of the Accord are painting the trees a dull type of yellow, but Atsushi isn't paying attention to that as his legs rush him over to the man himself.

And for a second time, Atsushi's arms wrap around Kunikida's middle before he can think better of it, even as his mind catches up to the smoke filtering around Kunikida and the way the man holds his hand up, refusing to wrap it around Atsushi, because of the cigarette still glowing against the dark.

"What gives?" Kunikida asks, though not unkind. His free hand ruffles through Atsushi's already-mused hair before lightly pushing him away.

Atsushi doesn't want to let go.

Still, he forces himself too, opening his mouth to give reason before promptly snapping his jaw shut.

Why did he run all the way over here? Kunikida never crashed.

His lungs are burning and his head hearts and the adrenaline still hasn't worn off, Atsushi's feet aching against his sneakers, but Kunikida never crashed.

"I - I'm sorry," Atsushi says, the apology spilling unbidden out of his throat before he can think better of it, or even as he's sorry. He takes a step back from Kunikida, intent on giving the man more space.

Kunikida takes the newfound personal space to protect his cigarette from the rain. It's raining still? Right. Of course it is. Atsushi is getting worked up for nothing.

He didn't even realize Kunikida smoked.

"For?" Kunikida asks, slow and cautious as he brings the filter up to take a drag.

"All of it," Atsushi says. He realizes he's nauseous. He realizes a lot of things. The sound of the two cars scraping together won't leave his mind. "All of it, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize —"

Whatever Atsushi wants to say next, it chooses to stay close to his heart. He can feel the rain hitting his scalp now, and the way that his hands are cold, a bone-deep shiver that nests into his tendons.

Kunikida considers his apology. The haggard state that Atsushi's in, and Atsushi's expression must look as crushed as he feels, because Kunikida keeps his drag slow, smoke pooling out around his mouth before he answers. "Okay."

"Okay?" Atsushi repeats, incredulity painting his tone. "Just… okay? You're not — you're not upset? You don't — but — you lost."

Kunikida's laugh is faint and half-forced, but his shoulders shake, and the comfort is more than Atsushi deserves. "I forfeit, by not finishing and not crashing. Not like it means much to this circuit."

"But — why?"

Kunikida's smile is crooked and soft, and all the other things that Atsushi doesn't deserve for the enemy's of his friends that he's making. "Maybe I wanted to keep helping you with the Silvia."

"Why'd you make the bet, then?"

Atsushi's more desperate than he anticipated. Maybe his heart is still beating too fast and he's still picturing the streaks of brake-lights in his vision, afraid for all the wrong reasons.

Kunikida didn't crash like Twain.

"I thought…" Kunikida starts, his gaze somewhere else. "It'd be nice to race like I used to. Before all of this."

"Before Yokohama, or before the monster generation?" Atsushi asks quietly.

Kunikida's smile turns rueful. "You race like Junichirou."

Atsushi swallows. His mouth is dry. He thinks it's been like that for a while.

"I'm sorry," he says again, but this time, Atsushi knows why.

He races the way he knows how. He races like he has nothing left to lose. He races because he wants to win — because he has everything to lose, this jacket around his shoulders, the car, his friends, his newfound reputation as something that matters.

Not because he gives a damn about the engine.

Atsushi doesn't accept Kunikida's next offer of a ride home, trekking back to the semi-cleared out circuit party, drenched in the rain and the weight of his own mistakes. Even Akutagawa's cleared out, though he's kindly left the now scratched-up Evo in Atsushi's possession.

He supposes it's time to learn bodywork, if he's going to be throwing himself into a circuit that demands this of him.

| SEPTEMBER 25TH 5:39AM |

Atsushi can't sleep.

He hasn't been able to sleep since the race, and he hasn't tried. He'd licked his wounds, even with his half-victory, and taken the Evo back to the garage. He hasn't bothered looking at the accursed vehicle since.

In fact, he's spent most of the time under the Silvia's hood. With all of the fluids flushed and the belts replaced, it almost looks like a regular engine, dust instead of rit-dye in the nooks and crannies of the engine.

It still makes a sputtering sound before dying every time he tries to start it, but Atsushi thinks that some dead spark-plugs might be at fault for that — he's been meaning to pick one up, but it's been on the back-burner.

Not anymore. Atsushi has a race to win. Atsushi has a circuit to — to — he doesn't know what. Atsushi hasn't been able to face Kunikida or Junichirou since the races, and neither of them have bothered to visit him.

It's just been him in his solitary, aside from the occasional chatter with the pizza delivery guy who seems to pity Atsushi's long hours in the garage.

He's staring up at the tall warehouse ceilings, idly throwing a socket-wrench up in the air and catching it with an opened soda next to him, when the landline rings, shrill and loud as it breaks the silence.

Atsushi's movements are mechanical as he grabs the receiver, everything sluggish — probably from the lack of sleep, but he'd like to blame something else for that. He just hasn't figured out what.

"Yeah?" Atsushi chokes out, his exhaustion making his voice thick and slurred.

"There's been a death," the person on the other end says, and he doesn't recognize their voice — oh. Wait, no, Atsushi knows who this is.

Bombshell. Higuchi. It's fitting that the first image Atsushi can conjure of her is of Higuchi's body lying awkwardly, blood splattered across the pavement even with her biking gear on.

He doesn't know how she got this number. He doesn't ask.

"Who?" Atsushi asks.

He knows the circuit deals in death. He thinks that's why he panicked about Kunikida. He hasn't seen it up close and he doesn't want to.

"Don't know how many, but it's more than one," she says, and she sounds grim. It's nice that she has the energy to spit out more than a couple of words, leaning against Atsushi in the backseat of Tachihara's Mazda. He doesn't bother trying to shake the image away.

"Names?" Atsushi continues mechanically. "Highway, touge?"

He doesn't even know why he needs to know this, but he can tell that he's being entrusted with the information.

"Highway," Higuchi lists off. The static is loud as she fumbles with a crinkled sheet of paper — making Atsushi wince at the volume of said fumbling. "The Scarlet Letter, dead on arrival. Tom Sawyer, critical condition, but I hear he died in transport. Scarlet's passenger, Wind I think, dead on arrival. And… uh, Anne's Calamity."

"She's dead?" Atsushi can barely hear his own voice. He thinks it sounds horrified.

"Maybe." Higuchi doesn't sound all that miffed. Part of Atsushi wants to scream at her for that. "Critical condition when they found her. I haven't heard enough to know whether she's at the hospital or not, but she'll inevitably spend the rest of her life behind bars for this."

"Why are —" Atsushi's voice cracks. He thinks it's the breaking point to something long coming. "Why are you telling me this?"

Higuchi stops, like she's contemplating this too. It's the first thing out of her mouth — or not, Atsushi supposes — that sounds like it has any sort of emotion to it.

"Because Lucy would want you to know," Higuchi says eventually, confident, assured. Atsushi's hands are shaking again. He hadn't realized that.

The receiver clicks.

Atsushi doesn't put the phone back into the wall mount for a very, very long time, even as the sun begins to peer over the horizon.

| SEPTEMBER 27TH 5:26AM |

The sun is just coming up on another cloudy day — it's been raining since Atsushi's walk, really — when there's a loud, echoing knock on the shitty metal of the warehouse doors.

Atsushi tries to sit up. Promptly hits his head on the Silvia's bumper, because of course the car has no other feelings for him than spite, before rolling the creeper out from under the car with a groan.

He hopes, feverishly, that maybe Kunikida has forgiven him, or that Junichirou wants to talk, or maybe even Akutagawa is willing to —

It's Dazai.

Atsushi's shock manifests in the form of a "huh?" that exits his mouth unwittingly, sitting up and dusting some of the dirt off his jeans.

"What are you doing down there?" Dazai asks, tilting his head at Atsushi, his mop of brown hair following.

"Checking the suspension," Atsushi says honestly.

Dazai seems just as confused as before, but shakes his head, ridding himself of the emotion like water slipping down a gutter. "Ah, well. Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"The highway incident."

Dazai's voice is low, serious — no room for the usual joking demeanor of the effable weirdo.

Atsushi frowns, standing up and kicking the creeper to the side. "Yeah? I didn't think it'd be anything you'd concern yourself with."

It might come off as lackluster, but Atsushi intentionally keeps his voice from cracking, casualness injected into his words like a real street-racer. He's been racing for a couple of months now. He should be accustomed to the danger that comes with it.

Atsushi is a racer in a legend's jacket. He should be able to understand that the circuit craves, demands blood to continue functioning. There's a reason for the —

Atsushi shakes his head. He's getting off track.

"They're not —"

"Well, yeah, it's sad," Atsushi interrupts, waving off the news like he hadn't heard it two days ago at around this same time. "I read the papers, sometimes. Why do you care?"

"Why don't you?" Dazai asks. He's staring at Atsushi, just the same as Kunikida a few days ago. Like he's staring past Atsushi, at something he can't control.

Atsushi shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable under the scrutinizing gaze. "They should've been more careful."

It's not true. Atsushi doesn't even know how a crash like that can happen — and it's likely that only two of those victims were racing at the time. Atsushi doesn't know any of them personally other than Anne — Lucy, he corrects himself —, but it's still… A tragedy, he thinks.

And not one he can afford to put any thought into. The circuit calls for first blood of the season; the circuit claims first blood of the season.

"The cops start to crack down on the circuit, the more blood there is in a given quarter," Dazai says slowly. He's changing tactics. Atsushi can see Dazai re-organizing the information in his head as he speaks — like Atsushi has done something wrong.

Has he?

"Have we hit that threshold?" Atsushi asks carefully.

Dazai shakes his head. He's holding something in the pocket of his trench coat, but he doesn't offer and Atsushi doesn't ask. "The quarter's barely started. It's only once we get into October that the numbers really matter. Especially after…"

"Chuuya," Atsushi fills in for him.

It's been a hell of a month, Atsushi muses. There are at least four racers out of retirement, three dead — one in critical condition —, Atsushi's on the hook for two pink-slip races, and Dazai's been pulling so many strings that his eye-bags are purple under the heavy-set burden in those comforting brown eyes, as eclectic as Dazai can be.

Dazai nods mutely.

And, as per usual, shoves on a mask so seamlessly and quickly that Atsushi has to blink, just to see if he's really imagining the smile plastered against Dazai's face, bright and cheerful. "Do you think I should give into the prodding? Race like old times?"

Atsushi shrugs, somewhat uncomfortable the longer this conversation drags on. "Well, I've been told to convince you that you should, so I think I'm obligated to say yes."

"Aw, but what if the poor chibi —"

The jacket sitting in the back of the Evo feels suffocating again. Atsushi still needs to start and finish the bodywork on that.

"Why did you leave the scene?" Atsushi asks, impulsive and naive and everything that Dazai has meant for him to be these past few months.

There are only so many times he can pass the Human Error monument before he gets curious. There are only so many times Atsushi can sit in this near-abandoned garage, working on a Silvia that he may never get to race, wondering why he's been put up to this.

Dazai's mask falters. Atsushi only notices the can of soda now in Dazai's hand because Dazai's hand spasms with Atsushi's question. "Getting too personal, are we?" Dazai asks, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes and the teasing doesn't feel light-hearted.

Atsushi pushes past all that, though. He swallows, but continues onward. Maybe he's just looking for an excuse to have a break from this Silvia.

Maybe he keeps hearing Higuchi's impersonal, listless voice in his head describing the death of people he'd known. He wishes he asked which hospital Lucy was at. (They aren't close, but — he owes it to her, right? She taught him — she'd been at the beginning, with him —)

"I want to know," Atsushi says, doubling-down. The Silvia's presence is oppressive between them, the half-covered demolished engines around them even more so.

The workshop has never felt like a burden to Atsushi so much as an opportunity, but he wonders if that's different for Dazai. And he knows he'd never get a straight-forward answer if he asked.

The can crinkles under the weight of Dazai's grip on it. "You don't know what you're playing around with here, Atsushi. Don't forget what you're here to do."

It's half-hearted, and part of Dazai sounds far-away already. Like it isn't Atsushi he's staring at, staring through him.

Atsushi suppresses a shiver. He's used to that look, but not from Dazai. And not here.

(He remembers that look the same way he remembers getting smacked on the back of his hands by the orphanage directors when they thought he wasn't behaving — he remembers the director's cruel, cutting, but gone stare as he disciplined Atsushi for the sin of breathing.)

He thinks he wants to leave the workshop now.

But Dazai's blocking the entrance, and all the garage bays are closed, and Atsushi's not bold enough to dart past him —

"Do you know what it's like to crash?" Dazai asks, low and steady. The humorous lilt leaves his tone entirely, leaving only the shadow of a history Atsushi doesn't know. Dazai's hair is obstructing his vision again, giving the impression of an exhausted detective before a mechanic or a racer.

Atsushi shakes his head, hesitantly.

As Dazai begins to walk, his slow steps resounding through the workshop — intentionally, Atsushi realizes. Dazai is intentionally making noise as he walks — as he makes his way over to the untouched half of the area. Where Atsushi has not dared disturb, because it isn't his to inquire about.

"Life stops," Dazai says simply, coming to a stop himself.

With the morning light coming in, dulled as it is by the clouds, thin rays of light hit Dazai's face from the half-broken windows and the failing roof, washing Dazai with the dim limelight of nothing worth nothing. Dazai's finger tips twitch, spasming around the can like there's something he wishes to grab.

Atsushi follows. They're staring at some of the covered vehicles, the tarps obscuring the wrecks underneath them.

"And for a moment, you're free." Dazai sounds wistful, his empty gaze never leaving one of the wrecks. The tarps are covered in dust and grit — a testament to a shoddy memorial, if anything. "Everything stops. Gravity, adrenaline, living — the weightlessness becomes a comfort."

"Then it all comes crashing down," Atsushi murmurs, filling in the blanks.

Dazai shakes his head, shaking himself out of it. "Something like that," he says, louder. Dazai approaches the middle tarp, setting his soda haphazardly on the ground. His opportunity at genuine earnestness from Dazai is gone with each rise in Dazai's voice.

Atsushi mirrors Dazai's stance, on the other side of the tarp. There's a vehicle under there, Atsushi knows — except he doesn't know if he should expect another version of the Silvia, which apparently Human Error wrecked a lot, or something else entirely.

"Some acclimate to it better than others," Dazai says, running his finger along the side of the tarp. He's careful to ensure the material makes no noise, so hesitant to disturb it.

Dazai treats the tarp like Atsushi treats a grave.

Atsushi's throat is dry.

"And some…" Dazai sighs, his somber tone returning in full-force. He's fighting something, some desire to keep Atsushi blind, but apparently, that's losing.

With a flourish, Dazai throws back the tarp — throwing dust into the air in a storm cloud of agitation.

And when Atsushi is done hacking his lungs out, tears coming to his eyes, he sees what Dazai means without the sentence ever needing realized.

Under the tarp, the vehicle is wrecked. Completely and utterly wrecked. There are still glass shards from the windshield, thrown askew by the movement of the tarp — there's still blood staining the dash, as Atsushi focuses on the finer details rather than the whole of the vehicle itself.

And maybe it's clear that someone died in it.

Some never acclimate to it at all, Atsushi knows Dazai would've said.

Atsushi can see what he means. The front-half of the car is completely smashed in, nothing salvageable out of the engine; the sides are crumpled and bend inward, long scratches across the dented doors.

"It's a 1987 Nissan Skyline," Dazai murmurs, staring at the wreckage in contemplation. Mesmerized by something — maybe imagining the death of this car's last pass.

Atsushi wonders — did the driver think the same things as him, in his last race? About the speed, the adrenaline?

Or were they motivated by something better, something more grand?

Is that better or worse?

"An R31, GTS-R if that means anything to you yet," Dazai continues.

Atsushi shakes his head minutely, and Dazai holds his tongue about whatever quip about Kunikida's teaching strategies he's got.

"Who did it belong to?" Atsushi asks quietly, reveling in the quiet silence of spilt circuit blood.

Lucy's in the hospital. Twain is dead.

"The beginning of it all," Dazai says, avoiding the question with the fluidity in which he's dodged every single one of Atsushi's other questions. "Is the Skyline. Did you know, Atsushi, that this Nissan's lost three races in its entire career?"

Atsushi shakes his head again.

Whatever revelry Dazai's in, he doesn't want to be the one to break it. Inexplicably, Atsushi wants to reach out, run his finger along the hood. He wonders if the ghost of the driver would object — because once a gearhead, always a gearhead, right?

Atsushi thinks if he dies in the Silvia he's been working on, he'd stay there, too.

But something feels wrong about touching the Skyline, so he refrains, fingers quivering just inches from the folded and torn metal of the hood.

Dazai clears his throat. it seems to be more for own benefit than for Atsushi's. "Either way, the death of Flawless was the end of the Golden Era. Kunikida's told you about the monster generation, no? Your generation?"

"Of course he has," Atsushi fills in, though he can't get the image of Kunikida's disappointed stare under drizzling skies with his smoke last they talked.

You race like Junichirou.

You're in a legend's jacket. Act like it.

Atsushi isn't sure what to listen to anymore. Lucy's in the hospital.

"The Portside is going to get busted if the deaths keep racking up," Dazai says instead of whatever else is clearly on his mind. He raps the back of his knuckles against the hood of the Skyline, but they don't tell Dazai much of anything. "Especially going into October, like I said. It is, obviously, your job to keep that from happening."

Atsushi's frown deepens.

Staring at the wreckage of a generation-defining vehicle, even if Atsushi wasn't around to know who Flawless really was, that sounds like too-tall an ask of someone who can do little more than an oil change. Who has only ever won out of pity and coincidence. Who has already bitten off more than he can chew with a pink-slip race to the best of the best and the best of the rest, respectively.

"Is this about the headlining race?" Atsushi says, putting the pieces together with a furrowed brow.

Dazai tsks, the sound aggravating against Atsushi's ears but not untrue. He snaps, too, like Atsushi has won a prize.

Just like that, Dazai's melancholy at seeing the wrecked Skyline is gone, just as soon as Dazai hastily pulls the tarp back over it. Another mask, another sorrow. Another piece for Atsushi to pray has a place.

"Something like that! Now you're catching on, Reaper," Dazai says, almost tauntingly. He stalks back over to the Silvia, an entire 180 in demeanor that Atsushi isn't willing to comment on, lest his commentary sends Dazai on another two-month long bender or disappearance.

"Why did you want me to race Akutagawa? You never explained. And — Jesus, you know there's no way I can win that."

"A losing spirit already?"

"He's Rashoumon. I can't even win a fair race."

"Your generation is anything but fair."

"You know what I mean!" Atsushi scoffs, crossing his arms. Or maybe that's just his temper flaring from his last race, from the wasted adrenaline to the panic.

If it wasn't for Dazai, Atsushi wouldn't have to deal with anything Portside-related. That thought is almost as relieving as it is terrifying, because now that Atsushi has a taste for it, he doesn't think he can go back.

There's something almost religious about the speedometer hitting triple-digits, about playing with his life as if it's as fleeting and temporary as rain on the windshield. He thinks that's what wrong with his generation of racers. He thinks that's why Kunikida hates it.

"You can represent something better," Dazai says quietly. He leans against the Silvia's opened hood, despite the fact that it's jacked-up and Atsushi would rather Dazai not risk those failing. "A new generation. Something better than Akutagawa. Something better than all of them."

"Why don't you do it?" Atsushi asks, other than haughtily pointing out all of the flaws in Dazai's plan.

Then again — how many flaws are there, really? Dazai's scheming was interrupted by Atsushi's impromptu-debut with Junichirou.

Atsushi was never meant to be part of this generation. That's why Sigma had seemed so startled about the White Reaper's debut — that's why Dazai let him work on the Silvia.

Of all the conflicting emotions about being used as a pawn and a tool in someone else's game, Atsushi doesn't think relief should be the strongest of all of them.

There's a point to all of this, Atsushi thinks, his shoulders slouching even though Dazai's grief is percolating into every spare shadow the workshop has to offer. There's a point to this legend, this burden.

Maybe it's because Atsushi doesn't know what to live for if not someone else, never for himself, or because it puts credit to the weight he's put on his shoulders with the Human Error jacket, but Atsushi's okay with being shaped and sculpted like this.

"This isn't what Oda would've wanted," Dazai murmurs. Atsushi thinks he wasn't supposed to hear that, so he doesn't comment on it.

"When you race Akutagawa, you're going to win," Dazai declares, louder. As though it's that easy. "And you're going to race without racing dirty, in my Silvia. You're going to fix this cesspool, Atsushi."

A tall ask for someone who has barely given Atsushi any guidance, but maybe Atsushi is desperate for direction because he can't do anything other than nod his head accordingly.

"And if I lose?" Atsushi asks quietly.

Nevermind the Silvia and how Kunikida hasn't been helping with it lately. Nevermind Junichirou's benders and the looming race over his head. Nevermind Atsushi's sloppy driving and Lucy's hospitalization, and Higuchi's injuries on the side of the road.

Nevermind a hundred other things.

Dazai's grin is manic and sharp, his canines all the more apparent like this. "Oh, Reaper, that isn't an option. You're going to be a legend."

Dazai never does ask if that's what Atsushi wants. They work on the Silvia for the rest of the day.