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Seventy-six, the speedometer reads, and it’s dragging them into a plane where broken laws are much more unassuming than broken bones - or, Fudou’s predicted broken jaw, brought on by none other than himself, once he steps off the car. Yet probing past the culminated stress of speeding and all it entails, there is a sense of general excitement, a mind racing at fever pitch. something,- not anything -, recognized by the unlit expanse of his head as being peculiar to the moments he reserves for the other;
him.
Yes, he’s never felt anything like it - not in his many years of committed one-sided love, not from his family, teammates, friends,- not ever. What is it, really? Is Fudou a medic in disguise, smuggling shots of adrenaline into his veins so he burns down, or is it a feeling he indistinctly recognizes as,- as what again? Fudou’s fingers grazing the fabric over his legs drives this to a final point. A jolt snaps him straight into clarity, crisply, he takes in the panorama unfolding in front of the windshield: blurred distance covered, as smudgy as anything his heart’s trying to tattle and tell.
They’re going faster, faster, faster now - time inside would be static if the windows hadn’t been rolled down, with the frantic breeze rattling their hair, the innards of the car are rippling with motion - not exploding, yet, but they will, soon. They’ll both explode soon. Fudou keeps accelerating, his heart rate rapid, his hand reaches out, and fuck him -
“We’re going to fly off the highway any moment now, buckle up,” his teeth roll out the last lilt coated in what Sakuma guesses is delirium - sickening to his gut, but he does as told, and he finally yells, if yelling counts as a squeaked strain. “Are you fucking moronic, Fudou? Step on that brake NOW.”
A mad laugh first. “You told me to get your head off whatever shit’s floating in there—”
“Step on it.”
“—and I bet it’s all about Kidou, and how you’re too much of a pussy to confe—”
“NOW.”
“There could be people behind us.”
“FUDOU.”
“You’re,” a momentary side glance, “definitely going to regret that.”
Delirium drowns him from within.
They don’t die.
They’re not pulled over.
But a fist fight ensues, right after Fudou steers, the force of the momentum slamming both into the windshield.
Fudou’s punches are lightning, but Sakuma’s kicks are explosive, and granted, a few inches taller always helps - maybe not in the fight, but for his pride. They’re blood on the highway now, almost roadkill, until Sakuma just about has it, broken under five million miles covering his hate. He shoves Fudou back into the car’s back seat, towering over him for a moment as his busted lip dribbles onto Fudou’s white sweatshirt. Another small victory.
“You overdid it,” he spits. Bile gurgles in his throat.
Fudou collects his anger and ejects it with an unmerited retort. “Fucking leave, get out of my car before I punch you into the ground!” To emphasize, he tugs on Sakuma’s undone tie, hard. The mark left will remain for a week.
These illogical retaliations are Sakuma’s least favorite, and he has a counter ready, refusing to back down from a predatory pounce (finally, oh finally, he’s the one leading), “You jeopardized our safe—”
but he swoops down, latching his throbbing lip onto Fudou’s neck. It’s not even a surprise.
(Both had already popped boners a few minutes before.)
Words aren’t spoken that night, and the only glimpses of each other they catch are by moonlight. The curtains are cheap and not drawn, the bed sheets are lurid, but most importantly, they’re not in love. Being in love and in a motel is most definitely a farce.
The world keeps spinning, spinning, spinning.