Archive of Our Own

[Interview excerpt from March 2014]

Enaga Fumi: Alright. How are you feeling, Atsumu?

Miya Atsumu: Good. A little restless.

EF: For your upcoming race?

MA: That too, I guess. I’ve never done an interview like this. It feels… professional.

EF: Of course, I am a professional. But so are you, so don’t worry. This is your first season in GP2… You’ll be racing for Russian Time. I’ve got to say, people have high expectations for you. How are you dealing with that?

MA: Uh. I mean, it doesn’t really matter how people think I should perform. I’ll get the results that I get regardless of their calls. I think you’re asking if I’m worried about disappointing my team? I guess there’s that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I worked hard to get where I am now and I’ll work even harder to get to the next step. I don’t care if people jeer or cheer me on, as long as I’ve done enough to deserve one or the other.

EF : [laughing] That’s an impressive answer. You’re pretty great at this.

MA: Thanks.

EF: Your style has often been described as aggressive in the past. Is this something you intend on developing in the future to give you an edge on other competitors?

MA: I wouldn’t really call my racing style aggressive, at least not compared to guys like Bokuto or Hoshiumi. I don’t like wasting my time, but I’m not that… yeah, aggressive.

EF: Really? You know, I can recall pretty violent interactions between you and your brother on the karting tracks.

MA: [laughing] Oh yeah, that’s true. Well, that’s just ‘cause I hate losing to ‘Samu. I hate losing to anyone, really, but especially him.

EF: He gets the sibling treatment.

MA: Exactly.

EF: Speaking of Osamu, you two have been competing ever since you were children. Those of us who were there remember a duo that terrorized their opponents on the karting circuits with their strategies and overtakes. We were all looking forward to seeing the Miya twins fight their way up to Formula One, but Osamu announced a couple months ago that he was retiring from competition. What do you think impacted his decision?

MA: I obviously can’t speak for my brother, and I’m sure he has his reasons that he wishes not to share. What I’ll say is that this sport has taken a pretty big toll on the both of us, mentally and financially. We were lucky to have parents that funded and supported our karting careers, ‘specially because we were so young. Imagine if we’d stopped loving the sport all of a sudden. It would have been awkward, you know?

EF: I can imagine.

MA: I think that might have been why Osamu stuck to racing for as long as he did. But like I said, it got more expensive with time and it was hard finding sponsors who were willing to bet on the same last name. I guess they figured one of us would eventually outrun the other. And frankly, we both really loved racing; it’s just that… I think I might have loved it a smidge more than he did.

March 2018, Melbourne

Atsumu stepped out of the plane and immediately stifled a deafening yawn. Two a.m. flights should be illegal.

His travel pillow was still wrapped around his neck as he stretched his sore limbs, bleached hair sticking up in all directions. He’d slept through the entire ride from Tokyo and felt like the Earth had gone off-axis while he was out.

Despite his early flight, the Australian air was pleasantly warm against his skin and Atsumu smiled to himself as he fished his phone out of his sweatpants.

6:09 A.M.

Duplication glitch 🍙: why didnt u tell me u were leaving?????

ass

wake me up next time

i hope u embarrass urself in front of your fans

oh right you already do that without my help

Atsumu was busy typing a snarky reply for his brother when a flash of bright orange hair stormed past him like a whirlwind.

“Atsumu-san!” Hinata exclaimed with far too much energy for someone who had boarded a plane in the middle of the night. “Do you think we’ll see kangaroos?”

“I dunno, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu said, pocketing his phone and climbing down the stairs with his luggage. “I don’t think they’re allowed in the grandstand.”

Hinata seemed confused at that for a second, then his eyes went wide with understanding. “Oh, the grandstand. Right.”

Atsumu laughed. “Yup. This is a closed circuit. Should I show you a picture of yer car, just so you don’t forget?”

Hinata elbowed him in the ribs with a sulking pout. “Shuddup. I remember that much.”

“Just makin’ sure,” Atsumu said as he flicked Hinata’s McLaren cap.

On their way to the hotel, Atsumu noticed that Hinata was gawking at every building and shop outside the cab window. He’d come to learn that his new teammate was amazed by pretty much everything, but he still asked: “Is this yer first time in Australia?”

“I’ve only been to Coffs Harbour,” Hinata informed, eyes dancing across the moving landscape. “It was the last round of the WRC.”

Atsumu hummed.

Hinata’s resume was unusual, to say the least. He’d started karting later than most kids and had displayed an impressive amount of raw talent even then. Not that Atsumu had been paying too much attention to the guy. Still, the first time the two had faced each other, an alarm had gone off in his head and he’d found himself catching Hinata after the race to tell him that one day, they would be fighting for the title of Formula One champion. His stupid brother never missed an opportunity to make fun of him for it.

Then in 2016, after scoring second in the GP2 championship and receiving several offers from Formula One teams, Hinata announced that he was putting his single-seater career on hiatus to try out rallying. Atsumu had just made his F1 debut with McLaren at the time, alongside a more experienced Bokuto. He remembered thinking it was a joke. He and Osamu were back at their apartment in Osaka for the winter break and Osamu had been reading an article out loud when Hinata’s name had come up seemingly out of nowhere.

“Hold up, say that again?”

Osamu briefly looked up from his laptop in annoyance, albeit complying. “’Nineteen-year-old Hinata Shouyou to join the World Rally Championship for the 2017 season.’ It also says he refused a seat from both Renault and Sauber.”

“What?”

“I’m not repeatin’ myself.”

“No, I heard ya. Who in their right mind would pass on an opportunity like that?”

Suna, who’d remained quiet until then, had shrugged from the other end of the couch. Atsumu wasn’t blind, he knew that the Mercedes driver had been spending a suspicious amount of time in Osaka during the off-season, but he was pretty sure that Osamu would murder him if he did so much as allude to it.

“Maybe he’s done with single-seaters and wants to do something else with his life,” he offered, sounding as disinterested as ever. “Smart guy.”

Osamu had glanced at him, then, the movement so fleeting Atsumu almost missed it entirely.

“Looks like yer not gettin’ that epic face-off after all,” he commented just to rile Atsumu, the bastard. “’S a shame. I would have been in the front row to watch him not remember yer name.”

“Piss off, Samu,” he’d spat back. Then, more to himself as he went about his business: “It really is a shame, though.”

Two years later, Bokuto was leaving McLaren for Renault Sport and Atsumu inherited the role of first driver—a blessing and a curse, really, because while he’d been waiting for this moment, he wasn’t sure he would find another teammate like Bokuto.

People called Miya Atsumu a lot of things. A genius, a freak of nature, a prodigy, a halfwit, an arrogant jerk too full of himself—that one was Osamu’s favorite—a hot shot, an asshole, occasionally a bisexual mess—Atsumu had read that one on Twitter once and thought it hadn’t been too far from the truth. Generally, though, they all agreed on one thing: that he’d been blessed with some innate racing abilities, which, in Atsumu’s humble opinion, was utter horseshit.

If Atsumu had been blessed with anything, it was his teammates. He’d discovered racing with Osamu, so it was only natural that they would pursue it together, thus forming their first team ever. And while it was true that the twins were in constant disagreement, who other than the boy who’d seen him pee his pants in front of his crush in first grade to raise his limits higher each and every day?

The thing about good teammates was that they had to be good rivals first and foremost. To Atsumu, there was a fundamental difference between liking a rival and respecting them. The greatest form of respect in this sport was to always race opponents at full capacity, because they deserved to be taken seriously and because it would be rude to hold back. Atsumu simply had no patience for goody-two-shoes who watched their pace and fell back when their engineers asked them to.

Bokuto had never graced Atsumu with so much as a crumb of victory if he could have gotten hold of it first. If he was faster in one sector by two tenths of a second, then Atsumu would spend double the usual amount of time in the simulator that night to catch up. If they scored a double podium and Atsumu came second, he’d spray Bokuto with champagne and look him in the eye as he swore: “Next time, it’s my turn.” No one else had managed to match his drive to win with quite the same spark of madness.

No one, except for a twenty-one-year-old the world had forgotten about after he’d left to race cars on dirt roads in South America. Atsumu had been wondering who would fill in the second McLaren seat now that Bokuto was gone—their reserve driver, perhaps, or one of the guys from the junior program. He had not expected to walk into HQ one day and find Hinata Shouyou, of all people, peacefully sat at a table in the team’s merch, snacking on a stroopwafel from hospitality.

“Oh, good morning Miya-san! This thing tastes really dry. British food is weird, don’t you think?”

“It’s Dutch,” Atsumu had corrected distantly, his brain slow as it attempted to process the bizarre situation. “And yer supposed to eat them with— Shouyou-kun, what are ya doin’ here?”

“I’m driving the car today for a test,” Hinata replied casually, though his eyes had been sparkling.

Atsumu was fully gaping then. “The MCL33?”

“Hmhm.”

“For a test.”

“Yes. Miya-san, you look a little pale. Are you okay?”

Atsumu shook his head and turned around, heading for the cafeteria. “Yup. Just peachy.”

Hinata had performed beyond all expectations that day. And the day after. And all the other times he’d sat in the cockpit to drive laps. He’d been so comfortable in the car, it was as if the two-year gap in his formula racing career had never happened.

Atsumu had watched a few of those tests and had noticed two things about the kid: the first was that he was hungry, chasing after the euphoria of pulling off a tricky maneuver or at the end of a fast lap, when the car was dashing across the final straight like an arrow fired by Apollo’s bow.

Hinata drove like he was a starving man and the world was ending tomorrow.

But more importantly, Atsumu had finally understood the value of spending two years racing in the mud and the sand. Formula One cars were wonders of technology, sensitive to the slightest shift in terrain or air pressure. Reacting a fraction of a second too late could be a one-way ticket into the wall where the marshals would have to dig you out and hope that you’d been lucky enough not to have lost the ability to walk—or worse, in some instances.

Cold and wet asphalt were especially hard to deal with because tyres required a certain amount of time to warm up and create enough grip, without which the car would quickly turn into an out-of-control soapbox. Reaching that equilibrium was an art in itself, one that F1 drivers never ceased to refine.

Hinata found grip where there was none. Somehow, he trusted that his car would always right itself at the last moment—no, trusted that he could get his car to do exactly what he wanted it to do without sacrificing precious time. It was almost scary, how much trust he put into his own abilities. But wasn’t a good rival supposed to be a beacon of inspiration for their opponents to aim higher, to strive for a level beyond excellence?

The day Atsumu rediscovered the anomaly that was Hinata Shouyou, he knew that he had struck gold and that he would have to do everything in his power to keep him at armlength. Someone to race against and alongside; that was Miya Atsumu’s greatest gift.

There was not a single cloud in the sky when they crossed the gate of the Albert Park Circuit for the Thursday press conference. Atsumu could hear the distinct roar of supercars putting on a show behind them, and remembered just how much he loved racing in Australia. The atmosphere was always good-natured and he found the crowd to be particularly entertaining. Someone had gifted him a beach towel with his own face on it once, and if he hadn’t meant to forget it in his hotel room, he hoped whoever had found it appreciated the object at fair value.

“Shouyou-kun,” he said as they were signing autographs in the fan zone, “let’s start a contest. Whoever has received more friendship bracelets by the end of the season wins.”

“The whole season?” Hinata looked up from the cap he was signing. His signature went crooked. “You’re on!”

They ran into Bokuto on their way to the conference room and he immediately drew them both into a bone-shattering hug, squeezing all the air out of Atsumu’s lungs as he asseverated his excitement into their ears. Sakusa was trailing behind with his physiotherapist, mumbling something beneath his surgical mask. He’d cut his hair since the February testing. It was a nice look on him, but Atsumu thought that he would look better if he wasn’t constantly wearing Red Bull’s ugly ass merch—a complete waste of potential, in his opinion.

“Hey, Omi-kun,” he drawled. Sakusa glared at him like Atsumu might as well have spat on the ground between them. “May I say you look positively strikin’ today? Really, yer glowin’.”

“You may not.”

“Humpf. Fine, then. You look like shit.”

“How very mature of you, Miya.”

“Then accept the compliment, dickhead.”

“Say, Shouyou,” Bokuto interjected unsubtly. “Have you spoken to Kageyama since the Spain testing?”

Something akin to a wildfire started in Hinata’s eyes at the mention of his old rival. “I sent him a picture of my best lap-time on the simulator. He said I was cheating because he didn’t have any pictures to show for himself.”

“Good old Kageyama,” Bokuto laughed, loud and unbridled. “I bet things are gonna get a lot more interesting with you around.”

The room was still half empty when they stepped inside. Hinata and Bokuto shortly stormed back out to retrieve Hoshiumi, who was late as usual. After a grand total of three minutes, Atsumu grew bored of twiddling his thumbs and began to look around for a distraction.

Sakusa was sitting at the far-right end of the desk. He seemed busy scrolling on his phone—maybe he was just pretending? Atsumu considered bothering him just for kicks, but then Sakusa moved and he found himself unable to come up with anything to say. He watched him remove one loop of his mask and let it hang from one ear, bringing his water bottle up to his lips.

Atsumu should not have been staring. He had no reason to. After all, this was just Sakusa—the guy who made a point to ignore Atsumu whenever he opened his mouth and perpetually looked like he had a stick wedged up his ass. Sakusa, the kid Atsumu had unintentionally pushed to tears after a karting race when he’d backed him up into a corner in revenge—and because he was a little shit, in Osamu’s words—until Sakusa had fallen into a puddle ass first. He’d ran to his mom, bawling his eyes out, and Atsumu had stood there confused as she explained him about this thing Sakusa had. She had been quite vague, but Atsumu had at least gotten the gist of it. They never exchanged more than a few words after that. Was it because of what had happened that day? Not likely, but Atsumu occasionally recalled the cries of the raven-haired boy and felt just a little bit guilty about it.

He could not imagine Sakusa doing much more than a scowl, now, even underneath his mask. He’d seen him stand on the podium enough times to know that his arsenal of facial expressions was extremely limited. Still, his eyes traced the gentle curve of Sakusa’s jaw as he gulped down a single sip of water—classy, elegant, unpretentious, all things that Atsumu definitely wasn’t—and pulled his mask back on his face.

He was carefully pinching the top strip around the bridge of his nose when Hinata and Bokuto barged inside the conference room, Hoshiumi in tow. Sakusa briefly met his eyes before breaking contact.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bokuto exclaimed, throwing himself into a chair next to Sakusa who narrowed his eyes in displeasure. “Did we start already? Sorry about that.”

“Nah, yer good. Hoshiumi, how’s it goin’?”

The white-haired Ferrari driver sat on Atsumu’s left and directed his piercing gaze at him. Atsumu felt like he was being scrutinized.

“You. You did something to my chair, didn’t you?”

Hoshiumi stood up and began inspecting his seat. Atsumu blinked at him, ignoring Bokuto’s snickering. “No? I was just askin’ how you were.”

“I’m fine, then. Why is it that you always sound like you’re up to something, Miya?”

Atsumu huffed and crossed his arms on his chest. “I dunno what yer talkin’ about.” He clicked his tongue and directed his attention to the journalists in front of them. “Can we start now?”

He watched them snap back to focus with faint amusement as they looked away from the two drivers. That was what got Atsumu through media panels, most days; he enjoyed toying with the journalists until they scrambled to get their notes ready and got too flustered to string two words together. It usually only took him a wink or a sly remark, but most had been around long enough to have grown used to his antics. Atsumu was at least glad to know that he hadn’t lost his touch.

“Very well,” one said, leaning into the microphone. “Thank you all for being here. First, I would like to congratulate Hinata on his debut with McLaren—I hope that you had the opportunity to adjust nicely.”

Hinata—sweet, radiant Hinata—absolutely beamed at the journalist.

“I have! All the guys are very nice—and the girls too, of course, there’s lots on the team! I was a bit scared that I wouldn’t be able to keep up at first but it turned out I had nothing to worry about. I knew I was ready. Besides, Atsumu-san is a great teammate. He always checks on me and brings me food sometimes.”

“Aw, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu cooed, unable to resist the urge to reach out and run his hand through Hinata’s bright hair. He tried to ignore the bitter taste on his tongue, because Atsumu was decidedly not a great teammate. “Yer adorable.”

Hinata blushed and gave him one of his trademark smiles, those so pure and blinding they sometimes reminded him of Bokuto’s. He would make a much better teammate for the guy, the annoying voice in the back of his head supplied.

The journalist asked Hinata a few more questions, mainly concerned with his feedback on the car. It was a bit repetitive, but Atsumu couldn’t blame him. Hinata’s odd choice of career path certainly aroused curiosity. He was also a pleasure to listen to, with the way he moved his hands as he talked and bounced on his chair in excitement.

“A question for Bokuto-san: this week will mark your hundredth race in Formula One. Looking back on your achievements, would you say that you are currently where you wanted to be at this point in your career?”

Atsumu’s ears perked up and he leaned forward to look at Bokuto. “Wait, is it really yer hundredth race already? Shit, I didn’t know. Congrats, mate!”

Atsumu did not have time to register the language slip-up because Bokuto was staring intensely at the interviewer, slack jawed. He frowned and followed his gaze.

The guy sported short jet-black hair that looked untamed in a tasteful, deliberate kind of way. Beneath a stylish pair of glasses, his eyes were set on Bokuto. If he had been the one being stared at so sharply, Atsumu probably would have felt the urge to look away. Other than that, he recognized that the guy was fairly good-looking. Tall, handsome, well put together. Atsumu was certain that he’d seen him somewhere before, but the longer he tried to put a name to his face, the hazier his memories became.

Meanwhile, Pretty Face seemed perfectly unfazed by the man gaping at him with his big owl eyes, the faintest of smiles lingering on his lips. Atsumu waved a hand in front of Bokuto.

“Bo? Bokkun?”

Hinata glanced at him, grinning with confusion and amusement. Atsumu mirrored his expression as his waving intensified. Is this guy being for real?

Bokuto’s eyes finally snapped back into focus and he acknowledged Atsumu by slowly blinking at him, picking his jaw off the floor.

“Uh, sorry. Could you repeat the question?”

Pretty Face complied without missing a beat. Atsumu found that there was a sort of phlegmatic air to him, a calm disposition that reminded him of a teacher speaking to a child. While Bokuto was stuttering his way through an answer, Hinata turned to him to mouth, “What was that?”

Atsumu shrugged and craned his neck to gauge the other drivers’ reactions. Sakusa looked perfectly indifferent, as usual, and Hoshiumi appeared too busy trying to balance his water bottle on his head.

Whether or not he was satisfied with Bokuto’s answer, Pretty Face thanked him and offered his spot to another journalist. The next question was for Sakusa. Before he could even attempt to respond, Hoshiumi huffed indignantly.

“Why do you only ask questions to these guys? I’m here too, you know!”

A murmur ran through the crowd of journalists, and as much as Atsumu enjoyed watching the press trip over themselves, he had no desire for Hoshiumi to make a scene so early in the season. He needed his opponents to be taken seriously, after all.

“I’m sure yer time will come,” he said, throwing an arm around Hoshiumi’s shoulders and drawing him close until he was one butt cheek away from falling off his chair. “I wasn’t asked anythin’ yet either.”

“That’s because nobody wants to hear your opinion on anything, Miya. Get off me.”

“Rude.”

When he let go of Hoshiumi, nobody was paying attention to them and Sakusa had carried on with his answer as if nothing had happened. Atsumu was almost upset that he’d managed to retake the spotlight so effortlessly.

“… not for me to decide. All we can do is provide the best feedback to improve next year’s car and hope that it will save us some time in the wind tunnel. I’m sure my teammate will tell you the same thing.”

Sakusa’s tone was inflectionless, borderline disinterested. He kept his hands in front of him as he talked, like he was giving a particularly soporific lecture. Atsumu would never understand why people always seemed to drink every word that spilled from his lips.

Fine, perhaps Atsumu also felt a little bored. He tipped his chair back until he was balancing on its two back legs and put his cockiest grin on display.

“How are things goin’ with Ushiwaka, by the way? You two gettin’ along? Team dinners must be thrillin’, yer both so talkative.”

Some faint laughter in the audience. Sakusa glared at him, but Atsumu had long gotten used to the Red Bull driver’s iciness. It would take a lot more to deter his spirit.

“Wakatoshi is good company, much better than yours anyway. You should worry about your own team, Miya, your insecurity is showing.”

First name basis, huh? Atsumu tried not to mull over how he felt about that for too long.

“Excuse me, I am a goddamn delight. Ain’t that right, Bokkun?”

“Yeah, Tsum-Tsum is the best!” Bokuto extolled, looking up from the pile of bottle caps he and Hinata had spent the last five minutes stacking on top of each other. “We’ve had tons of fun together!”

“Mate, you never should’ve left McLaren,” Atsumu whined with an exaggerated pout.

“I’m sorry, bro, I miss youuu—”

“I miss you too, brooo—”

Hoshiumi made a noise of disgust as they both started blubbering and pretended to reach for each other’s hand behind Hinata. The redhead turned to Bokuto, looking like the perfect picture of innocence.

“I’m sure Amanai is an amazing teammate, Bokuto-san!”

Bokuto snapped out of his act in the blink of an eye to beam at Hinata. “She is! Amanai-kun is very talented and she knows a lot of stuff about how the cars work.”

“You don’t?” Sakusa asked flatly.

Bokuto shrugged. “My job is to drive the car.”

“But… shouldn’t you have full knowledge of what you’re driving in order to master it?”

“Maybe for you. I’m already a world champion, though!”

Coming from anyone else, the comment would have been received as a jab or a taunt; but Atsumu was fairly certain that Bokuto did not have a single mean fiber in his body and everybody knew not to take his words the wrong way. In fact, he didn’t think Bokuto had ever hated anyone, which was a blessing given how easily the guy could shatter your bones if he wanted to.

“Jeez, Omi-kun,” Atsumu drawled, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. “Feelin’ chatty today?”

And with that, Sakusa was back to giving him the silent treatment.

“Atsumu-san!” Hinata cried, his brown eyes full of accusation. “Why did you say that? Now he won’t talk!”

“Gentlemen, could we please go back to the subject?” their supervisor cut in, sounding a little desperate. “We’re running out of time.”

When they wrapped up the questions and began to clear out the room, Atsumu noticed that Bokuto was moving a lot faster than usual.

“Bokkun!” he called out. “What are you in a rush for?"

The Renault driver was already standing at the door when he turned around to sheepishly rub the back of his neck. “I just need to do something real quick, can I catch you guys later?”

Hinata and Atsumu shared another glance.

“’Course. Text me if you don’t find us.”

Bokuto gave them a little wave and ran off. Hinata trotted up to Hoshiumi.

“Hey, Atsumu-san and I are gonna grab food. Do you want to come with?”

Hoshiumi squinted his eyes at them like they were trying to lead him into a trap. “I can’t, I have to be in the media pen in ten minutes.”

“That’s okay! Maybe another time.”

Hoshiumi grunted noncommittally and Hinata wasted no time turning to Sakusa, who was busy dousing his hands with hand sanitizer. His gaze darted upwards before Hinata could get a word out.

“Not a chance.”

“They all hate us,” Atsumu lamented as they exited the building and began strolling around the paddock. Beside him, Hinata was dragging his feet like a kicked puppy.

“I guess they do.”

“Their loss,” Atsumu said, looping an arm around the redhead’s shoulders and shoving his free hand into his pocket. “They don’t know what they’re missin’.”

On their way, they made a stop at the media pen to watch the scene unfolding before their eyes. Ferrari was filming some kind of challenge involving a blindfolded Kageyama desperately trying to follow Hoshiumi’s hectic instructions—if strings of curses and wonky directions could be considered as such. He undoubtedly had some issues seeing things from a different perspective, given how many times he told Kageyama to “go left—no, my left”. His teammate was making an honest effort, but he looked more like an overgrown toddler learning to control his own limbs.

“Kageyama looks stupid,” Hinata observed, matter-of-factly. Atsumu hummed.

They watched quietly for a couple of minutes before Hinata spoke again.

“What was he like when I was gone?”

The question was innocent enough, but it was layered with something that Atsumu could not quite pinpoint. He pursed his lips as he thought.

“Not much different than now. I mean, he’s always come off as awkward to me. Didja not stay in contact?”

Hinata looked pensive when he replied, almost crestfallen. “Not really. Suga-san would give me news every week, but I never heard from him directly. I wondered how he would adjust to all the media’s attention suddenly shifting to him. He’s always avoided that stuff.”

Atsumu tried to hide how surprised he was at the response. From what he remembered of Hinata and Kageyama, the two had been inseparable since their karting days. Always toe-to-toe, always aiming a little further to get the slightest advantage on the other. Kind of like he and Osamu growing up. He could not imagine that a lifelong rivalry such as theirs could be so casually interrupted for two full years.

“Was little Shouyou-kun worried about his grumpy rival gettin’ lost in the wild jungle?” he teased with an easy grin.

“Hell no. He’s a grown man, he doesn’t need me to tell him what to do. I was just wondering, I guess.”

They eventually took their leave, because people were starting to give them looks, and found a quiet spot to eat the crepes they’d gotten from a food vendor. Bokuto joined them soon after, a joyful bounce to his step that definitely wasn’t there when he’d left.

“Guys! I just talked to Akaashi! He came all the way out here to interview us, can you believe this?”

Unlike Hinata, whose face lit up with recognition as he joined Bokuto for a happy little dance, Atsumu was still one step behind. “Akaashi?” he parroted.

“Yeah, Akaashi!” Bokuto repeated, Hinata’s hands still in his when he came to a stop. “He was in GP2 with us in 2014!”

Atsumu could see him now, the black-haired kid that was always hanging around Bokuto and kept him in check in front of the cameras. He had a vague recollection of Bokuto mentioning him once or twice back when they were teammates.

“Oh, right, I remember him. What’s he doin’ here?”

Bokuto was practically vibrating in excitement. “He writes for a sports journal and said he wanted to see what we had become! I haven’t seen Akaashi since high school, I’m so happy!”

Couldn’t he just give him a call? Atsumu almost said, but he had not missed the way Bokuto seemed overjoyed just having Akaashi’s name on his tongue and decided that there was probably a lot more to the story than what his friend had let on.

“That’s awesome, Bokkun,” he replied instead, hoping he sounded as sincere as he intended. Bokuto then launched himself into a lengthy retelling of his conversation with Akaashi, and Atsumu was glad that Hinata’s mind worked at the same absurd speed as his ex-teammate because he’d personally stopped listening a while ago. Specifically, once he’d spotted an unmistakable bed head in slacks and a loose tie coming their way.

Atsumu watched him sneak up on Bokuto and roll up his sleeves, before unleashing all of his strength into an earth-shattering ass slap that resonated across the paddock. Yellow eyes opened impossibly wide as Bokuto whirled around to face his assailant.

“Kuroo!” he barked. “What the hell, man!”

He then proceeded to retaliate by smacking a large hand between Kuroo’s shoulder blades, nearly sending him toppling over with the force of it and laughing boisterously as the other struggled to stay upright.

“Ouch, okay,” Kuroo wheezed, readjusting his tie. “Guess I had that one coming. What’s up, Bo?”

“I’m doing fantastic, mate!” Bokuto’s hand settled around Kuroo’s nape with a firm grip. “Nice suit you’ve got there.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, bro, those pants are doing wonders for your ass.”

“Thanks, dude, I wore them just for you.”

“Bro.”

Finally, Kuroo seemed to acknowledge the McLaren boys standing more or less idly (the latter, in Hinata’s case) in front of him, and flashed them a dazzling smile.

“Yo, Miya. Hinata, how’s it going? ‘Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever!”

Hinata looked at Kuroo like he’d hung all the stars in the sky. Atsumu supposed he looked at everyone that way—or maybe Kuroo just had that effect on people. A little bit of both, he decided.

“I know, I only hear about you from Kenma-san!” Hinata exclaimed. “You’re working for the FiA now? That’s so freaking cool, it means you’re part of the really important people!”

Kuroo laughed. “Hinata, you are the really important people.”

Atsumu held back his own laughter when his teammate turned red in the face and started tripping over his words, much to Kuroo’s hilarity. The guy had a presence not even Atsumu could deny, with his cat-like stare and tall stature and chainsaw laugh. It was no wonder he and Bokuto got on so perfectly. They were a binary star system, orbiting around each other and drawing in whoever came close with their irresistible gravitational pull. Atsumu had almost found it freaky at first, how easy it was to laugh with them, but maybe it was because he’d never known a friendship like theirs.

“Alright, I gotta get back to work,” Kuroo announced after checking his watch. “Gentlemen, it was nice seeing you. Bo, I expect you to finish that story next time I call you and you better not leave out any details.” He turned to the McLaren drivers and briefly bowed his head. “Miya, Hinata.”

Then he was off, and the three of them did not stick around for much longer because Atsumu had promised Hinata that they would go surfing in the afternoon. A terrible mistake, in retrospect: Atsumu had no sense of balance whatsoever and exhausted himself paddling back to shore every time he fell off his board. Hinata, on the other hand, was perfectly at ease, riding the waves with unsuspected deftness and agility. He did try coaching his teammate on the fly, but to no avail. On the plus side, and if it hadn’t been obvious before, Atsumu was now certain that he’d picked the right career path.

“Shou-kun, stop,” he panted after re-emerging for what felt like the billionth time. “Yer embarrassin’ me out here.”

Hinata’s laugh was crystal clear against the song of the waves. He shook some water off his hair, reminding Atsumu of a dog jumping out of a pool to splash its owners, and gave him an innocent grin. His nose was flushed with the beginning of a sunburn on his already tan skin, a vestige of his travels. He looked happy. Hinata looked like he belonged, like he could go anywhere in the world and make a home out of it.

“Your last shot wasn’t half bad, Atsumu-san,” he said, a pitiful attempt at comforting his teammate. Atsumu nudged his board with his foot.

“That’s nice, but I should probably save what little I have left of my dignity before I drown myself in shame. If ya want, though, we can return tomorrow for a morning run.”

That seemed to please Hinata, who followed Atsumu back on solid land and raced him to their car, jumping every time his bare feet stepped on a rock. They wrestled for the right to get dressed in the backseat, Atsumu ended up shoving Hinata in the trunk with all of his clothes, then banged his head on the doorframe and cursed his own existence in front of innocent bystanders. Luckily, the massive plate of rice Kita made him that night was enough to soothe his bruised pride.

“Don’t forget to stretch,” his physiotherapist reminded after he went over the weekend’s program for the fourth time. “Free practice is at twelve-thirty, I’ll pick you up at eleven. You better be ready by then.”

“Kita-san, I’m always on time,” Atsumu said through a mouthful of rice.

“Nice try, but I know you enough not to believe that.” Kita checked his watch and picked up his backpack. “I’ll leave you alone now. Do your stretches. Get good sleep. Call me if you need somethin'.”

“I will,” Atsumu promised, letting Kita ruffle his hair as he walked by.

“Good.”

Atsumu twisted in his chair to call after him. “Thanks, Kita-san, yer the best!”

Friday and Saturday went by in the blink of an eye. When he wasn’t driving, Atsumu was exchanging data with his engineers, eyes strained on rows and rows of numbers that would give anyone a headache. The car was performing well, but it was a little too on the nose for Atsumu’s taste. On Saturday during qualifying, he managed to secure sixth position on the starting grid—not bad, not great. Hinata struggled a bit more and walked away with P11.

“Too bad ya ain’t at the front with the fun guys, it would have been a good fight,” he told him the next day as they were getting ready in the garage. Hinata looked at him with genuine determination.

“The midfield is full of drivers who want to win as much as I do. That’s reason enough to fight.”

Suddenly, Atsumu wasn’t so sure Hinata was the rookie one anymore. His career detour had obviously given him more than a few technical skills, and Atsumu wondered if it was something he would lack forever or if it would only give his teammate a temporary edge.

“National anthem in five!” a staff member called from outside, forcing Atsumu out of his own head. He would have plenty of time to think later. At present, he had a race to win, so he gathered his stuff and stepped out in the sun.

Atsumu was grinning as he waited for the lights to turn off. The roaring of the engines and the distant clamor of the crowd were a symphony he revelled in every time, nurturing like the blood flowing in his veins and setting him alight all at once. He became aware of every inch of his body: the sound of his breathing, the pounding in his ears, the tingles in his fingertips against the steering wheel. In no other situation did Atsumu feel more alive.

Stepping on the gas was like taking flight. Atsumu spread his golden wings and soared through the air, going neck and neck with Suna to steal the inside line from him. Notably, the Mercedes driver was not impressed by Atsumu’s brute show of strength. He let him push just long enough for a dangerous gap to form between Atsumu and the upcoming corner, forcing him to reconsider.

If Oikawa was ruthless and flamboyant enough to be the face of Mercedes, his teammate could be as much of a threat when he wanted to. Atsumu had been friends with Suna since high school and knew better than to underestimate the guy. Sunarin was nothing if not a sly fox, and Atsumu had fallen into one too many of his traps to mistake his quietness for anything but evil scheming.

However, he was just as familiar with Suna’s weaknesses. He knew that the Mercedes driver had a tendency to slack off and would not put up too much of a fight as long as Atsumu gave him no time to plan ahead, so by the end of the first lap, Atsumu had snatched the fifth position from him with a smooth maneuver around the outside.

Near the twentieth lap, Atsumu watched Kageyama pull a rather daring move on one of the Red Bulls and make contact in front of him. Judging by the way it dragged itself to the pitlane, Atsumu guessed that the suspensions had taken a bad hit.

“Which Red Bull was that?” he asked on the radio.

His engineer responded fairly quickly. “Ushijima.”

“Is Tobio-kun gettin’ a penalty for that stunt?”

“It’s under investigation.”

Well I don’t have time to wait, Atsumu thought before diving on the Ferrari.

Racing was a subtle art. It required analytical skills, intelligence, precision—all that charming but slightly boring stuff that Kageyama Tobio seemed to have been born with. The media often praised him for his natural dispositions, earning him the title of generational talent since the moment he’d sat his butt in an F1 car. At seventeen years old, he had been the youngest to ever do so.

A few years ago, Kageyama would have reacted to Atsumu’s dive bomb exactly the way everybody had expected him to: with a textbook counterattack that would have either succeeded or failed, in which case he would have yielded and tried again later.

The Kageyama he was racing today was nothing like that. This Kageyama responded to Atsumu’s attack like it was a matter of life or death and success was his only option. He hadn’t meant to, but Atsumu had lied to Shouyou. This wasn’t his teenage rival who cared too much about team orders and diligently picked up his teammates’ slack. This was another beast entirely.

At its core, racing was also a very simple sport. The last one on the brakes would walk home with the win. Intelligence and technical skills were significant, but they meant nothing if a driver didn’t have the balls to make a move and go for the gap. Kita would have probably frowned at the crass analogy, but Atsumu knew that he would have agreed. As of right now, Kageyama’s car was damaged and Atsumu was in the best position to overtake. He bagged third position within one lap.

With about ten laps left to go and fresh tyres on, Atsumu eventually caught up to Sakusa and Oikawa. There was something oddly fascinating about watching Red Bull’s Iceman battling the reigning champion of Formula One, two titans in their own rights. Sakusa’s razor sharp attacks versus Oikawa’s legendary resilience. Atsumu had learned the hard way that Sakusa never aborted a maneuver if he didn’t think it would put him in the wall, a remarkable quality that did not seem to faze the Mercedes driver in the slightest. He relentlessly snuffed out all of Sakusa’s moves, one after the other—Atsumu knew that the guy was seething, he had to be.

He was so distracted observing their battle from afar that he almost lost control of his rear on a patch of grass.

“Shit.”

“Atsumu, remember that you are currently on the podium,” the grainy voice in the radio reminded him. “Please focus.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled.

In the end, Oikawa took the win and Atsumu remained in third place—a more than decent start of the season, but first race results could sometimes be misleading. Still, Atsumu was grinning when he jumped out of his car and shook the winner’s hand.

“You ain’t lettin’ up this season either, huh?”

Oikawa grinned back, sharp and lethal. His hair looked infuriatingly good and his nose was glistening with sweat. “Not in a million years.”

“Hey, Shittykawa,” someone called from behind him. “Get your ass on the scale.”

Oikawa’s expression shifted into something cheekier and more childish as he lessened his grip on Atsumu’s hand and walked off with a wink. Atsumu wanted to squeeze him until he exploded.

Later, when he was standing on the podium and the Japanese anthem was playing for Oikawa, his gaze flickered to the sea of people standing down below. Amongst the car mechanics and other staff members stood Kita, ever so solemn and respectful during the podium ceremony. Atsumu waited for his physiotherapist to notice him and scrunched his nose playfully. Kita just shook his head, looking down to hide his smile.

When he accepted his trophy and his eyes landed on the champagne bottle at his feet, Atsumu remembered another reason why he loved Australia so much. He glanced up at Sakusa, who was stepping off the podium to avoid the traditional champagne shower.

Oh, he was going to hate this.

As Oikawa was popping his own bottle open, Atsumu sat down and removed his left shoe. The crowd immediately erupted in cheers.

“Miya.”

Atsumu did not need to see him to know that Sakusa was staring daggers into his back.

“I will actually murder you if you do this.”

“Look away, Omi-kun,” Atsumu advised as he poured champagne into his makeshift cup. Sakusa looked utterly horrified.

“Why do you have to be so shameless?” he mumbled, picking his trophy up and walking away. Atsumu grinned to no one in particular.

“You get used to it,” he said, and tipped his head back to the clamor of the crowd.

“A shoey? Seriously?”

Atsumu was back at his apartment in Monaco and his pasta water was overflowing. A nearly identical version of him was gawking in the small facetime window of his phone, precariously kept upright on the counter, as he scrambled to fix the mess with paper towels.

“I’m just givin’ the people what they want,” he threw over his shoulder.

“Tsumu, that’s so lame.”

“It’s not lame, it’s cool! Are y’all allergic to fun, or somethin’?”

“You say it like you won the race,” Osamu argued with the confidence of someone who usually came on top of their quarrels. “That is in fact, super lame.”

“Quit actin’ like you have the moral high ground,” Atsumu barked back, his preferred fallback strategy in the face of his brother’s logic. “I’ll be winnin’ a lot more races in the future than yer likely to. I did the math, it’s a sad ratio.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tsumu.” He marked a pause as he shifted in his seat, the camera shaking with him. “I think yer pasta is overcooked.”

Atsumu huffed and fished a fusillo out of the pot to taste it. Pasty.

“I like ‘em better like that.”

“No ya don’t.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not gonna let perfectly good pasta go to waste.”

Osamu narrowed his eyes. “You stole those from Ferrari hospitality.”

“Ha, that I did.”

“Just buy yer own, ya scrub.”

“I am tryin’ to upset the balance of my opponents,” Atsumu stated enigmatically as he dug into his kitchen cabinet for a clean plate. “Little by little. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Please, you couldn’t sit still for five minutes to save yer life. Yer not foolin’ anyone.”

“Alright, I think it’s time for you to go,” Atsumu chided, grabbing his phone from the counter and raising it to his face. “You got work tomorrow n’ shit. What time is it for ya, two a.m.? Oh my, better get goin’, Samu.”

“Wait—”

“Tell Mama Miya I said hi!”

“Tsumu, wait. We didn’t even talk about Kita-san.”

“What about Kita-san?”

“Well, he—” Osamu’s words died on his tongue before he could explain himself. “Shit, you don’t know?”

Something stirred in Atsumu’s stomach. He was already starting to hate where this conversation was going.

“The fuck am I s’pposed to know?” he retorted with more bite than he had intended.

For a brief moment, Osamu almost looked sheepish—a rare expression for someone as unapologetic as him. Atsumu hoped he could feel the heat of his glare through the screen.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

“Too fuckin’ late,” Atsumu spat. “No take backs. If you hang up now, I’ll fly over and whoop yer useless ass myself.”

“Tsumu, I’m not gonna betray Kita-san’s trust like that—"

Atsumu thought he’d had quite enough of this game.

“Okay? What about my trust? I don’t recall ever hidin’ shit from you, so why are you doin’ it to me now?”

Osamu sighed and dragged his hand across his face. Had the bastard not had it coming, Atsumu would have felt guilty for keeping him up so late.

“Yer such a fuckin’ pain in the ass,” he muttered, burying his fingers in his dark hair. “Just keep it to yourself, okay?”

Atsumu just huffed.

“Tsumu, I’m serious.”

“Yeah I get it, just tell me!”

“Alright. I dunno how much he’s thought about it, but he expects this to be his last season workin’ with ya. Obviously—”

“What?”

“Obviously,” Osamu continued, “nothing’s set in stone, so it would be best to wait until you hear from him before makin’ rash assumptions. But yeah, that’s how I understood it, at least.”

Atsumu had to sit down to process the information. Why would Kita decide to retire now when he was only twenty-three? No, he wasn’t retiring—he just didn’t want to work with Atsumu anymore. That alone hurt more than he’d ever care to admit.

“Did I do somethin’?” he asked, staring at everything but his screen as he tried to recall each time he’d pissed his physio off. He knew he could be high maintenance, but not to the point of driving away the Kita Shinsuke, renowned for his endless patience. Maybe he should have refrained from getting hammered on his last birthday and hurling all over Kita’s pants.

“Okay so this is what I meant when I said not to jump to conclusions,” Osamu reminded, clearly regretting ever opening his mouth. “It could be a lot of things. You know Kita-san, he’s always hated travelin’ and sleepin’ in hotels. You won’t know for sure until you ask him.”

Atsumu ignored him in favor of chewing on his nails, a bad habit he had yet to get rid of despite Kita’s insistence. “Well that’s just fantastic. And it’s Kita, of course he’s fuckin’ thought this through. Fuck.”

“Atsumu, I can’t stay up all night to talk about this, but please don’t do anythin’ stupid. It’s too early to fuck things up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu complied, though he sounded far away. “’Night, Samu. Thanks for tellin’ me.”

“’Night.”

By the time Atsumu pulled himself together enough to eat, his plate had gone cold. He shoved it in the microwave and left a message on Kita’s voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Atsumu. I, uh— I know we’ll see each other at trainin’, but d’ya think you’ll have time to talk at some point? I just wanna clarify a few things. Until then, take care. Uhm. Yeah, that’s all. See ya.” 

Half an hour later, he was feeling too restless to keep pacing around his apartment and decided to go for a walk. Perhaps the fresh air would help clear his thoughts. He slipped into a pair of Converse, threw a jacket on, and walked out.

As he was dragging his feet down the street, Atsumu heard a door closing and the shuffling of keys ahead of him. He glanced up—jet-black curls, disposable face mask, an elegant trench coat, two moles above the eyebrow. Atsumu almost tripped on his own feet.

“Omi-kun?”

Sakusa looked up at the sound of his name. “Oh. Hello, Miya.”

“What are ya doin’ here?” Atsumu pressed, unconcerned about coming off as rude. Sakusa frowned.

“I live here.”

“You— Here? In Monaco?”

“No, in Jakarta,” Sakusa answered flatly. Atsumu was too startled to address the sarcasm.

“How come I’ve never seen ya around here?” he asked, momentarily forgetting his current crisis.

Sakusa shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I can connect you with an optometrist if you want. I know a really good one.”

“Joke’s on ya, Omi-kun, I already wear glasses.”

Sakusa pretended to scan Atsumu’s face intently. “Really? I’m not seeing them, could they be another invention of yours?”

“Invention?” Atsumu repeated with a gasp. “I have never made up a single lie in my entire life.”

“Yes, Miya, you are a habitual liar. That was another lie, just now.”

Right, why even bother joking with Sakusa Kiyoomi? Atsumu clicked his tongue.

“Whatever. You were goin’ somewhere?”

“Yes, I ran out of eggs.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Atsumu found absolutely nothing in the dark void of Sakusa’s eyes.

“See, now I don’t know if yer bein’ sarcastic or not.”

“I’m not.” Sakusa shuffled like he was about to walk away and turned his face to Atsumu. “Did you want something?”

“Huh? No, I was just goin’ for a walk. I’ll just… head the other way, I guess.”

“Walk wherever you want, I don’t care,” Sakusa said with finality before taking off.

Now, as much as Atsumu had trouble getting on with the Red Bull driver, he knew a peace offering when he saw one; and because it was Sakusa who had initiated it, it also had the familiar ring of a challenge to it. Atsumu would be damned if he didn’t answer its call.

“Nice coat, by the way,” he commented as they made their way down to the commercial district. “I was convinced yer wardrobe was full of Red Bull polos.”

“Guess what’s underneath the coat.”

Atsumu shook his head. “Unsalvageable.”

He managed to keep his mouth shut for a while, basking in the pleasant atmosphere of the French Riviera and stopping to pet a cat every now and then. They were walking along a road with a nice view of the port when Atsumu couldn’t help himself.

“You know, I didn’t peg ya as the type to live in Monaco.”

He felt Sakusa’s gaze flicker to the side of his face, then back in front of him. “Why? I like it here. It’s quiet, most of the time.”

“Yeah?”

“When you’re not around, that is.”

Atsumu huffed and pretended to nudge him, as they were too far apart for him to actually reach. “Pfft. Just say yer here for the tax haven.”

“Okay, what are you here for, then?” Sakusa retorted. Atsumu looked over to where the setting sun kissed the horizon and hummed thoughtfully.

“I like the sea. Reminds me of home a little bit. Also, most people here are too old or too busy to really pay attention to me. It’s… grounding, I guess.”

Sakusa was silent for a moment, then Atsumu heard him mumble a quiet “Sap” under his breath.

“Excuse me?” he wheezed, whirling around to make sure that his ears had not deceived him. Sakusa was pointedly staring ahead of him, but the amused curve of his eyes spoke for itself.

“Hm?”

Atsumu scoffed and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Alright, Mister Pragmatic, my bad. I actually needed a parking spot for my huge private yacht where the plebeians won’t bother me.”

Sakusa scoffed. “Really, a yacht?”

“Nah. Not my style.”

Before Atsumu could realize it, they were both inside the grocery store and he was completely out of excuses. Would it be weird to walk in and out without buying anything? What if Sakusa called him out on it? He should probably come up with something fast.

“I need cereal, be right back,” he blurted and power walked into a random aisle before Sakusa had the chance to react. Nailed it.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and idly scrolled through his Instagram feed. Bokuto’s last picture—a restaurant table, by the looks of it—showed a pair of hands in the top left fidgeting with a paper towel, long fingers adorned with silver rings. Atsumu smiled despite himself.

“Cute.”

He commented something stupid on Hinata’s Australia photo dump and sent him an even stupider text about beating him in Mario Kart. He tried not to think about Kita’s silence; after all, his physiotherapist was a busy man. Atsumu was busy too. He needed to buy Honey Loops as a pretext for accidentally following one of his rivals inside a store unprompted.

When he returned to the refrigerated section a few minutes later, his improvised purchase secured, Sakusa was absorbed in reading the tag on a carton of organic eggs. Atsumu watched him inspect at least three half-dozen before inevitably growing impatient.

“Yer very particular about those things,” he observed.

Sakusa eventually decided on keeping the first batch and put the rest back in the refrigerator. “I usually get my eggs from somewhere else, but these will have to do.”

He straightened up, briefly taking note of the blonde standing beside him, and Atsumu saw him make an honest-to-God double take when he noticed the box loosely settled under his arm. He narrowed his dark eyes at the offending object.

“What is that.”

Sakusa’s ability to make a question sound like a rebuke was truly remarkable.

“Uhm. Cereal?” Atsumu offered.

“Are those Honey Loops?”

“Yes?”

“Honey Loops,” Sakusa repeated, like the words had personally attacked him. “Really?”

This time, it was Atsumu’s turn to narrow his eyes at him. “Ima be real honest, Omi-kun, I feel like yer castin’ judgement on my choice of cereal.”

“That’s because I am. What kind of athlete eats Honey Loops for breakfast?”

“Okay, first of all, I eat a lot of stuff for breakfast,” Atsumu countered, already prepared to die on his hill right then and there. “And second, I’m not just gonna let ya talk shit about Honey Loops like that. What do you eat in the morning, huh?”

“Not industrial cereal.”

Atsumu huffed. “Right, I forgot ya were so perfect.”

Sakusa said nothing to that. Instead, he gave him this strange look that suddenly made Atsumu feel like he was completely see-through and exposed to Sakusa’s scrutinizing gaze. A shiver ran up his spine.

“So, uh… Are we done here?” he asked feebly.

The silence stretched on for a beat too long before Sakusa gave a curt nod and made his way back to checkout. Atsumu followed him, trying to shake off the uneasiness that clung to his skin as he plopped down his cereal box on the conveyor belt.

“Miya.”

“Hm?”

“Divider.”

“Oh. Right.”

The walk back was quiet, if not a little strained. Sakusa had both his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his bag occasionally bumping his knee as he walked. The evening breeze was refreshing against Atsumu’s face and he considered extending his stroll past his front door.

“I read one of your old GP2 interviews the other day.”

Sakusa’s voice shook something in Atsumu and he slowly raised his head, frowning. “Didja?”

“Yeah. It was in an article my cousin sent me.”

“Didn’t know you read about me, Omi-kun.”

“I’ve always just assumed that your brother had quit because of bad results,” Sakusa continued, ignoring the comment. “He owns an onigiri shop, right?”

Atsumu looked away and sighed through his nose. “He does. A really good one too, I’ll give him that. But yeah, he didn’t… I mean, he was pretty high in the rankings back then. It just wasn’t his dream anymore.”

Sakusa hummed. “Must be nice, having options.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“Your brother retired because he loved something more than racing. I don’t know what I would be doing if I wasn’t a racing driver.”

“Oh.” Atsumu’s mind cleared as it caught up with Sakusa. “Yeah, I get that. I can’t see myself doin’ anything else either.”

A beat.

“But if you’re already doin’ what you’ve always wanted to do, why wouldja need more options?”

Sakusa shrugged. “I’m not sure. It probably doesn’t even matter now, since this is the only thing I can do.”

Atsumu pondered on that. He supposed that alternatives could provide a certain sense of security (although how much safer could you be when your job was to drive cars over three hundred kilometers per hour?), a guaranteed landing in case of a fall. But with only twenty seats available in the whole world each year, there was no room for alternatives. You either flew or you crashed and burned, period.

The truth was that no one ever fully recovered from being a world-class athlete. The psychological implications were so huge that the body became a mere item of trade, one that worked towards one goal and one goal only. You couldn’t just come back from that, or at least that was what Atsumu believed. However, that would be painting a gloomy picture of a beautiful sport, so when asked what he would be if not a Formula One driver, Atsumu usually replied something along the lines of, “Ghost hunter or volleyball player. Whichever pays more.”

“I guess this is our one shot at happiness,” he said eventually. He wasn’t sure, with the mask and low sunlight, but Sakusa looked like he was smiling.

“Guess so.”

When they reached Sakusa’s doorstep, Atsumu was no longer thinking about Kita or his stupid twin brother. He was still feeling a lot, but he would have time to unpack it all later after some proper rest. For once in his life, Atsumu was in no hurry.

He awkwardly rocked on the ball of his feet as he watched Sakusa fumble with the lock.

“Alright,” he said, “I’ll, uh… see ya in Bahrain?”

“See you in Bahrain. Enjoy your shitty cereal.”

Atsumu bit the inside of his cheeks and began to walk away.

“You bet I will,” he shouted, and Sakusa’s chuckle walked him all the way back home.