Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s eighteen whole years before Rukawa becomes an F1 driver. Granted, he only started karting at five, so maybe it’s thirteen years. Or, if he wanted to be more specific, it’s been five years since Mitsui Hisashi, the reigning world champion, joined the grid and took Rukawa’s world by storm.

Rukawa has always admired the greats—Senna, Schumacher—but who didn’t? He admired them in the kind of nostalgia laden way, through the bits and pieces he heard on the radio or through the grainy television screen. He started karting because, frankly, it looked cool, and his parents were happy to support his interest in a sport. It just so happened that he was deemed a ‘potential generational talent’ or whatever it was when he won F4 at fifteen, F3 at sixteen, and then F2 at seventeen.

It was like he was meant to be in F1.

Rukawa likes the sport; the competitiveness of it, the pressure of the Gs, the heat of the car, the millisecond decisions he has to make while putting his life on the line. There’s nothing better than slicing through the track and leaving everyone behind, just because he can.

But, Rukawa hadn’t always thought he’d be a professional racer. It definitely started out as a hobby, and it was extremely fortunate that he showed enough promise to attract sponsorship to fund him into a driving academy at a young age. He joined the Shohoku Driver Development Programme along with a bunch of other inspiring kids, and a couple of years in he started to wonder if he really liked it enough to have his parents revolve their lives around making sure he could race. It was a lot of time, a lot of money, a lot of sacrifices. Rukawa lived and breathed it for years, training, and training, and training, and the days and races were starting to blend into a boring monotone.

That was the exact moment that he met Mitsui, who had just signed with Shohoku along with Kiminobu Kogure as the new driver pair for their F1 team. Both of the then young drivers paid a visit to the academy, partly as a PR event of sorts. Rukawa had heard of Mitsui before, who’d been climbing up the junior driver races racking up champions as he went, much like what Rukawa was sure he’d be doing too.

Mitsui, back then, had a floppy fringe, a happy-go-lucky deposition, and was also kind of arrogant about his skills. He’d been talking big about the fastest lap times he’d scored when he was a rookie at Mitsui Dream Project (that he literally just graduated from), with plenty of young drivers listening in wonder.

Rukawa rolled his eyes instead, because Mitsui was a Mitsui—the son of a past racing champion, from a family that literally has an F1 academy (see: Mitsui Dream Project) and plenty of money to make Mitsui a pay driver even if he didn’t have the skills. Mitsui saw Rukawa’s scoff, and like any hotheaded youth, challenged the junior who was seven years younger than him.

Thinking back, Rukawa knows it’s absolutely no surprise that he lost their race. But in that moment, when he saw Mitsui’s car keep a frustrating lead in front of his for the entirety of the race, he knew he had so much more to do. It wasn’t just about Mitsui being older that made the difference—it was pure skill, the way Mitsui deliberately let him go wheel to wheel while refusing to let him pass for fifteen whole minutes before one of the race engineers came to stop them.

It was by far the most humiliating experience that left Rukawa sober in silence. Mitsui panicked that he’d gone too far from the reaction, tried to hug him in apology, and eventually had to leave with an awkward, ‘Hey, we’ll have a rematch once you catch up, super rookie.’. 

Five fucking years later, Rukawa signs the F1 seat contract from Shohoku. Given that Mitsui just literally won the driver’s championship, even though there were three more races to go in the season, Rukawa is sure he’s going to be able to go toe to toe with Mitsui at his peak.

Rukawa has not stopped thinking about their fateful encounter, and the rematch that Mitsui had promised.

He’s finally caught up.

He’s going to make Mitsui acknowledge him.

And then five days after Rukawa signs his contract, he’s watching Mitsui’s retirement speech after the Las Vegas Grand Prix on his phone screen.

Así va la vida.

Such is life.

The pre-season testing happens in Bahrain in February. It’s not a race, but there is plenty of excitement for the unveiling of the new cars for the season.

Rukawa dons the classic red racesuit of Shohoku, joining Miyagi Ryota, his teammate at the paddock. When Rukawa signed to Shohoku he’d assumed that Miyagi, who was Shohoku’s number two driver partnering Mitsui, had signed some other team contract for next season. It made no sense whatsoever not to renew Mitsui’s contract given that the other won the championship, but now Rukawa thinks the team only offered him the seat knowing that Mitsui was leaving.

Miyagi is…alright. Rukawa doesn’t particularly think Miyagi is the best driver out there, but he’s quick when he confident in the car. Rukawa watches the clock ticking down Miyagi’s performance in the new car for the season with slight interest while he awaits his turn. After several laps, Miyagi returns to the pit with a satisfied look on his face.

“A little oversteery, but stable overall,” he says as he climbs out and pulls his helmet off, earning a grunt from Akagi, his race engineer. “I felt like I could push it even more at the corners.” He catches sight of Rukawa who’s undoubtedly having an expression that says ‘so why didn’t you’, and cocks his head. “Well, your turn. Don’t crash, rookie.”

Oh, Rukawa is definitely going to push it.

Kogure, who had retired in years before Mitsui did to become a race engineer at Shohoku, puts a comforting hand on Rukawa’s shoulder before Rukawa gets into his own car.

“Go easy, Rukawa. There’s no need to show off here,” he says gently. “Get a feel for the car and set up, let us know anything that feels good or bad over radio.”

The first time Rukawa sits in the car, it feels…sort of right. Everything is very snug, and the heat of the engine threatens to keep him sweating buckets just with its low hum. Rukawa lowers his visor on the helmet, awaits the signal, then speeds off to the track.

He’s driven the Bahrain circuit, once, as a test driver for Ryonan Racing. There are about six sharp turns and four long straights, ideal for a challenge with plenty of overtaking opportunities.

Rukawa floors the accelerator from his first lap, gritting through the bumps that eventually even out from his muscle memory following the best course to take on track. The radio is a blur in his ears—he vaguely hears something encouraging from Anzai, their team principal, and softer swear words from Miyagi in the background when he breaks much later at the turns than Miyagi did. He does a clean job on track, showing off a little (okay, maybe quite a lot) to log a race pace even faster than Miyagi, much to the media’s delight.

Rukawa is mildly content with his performance and with the car when he comes back to pit. Certainly not the mess or whatever Toyotama is having on track. Miyagi seems like he doesn’t really know how to react to Rukawa deliberately trashing his race pace, settling for an awkward pat on the arm after he gets out of the car.

Rukawa knows he didn’t need to do that—but he’s not in F1 to make friends. He’s here to race, to show he’s the best, and maybe then Mitsui will—…

Ah, but Mitsui isn’t even racing anymore.

…What a fucking joke.

The first three races of the season go okay. In Rukawa’s vocabulary, they’re kind of shit.

In Bahrain, Sannoh Industry steals the limelight and sets the tone. Sannoh has won the constructor championship for the last three years, and their driver Sawakita Eiji, has won the driver’s championship for the two years before the last (that was Mitsui). The other Sannoh driver, Kazunari Fukatsu, is not one to be underestimated either, because it’s a common sight for them to take P1-2 in races.

Again, in Bahrain, both Sannoh drivers take P1 and P2. P3 goes to Fujima Kenji, from Shoyo. P4 to Miyagi. P5 is Sendoh Akira of Ryonan, who Rukawa has known since childhood because they used to kart together. Rukawa is P6.

Six. Rukawa hasn’t positioned that low since…he can’t even remember. Everyone tells him he’s doing a great job, better than expected even, because this is Formula One. He’s driving against the best of the best and he’s holding his own. Rukawa is nonetheless annoyed at his standing.

In Saudi Arabia after that, it’s almost the same story. Sannoh drivers dominate. Maki Shinichi of Kainan takes the last podium. Miyagi and Sendoh are again ahead of Rukawa, who overtakes Fujima on the last lap to make it to P6 once more.

In Australia, Miyagi qualifies at P2. Rukawa qualifies at P4. It’s decent, but not amazing. The Sannoh guys are P1 and P3. It’s this race that Rukawa witnesses first hand their infamous zone press with Miyagi in the middle, forcing the other to move along a pace that the Sannoh drivers determine. Rukawa attempts to overtake Fukatsu and break their formation but ends up crashing out instead.

He DNFs the third ever F1 race in his life. It shouldn’t be a big deal—elite drivers crash out time to time. Yet, he ditches his media responsibilities and doesn’t join the team for celebrations even though Miyagi placed P3 after surviving fifty laps of the zone press. In his hotel room, he lies in a fetal position on bed and scrolls through cat videos on instagram in the dark.

At about 11PM, Miyagi finds him doing the exact same thing since five hours ago.

“You didn’t lock your door,” Miyagi says in greeting after flicking the lights on, dropping a plastic bag that whiffs of something like hot soup on the table in the corner. “Got you something to eat, you can pay me back tomorrow.”

Rukawa grunts noncommittally. Miyagi hovers for a bit, like he’s deciding whether he should leave or stay, because since day one they’ve never been the sort of teammates who are friends.

“Dude,” Miyagi starts after a while, shuffling to sit on the edge of the bed. “Are you depressed or something?”

“No,” Rukawa mutters shortly, eyes still on his phone.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Miyagi continues. “Look, crashing out on your third race doesn’t mean anything. Yeah the media will talk shit but we all know it says nothing about how you can drive. You gotta toughen up, man. This is just the beginning—in F1, the highs are high and the lows are low. This isn’t even the lowest you’re gonna get.”

Rukawa sighs before he drops his phone down to glare at the other. “I said I’m not depressed.”

“Yeah well, you’re sulking like it,” Miyagi shoots back. “Rather unsportsmanlike of you to not come celebrate with me for my podium win.”

Rukawa sits up, and wrinkles his nose. “The Sannoh guys went with you. They piss me off.”

Miyagi barks a laugh. “Yeah, they really do,” he grumbles under his breath. “God, that fucking zone press. I want to make them cry at least once.”

Rukawa suddenly remembers something. “I heard he’s a crybaby.”

“Who—Sawakita?” Miyagi blinks as Rukawa nods. “Who told you that?”

“Sendoh.”

“That gossip rag,” Miyagi hums. “Probably true. I’d love to see that. We’re gonna get him, yeah?”

Rukawa looks at the closed fist that Miyagi raises to him, obviously waiting for a bump.

“I can take him. Not sure about you,” he says instead.

“…You’re kind of an asshole, aren’t you, Rukawa,” Miyagi says in wonder.

“It was a joke,” Rukawa mutters.

“Hn,” Miyagi smirks. “I think…I think you actually meant it. You’re not depressed,” he says, with a glint in his eyes. “You’re bored. Fuck. You’re bored in F1.”

Rukawa sighs again, this time because he’s annoyed that he’s being called out. “So what?”

“It’s only been three races! You haven’t won once—you haven’t even been on the fucking podium!”

Rukawa knows that, but he just can’t shake this weird feeling inside him away. Joining F1, of course he’s aiming for the championship. Best of the best, that’s what everyone on grid is here to prove. And yet, Rukawa finds himself caring less and less about it.

So what if he places on the podium? So what if he places P1?

His ego would inflate for a second, and then life goes on. Así va la vida.

Fourth race of the year is the home race, in Suzuka, Japan. Rukawa always thought the preference of a home race is overblown, but he definitely feels the energy of it the moment he lands early in the week. Miyagi had gone to Okinawa first to visit family and attend to sponsorship duties, while Rukawa went home in Kanagawa for a bit, playing basketball in between training with Sendoh who had accompanied him.

When they get to Suzuka, the air is electrifying. Although the Japanese Grand Prix hasn’t been the last race of the calendar for many years now, it’s still held in high reverence as the race to win from a nationalistic point of view. Sawakita has notoriously won it for four years straight in recent history—and Mitsui in the very last. Rukawa still remembers being glued to his television at that time, in complete awe of a P10 to P1 overtaking masterclass where Mitsui drove like a goddamn monster.

Rukawa thinks he won’t ever do that badly at qualifying to start at P10, but it’s certainly tempting to prove that he can do the same. He pulls a P7 instead, ignoring the side eye Miyagi gives him after the latter comes in at P4.

“Did you give up?” Miyagi asks, trailing after him in Shohoku hospitality. “I was watching your on board camera, I think you could’ve pushed more.”

“I’m fine, senpai,” Rukawa walks faster, not wanting to deal with the other after their talk the last time where Miyagi now thinks he should speak to their team therapist. “Turn 15 was just tricky.”

“Ah yeah, that’s—“

Miyagi’s attention is completely taken away when a figure trailed by a cameraman walks up to them. Generally, both Miyagi and Rukawa are wary of cameras, and tend to avoid them whenever possible. However, Miyagi catches sight of the familiar face and smiles widely instead, bumping wrists in a happy greeting.

“Who let you in?” Miyagi demands, but his tone is obviously joking.

Mitsui, sporting a fresh, short haircut that Rukawa is not used to after years of shoulder length and pony tail styles, grins. He’s dressed in a nice suit jacket and slacks, with a paddock lanyard pass around his neck.

“Nice to see you too,” Mitsui returns. “P4, not bad for qualifying. Looks like you lost speed going around the curve at 13 and 14.”

Miyagi sighs. “I know, you don’t have to tell me. I’ll keep an eye on it during the race,” he says, gaze shifting curiously to the cameraman who still has the camera pointed at them. “What’s that for?”

“Oh, I’m commentating for the weekend. And the rest of the season, actually,” Mitsui answers, hands on his hips with a smile. “It’s my new gig.”

“What?” Miyagi blinks, but his brain is certainly working much faster than Rukawa’s, who has been standing silent behind Miyagi the entire time. “An F1 commentator? You?” he pauses. “Are you serious? I thought you said you had plenty of things to do in your retirement!”

“Yeah, this is one of them,” Mitsui says completely non-pulsed. “It’s fun! I get to talk about racing and….I don’t have to drive.”

“You’re a fucking disgrace,” Miyagi groans.

“Hey, only one of us has won the championship—“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever,” Miyagi snaps. “When I win, I am not giving you an exclusive interview.”

“My bet is on Sawakita this year anyway.”

“Oh fuck you.”

Though snide insults are traded, but both of them are clearly ribbing in their own speak. Rukawa just stares until Mitsui cocks his head at him.

“Hey super rookie, red suits you,” Mitsui grins, and because Rukawa is still dumbfounded at Mitsui’s sudden appearance, he continues when there is no reaction. “Do you remember me? I think we met once, many years ago, and you were this small—“

“I know who you are,” Rukawa says, because how the fuck could he not?

Mitsui nods slowly, satisfied. “Oh. Well, I was watching your qualifying too. P7 is a good effort. Turn 15 isn’t that scary when you get used to it—“

“I’m not scared,” Rukawa cuts in.

“It’s natural to be cautious, especially after your crash last week,” Mitsui says, not unkindly. “You’ve got pace, so I’m sure you’ll catch up.”

Rukawa simmers. “…I have to prepare for the race. Excuse me,” he drops, and then stalks off.

Behind him, Mitsui makes a questioning noise but he ignores it, walking with a single focus to get to his room within the hospitality. His room is literally just an empty room with his name printed on a piece of paper tacked on the door, but it’s private and the door locks, which he does before he sinks himself flat unto the couch.

Mitsui is in the paddock.

As a commentator.

For F1.

Rukawa can’t fucking believe…—any of this.

What the fuck.

He’d made peace with the fact that Mitsui retired before his era in F1 had begun, so there was no chance to race him again. And now Mitsui is in the fucking paddock—but he’s still not racing anymore. Rukawa doesn’t know if he hates that even more. Rukawa spends so long in his room until he gets a knock so annoying that it can only be from Sendoh.

“Hey,” Sendoh barges in the moment Rukawa unlocks the door, like he knows Rukawa had intended to close the door in his face the second he sees who it is.

“Why are you here?”

“Hm, I wanted to see if you guys have better coffee,” Sendoh says, closing the door behind him. “You don’t, by the way.”

Rukawa doesn’t drink coffee, so he doesn’t particularly care. “Go back to Ryonan.”

“Miyagi said it looked like you were feeling some type of way,” Sendoh says instead. “You ok?”

Rukawa rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“P7 isn’t that bad—“

“I don’t care about qualifying,” Rukawa sighs, annoyed. “Why does everyone care so much about qualifying?”

“Well, it’s not do or die, but it is part of the race,” Sendoh says slowly.

“I’ll just overtake whoever’s in front.”

“Not everyone can pull a Mitsui and get to pole from the back—…ah,” Sendoh pauses, blinking. “I saw Mitsui-san earlier, hanging around Kainan. That was a surprise,” he says, pointedly looking at Rukawa.

Rukawa makes no reaction other than, “Hn.”

“Rukawa.”

“What?”

“Is this…” Sendoh waves his hands around the air, “A Mitsui thing?”

“I don’t know what the hell that is,” Rukawa replies, getting up from the couch. “I’m going to eat, then I’m going to train. Don’t bother me.”

“Alright,” Sendoh accepts. “I’m playing sim tonight, if you want to join me.”

Rukawa looks at him. “We have a race tomorrow.”

“And?” Sendoh shrugs. “Simming is training.”

“It is not.”

Sendoh hums. “I have more podiums than you, so I’m clearly doing something right.”

Rukawa ignores it, because he’s not addicted to playing racing simulator, unlike a certain someone. He gets someone in the team to buy him a vegetarian bento, and then does an hour or so of light swimming in the hotel before he retires to bed before 9PM.

On race day, he’s feeling focused, which is a good sign. It’s an evening race, which means he gets scheduled to do some media related things in the morning. It’s annoying, but Miyagi somehow seems to know how to deal with the awkward silences after he refuses to talk, so it works out.

Rukawa also sees Mitsui flitting around the paddock with a microphone, stopping various people to chat. He still thinks its really weird that Mitsui has chosen this role for himself—on the track and yet out of a car—but maybe he just never really knew Mitsui enough. He stares at Mitsui’s back grimly, the other oblivious to Rukawa’s internal judgment as he laughs at something Sawakita says in the distance, fist clenched.

“Dude,” Miyagi elbows him out of the blue, startling him. “What did Sawakita do to you?”

“What?” Rukawa frowns.

“You look like you really want to kill him, and not in a race rivalry way,” Miyagi elaborates, cocking his eyebrow. “He said some shit to you or something?”

Rukawa shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Okay…” Miyagi says, clearly disbelieving, but he doesn’t push it, especially when they get called to assemble.

Rukawa tears his gaze away from whatever’s going on there, reminding himself that he’s here to race. In a car. As he gets onto his starting position on the grid, he takes a deep breath and awaits the signal up front. In his ear, Kogure assures him that the car vitals look normal, and reminds him to keep his radio on. Rukawa can barely hear anything other than the thrum of his heartbeat, low and slow, as he keeps his eyes forward.

He’s starting P7, which means if he wants to get up front, he needs to be smart to dodge the traffic once the green light comes on. A mistake here and it can mean that he’s stuck in the middle of the pack, or he could be unlucky and crash out. If he does it right, he can potentially cut through a few positions right from the start.

If there is one thing Rukawa can rely on, it’s his mental acuity and fitness, including his reaction time. They say that F1 drivers have one of the best reaction times in the world—by nature of their sport, it is incredibly vital that they can react to things while going at a few hundred kilometers per hour. Rukawa thinks he’s even at the top of this pack.

Once the race starts, he’s following the route he’s already mapped out, by passing Fujima and Maki to come behind Miyagi in P5 almost immediately. Not particularly ideal, because he intended to overtake Miyagi too, and it’s apparent that his impatience is felt by the other driver because a radio order comes through his ear.

“Rukawa, you’re going too close to Miyagi. Back off.”

“He’s going too slow,” Rukawa mutters. “If he doesn’t want to go faster then I’m passing him.”

“He’s watching his tires,” Kogure says. “You should watch yours too.”

“They’ll be fine,” Rukawa grits as he swerves through a corner, the G force making it difficult for him to breathe normally. “I’m overtaking.”

“Rukawa, don’t—“

Rukawa decidedly ignores the order and chooses the right time to slide past Miyagi on a straight, catching a split second glimpse of Miyagi flipping him the middle finger. Whatever. Rukawa is on P4 by the tenth lap, behind a Ryonan car. He knows it’s not Sendoh, so it must be Uozumi Jun.

Uozumi isn’t amazing, but he’s definitely a solid driver, especially in defense. Rukawa chases him in frustration for nearly fifteen laps before he makes a headway, undercutting a corner to steer up sharply to lap his wheel in front of the other.

P3. A podium, but not good enough. Rukawa grips his steering wheel tight to close the gap between him and the Sannoh guys up front.

“How many seconds up front?” he demands, and Kogure is immediate with his answer.

“Fukatsu, 5.4. Sawakita, 7.8,” A pause, then, “They have a good pace, but you’re going faster. You might have a chance.”

Rukawa doesn’t care about chances—he’s just going to do it. By the forty first lap, Rukawa is almost wheel to wheel to Fukatsu. It’s tense, especially when they go through the corners, where Rukawa tries his best to brake later and later, but it seems like Fukatsu never lets him close enough.

“Rukawa, box box box,” Kogure blares all of a sudden after a failed overtaking attempt.

“Now?”

“Yes, your tires are grinding to its last bits. Box, now.”

Rukawa exhales, annoyed, but he drags the car to pit in the next lap, and ends up following the Sannoh duo into the pit lane. It’s incredibly lucky that Sannoh decided to pit at the exact same time. This observation doesn’t go past Rukawa at all, because they have a very real opportunity to beat Sannoh if they pit faster. It happens in barely two seconds—Rukawa jams the car to a stop and clicks two beats on his wheel before he floors the gas again.

His car cuts right in front of Fukatsu leaving his pit stop in what must be a quarter of a second, chasing after Sawakita’s shadow.

“Sawakita is 3 seconds up front. You’ve got this, Rukawa,” Kogure murmurs, breathless.

Post race, Rukawa remembers that it hadn’t occured to him then that he was a rookie in P2 chasing down a driver with multiple championships at a race that the other has dominated frequently. He only remembers something Mitsui said to him, something like, You’ve got pace, so I’m sure you’ll catch up, and thinking how fucking obvious the statement is.

Rukawa has spent so many years catching up, that a race like this isn’t even comparable. With twenty laps to go the end, Rukawa is single minded to show that he’s caught up or whatever Mitsui thinks he should be, being able to go wheel to wheel with a racing giant.

Sawakita is unrelenting, keeping lead like a pro and causing Rukawa to wish him a thousand deaths for being so annoying. Every corner they cut is watched with bated breath, because they go so close that any mistake will cause them to collide. Rukawa, at this point, doesn’t care if it’ll get him his way. It seems like Sawakita has the same attitude, the same arrogance about his own ability to save them both from a disaster for the history books of crashing out five laps to the finish.

Rukawa is sitting in his own pool of sweat at this point, but he can’t even really feel his body, his muscle memory working like clockwork. Every second is a countdown to the finishing flag, he only has this much time to overtake Sawakita before its all over.

He braces himself for the G force when turn 15 comes up. It’s not a particularly sharp turn; in fact, its a very gentle curve that runs from a long straight into another shorter straight. What this means is that most drivers underestimate the speed accumulated from rushing down the first straight, and fail to account for the slowdown for a little turn required to keep on track.

Rukawa doesn’t particularly think he’s being conservative (he’s not scared) when he goes through this part of the track, but now that he’s been at Sawakita’s heel for so many laps, he notices that’s where Sawakita tends to gain a couple of split seconds ahead of him. Whatever Sawakita is doing, he’s doing it riskier than Rukawa, and that’s why he’s in the lead. Kogure confirms as much.

“Yeah, 15 is where you lose a bit of pace, but you regain that quite quickly. Normally I’d advise you to push, but you’re in a good position already, and you only have two more laps.”

Rukawa frowns a bit at the statement. “You think I can’t do it?”

“I think you can,” Kogure tells him. “But you don’t have to prove it here.”

Doesn’t he?

Against the advice, Rukawa steadies his breath, and counts like the clock is ticking in slow motion. He said he wasn’t scared, but there is something very terrifying about disobeying what all your senses tell you to do—to resist the breaks at a time when his foot would automatically press, all while staring into the barriers that he’s just a millisecond away from crashing out.

In front of him, Sawakita’s car drags to the edge before he slows and swivels. Rukawa allows himself that one count more before his hands yank the steering wheel.

There’s a moment where Rukawa sees the front of his wheel brush against Sawakita’s back wheel, and the sparks of friction fly. Then Sawakita is pulling away sharply, avoiding a true collision, and it leaves space for Rukawa to push the nose of his car in, and speed down the straight past the Sannoh racer. It’s like a roar of thunderous applause, the blood pumping pure adrenaline as Rukawa swerves through the last bumpy corner and crosses the finish line just after.

Oh god.

He’s first.

Did Mitsui see that?

Rukawa’s hands are trembling on his steering wheel while he goes on the cool down lap, eyes wandering all around the grandstands to see whether Mitsui saw what he just fucking did. And then, it’s a bit of a crushing sensation to realise that his immediate thoughts were about Mitsui, given that he’s won the first race of his F1 career, on home soil no less.

It’s fucking ridiculous.

When he comes to a stop, Miyagi is there with a hand to pull him out, smashing him into an excited hug.

“Fucking hell!” Miyagi shouts in his face, which is thankfully shielded by his helmet. “I’m so fucking mad at you but what the fuck! You’re P1! Fucking first!”

Rukawa doesn’t get to have a word in because the entire Shohoku team comes running to squeeze him to death. After like twenty minutes of people ruffling his hair or shaking him like a ragdoll, Rukawa manages to bat them away.

“Hey man, you pushed it real hard there,” Sawakita appears to want to shake his hand, which Rukawa keeps into his pocket. “Nice job.”

“Hm,” Rukawa levels him a look. “You’re not that difficult to beat.”

Sawakita blinks, shocked, as he drops the empty outstretched hand, before he laughs. “Game on, super rookie,” he smirks, and Rukawa simmers, because he does not like how Sawakita says it. “Don’t be a one hit wonder.”

Rukawa would retort, but he’s wrapped in a tight hug from behind. Whoever it is towers, so it must be Sendoh.

“So proud of you, Kaede!” Sendoh lifts him, which is embarrassing as hell. “Your first win in F1! Fourth race in! Knew you could do it!”

“Let me go—“ Rukawa wheezes, and then startles into a cough when he notices Mitsui standing beside them.

“Oh, and I brought Mitsui-san, he said he wanted to speak to the winner,” Sendoh adds casually, dropping Rukawa back onto his feet.

Mitsui is all smiles, nose red and decked in a coat. His tiny hand held microphone is placed near his chin, where a faint scar from a prior crash lies.

“Rukawa! That was amazing!” Mitsui says, excited as he rubs Rukawa’s shoulder in greeting. “A P7 to P1 chase, you kept me at the edge of the seat the entire time! Especially your battle with Sawakita on the last lap, that was incredible! How do you feel, winning your first F1 race at the Japanese GP?”

Rukawa squints a little at the microphone tilted towards him before he shrugs slowly. “It’s…okay.”

“I guess you’re still in shock,” Mitsui muses, still cheery. “I saw you took my advice, at turn 15. Super risky, but it paid off. I did the same thing last year, and Sawakita is still pissed about it,” he laughs.

“It wasn’t you,” Rukawa interjects, a little defensive. “I know to drive.”

“I think it was a little bit me,” Mitsui winks, teasing. “There’s no shame in adopting the advice from the defending world champion—“

“I hate that you’re paid to yap about shit,” Miyagi says very loudly, popping his head from behind Mitsui. “Meanwhile, we have Q&A with proper journalists,” he stresses, grabbing Rukawa’s arm. “Let’s go, Rukawa, they’re calling you at the podium.”

“I’ll find you guys at the party!” Mitsui yells at their retreating backs, waving happily.

Rukawa probably should’ve asked ‘what party’, because he gets dragged to party after the podium medals and media interviews. It’s even worse that he’s still sticky from being showered with champagne. It’s, of course, his party, because he won pole. It’s completely not his idea.

He ends up in a bar, with all of the driver and engineers from the different teams. It’s past eleven, which is much later than Rukawa’s bed time, but Sawakita is insisting that he gets the full celebratory experience for a winner. In protest, he refuses to join the drivers singing karaoke in the most off-key voice possible at the corner. Rukawa secretly hates him even more for making him do this, and Miyagi is of completely no help because the other actually likes to drink. Rukawa being 18, is not legal to drink in Japan specifically, so he can’t even taste the champagne that was handed to him to pop. He gets bubbly water instead.

A crowded bar with alcoholic drinks and random snacks is not a place Rukawa wanted to pass his time, but he doesn’t manage to slip away because every so often, someone will come up to congratulate him and say words about him being a rookie and more words about whatever they think his F1 career will be. Rukawa doesn’t particularly care—he’s just hungry and tired.

He busies himself eating the crispy thing that is laid out as a snack. It tastes like crab, albeit a bit too salty for Rukawa’s liking, but it’s the best edible thing here. Rukawa eats like two plates of it before someone puts a fizzy concoction in front of him. It’s one of the other team drivers, although Rukawa can’t be arsed to remember his name.

“Hey, newbie, your drink’s on me!”

“I can’t drink,” Rukawa parrots in almost an eyeroll.

“It doesn’t really have alcohol in it,” the other says, leaning forward. “Trust me, it’s much better than your bubble water.”

Rukawa looks at the glass for a beat too long, because in the extended silence someone else barges in between them to sit down at the seat that Rukawa had secretly shoved under the table to prevent people from sitting too close to him.

“God, this place was hard to find,” Mitsui announces, plopping himself down. “Hey Rukawa, Minami,” he nods towards them before his gaze lands on the untouched drink. “Is that for me? I’m dying to get a drink—“ he blabs and immediately brings the glass to his lips before Minami—the other person, Rukawa is assuming—can stop him. Mitsui visibly gulps, and then pulls the glass from his lips, making a face. “Shit, what the hell is in this?” he demands.

“It’s a…house special,” Minami replies, but he’s obviously keen to get out of the conversation. “I don’t know, ask the bartender. Uh…nice to see you, Mitsui-san, but I think someone is calling me—“

Mitsui only snorts at the disappearing back. “That cheeky shit,” he mutters under his breath, putting the drink far away on the table. “Don’t drink that. I’m going to get something else. What do you want?” he turns to Rukawa. “Juice?”

Rukawa nods imperceptibly, because he’s actually kind of stunned at the sudden turn of events. Mitsui is gone for a bit before he returns with a beer mug and a slimmer glass of orange juice that he puts in front of Rukawa.

“Here, enjoy,” he says. “But don’t drink it if you let it of your sight.”

“I’m not stupid,” Rukawa says.

“It just takes a moment of inattention. You're a person of interest now, you need to be careful,” Mitsui shrugs. “Anyway, you look like you’re enjoying your party.” It’s clearly sarcastic, given the resting bitch expression on Rukawa’s face.

“I want to sleep,” Rukawa says truthfully.

“No one is stopping you,” Mitsui sips his beer.

….That is true. Rukawa blinks before he drops his head onto the table and closes his eyes. He must have been real tired because he doesn’t really have much memory beyond that moment. He does vaguely remember someone gently lifting his head to put something soft underneath before he drifts off again. And then sometime later, being prodded awake for a second before he dozed off on a hard shoulder.

Rukawa wakes up properly with a crick in his neck when he gets prodded again. There’s sunlight, and Rukawa is in his hotel bed, so many hours must have passed since the party. Miyagi is hovering over him, wearing sunglasses to hide his worse for wear look.

“Hey, our flight’s in like three hours. We gotta go soon.”

Rukawa winces as he sits up, and he stares dumbly at the black fabric that falls to his lap. “…What happened?”

“You fell asleep and I had to beg Sawakita to carry you back,” Miyagi says nonchalantly. “You owe me one.”

“Whose is this?” Rukawa lifting the fabric, that turns out to be a rain jacket.

“Beats me,” Miyagi shrugs, already walking out. “You were sleeping on it when I found you.”

Rukawa scrambles his brain to think why it looks so familiar. It’s a black jacket, with the Shohoku logo embroidered in black thread at the front for a stealth look. It must be from a Shohoku employee then, but Rukawa doesn’t recognise the design from the current season uniform. It must be an older one. A past Shohoku employee then. No one is particular comes to mind, so Rukawa gets up to take the shower.

It’s only when he has the hot water hitting his face at full blast that he puts it together.

A past Shohoku employee, yet still around F1.

It’s Mitsui.

Mitsui was wearing this when he came to the party.

The race calendar takes them to Shanghai for the next weekend. Rukawa feels that something has changed, although he doesn’t know what. His body feels like its thrumming in sync with the car, and he smashes qualifying. Miyagi doesn’t do as well, complaining something about the set up, to which the mechanics spend most of the weekend tweaking.

Rukawa starts on pole, so it’s obvious that he get P1 in the race. Sawakita is hot on his heels the entire time, but Rukawa will over his dead body let that guy pass him. Sendoh finishes third, and has to physically prop Rukawa up when they go receive their medals because Rukawa is just so exhausted from the intense concentration he needed not to slip up to Sawakita.

Rukawa remembers Mitsui ruffling his hair in congrats, but their interview is short lived because one of the Aiwa guys had caused a three car crash which was obviously became the talk of the night. Whatever.

He sees Mitsui again at Miami the week after, chatting with other pundits on the track. His P1 streak is short lived but he does place third. It’s better than nothing, but apparently Mitsui only comes to find him on track if he takes P1. Rukawa watches Mitsui make a beeline for Fukatsu after the race, unmoving until Miyagi comes to nudge him.

“Dude, why are you so upset?” Miyagi looks at him oddly. “You were lucky to be P3.”

“It’s not luck,” Rukawa immediately retorts. “I could have done better.”

Miyagi scoffs. “I let you pass me and you didn’t even come close to the Sannoh pace. This is the last time I play second driver for you.”

Rukawa sniffs. “If you were better you wouldn’t be the second driver.”

Miyagi squints at him, face settled into a hard glare. It’s obvious that the line cuts him, but he visibly takes a breath and stills.

“I’m not playing this game with you,” Miyagi says finally. “You’re not even on Mitsui’s level.”

Rukawa resists the unbearable urge to snap back. He succeeds only because Miyagi has walked off, increasing the distance between them both. Rukawa didn’t come to F1 to make friends, so he’s not particularly bothered about Miyagi until they get to Italy for the next race.

More specifically, Emilia-Romagna in Bologna. 

Rukawa’s not a huge fan of heavy foods like ham or cheese so he does not particularly have a good time. It may be compounded by the fact that Miyagi hasn’t spoken to him since—both of them just exist in silence next to each other whenever they have to be in the same room.

The team feels the tension, and there is a driver’s meeting in which they were both forced to confirm that they will listen to team orders on track, whatever they may be. Mitsui so happens to pop into Shohoku hospitality after the meeting, noticing Miyagi’s bad mood. Rukawa absolutely does not feel some type of way when he sees Mitsui slinging an arm around Miyagi, coaxing the other to talk somewhere private.

On track, Rukawa messes up his start and falls behind Miyagi in position. No matter what he does, Miyagi refuses to give way, keeping a solid two second lead in front of him. Kogure radios to tell him to stop putting pressure on Miyagi, which he ignores. Anzai takes over the radio and reminds him to listen to team orders. Although the message was gentle, it’s a clear underlying threat when it comes from the team principal.

Rukawa finishes fourth, off the podium. He ignores Miyagi’s happy third, or Sendoh’s second, and heads to his hotel room the moment he can.

What’s the point anyway? Mitsui will be busy giving attention to the winners, having no eyes for lacking drivers. He’s also probably validated by Miyagi’s success or something. Rukawa is not oblivious to the history Miyagi and Mitsui has together—it’s pretty much unavoidable if you’re in the sport.

Two years ago, Miyagi replaced Kogure as Shohoku’s second driver, partnering Mitsui. An Okinawan native from a single parent household that survived on food stamps and bursaries. Miyagi’s story is well known because F1 is a sport where money is necessary—and Miyagi is truly the exception to the rule. He fought his way to F2 and placed decent enough for Shohoku to take a chance on him. When he joined the team, he was fiery from the get-go. He matched Mitsui pace for pace, and it was clear that Mitsui began to see him as a threat.

Both drivers were proud and stubborn. Both believed they had what it took to win the championship. Miyagi, a fresh rookie wanting to prove his worth, and Mitsui, a more experienced driver with a notorious family reputation, wanting to prove his worth. During races, they raced each other like no one else was on the track, and it allowed Sannoh to slip through and take podiums while they squabbled. Not once, or twice, but thrice, they crashed into each other because neither would give way or listened to team orders to hold back.

 It was obvious that they didn’t get along well personality-wise either. Unlike the other teams, they weren’t even civil; choosing to sit as far away as possible during media interviews, or unforgettably, brawling it out on track after the ever fateful Abu Dhabi Grand Prix at the end of the season.

Rukawa watched all this drama unfold as a spectator back then, and even he knew that they probably hated each other. But by some grace, after the winter break, both of them returned in the new season, somber when they apologised to the press in a joint statement.

That year, Mitsui won, and then promptly retired.

Rukawa can understand the feeling of watching your rival win, and wondering when it’s going to be your turn. Miyagi probably felt like what Mitsui did back then—a more seasoned driver, just waiting to clinch the championship, not wanting to be upstaged by new talent, and prove that he deserves to be on the grid for the year and future years.

Rukawa knows this. Yet, when he thinks about their rivalry, he can’t shake off the derision that if he had been Miyagi, he would’ve won over Mitsui.

He wouldn’t have wasted his chance like that.

If Mitsui never won, maybe he’d still be in it now, chasing for the trophy Rukawa will never let him get.

Summer begins in Monaco.

Monaco is kind of like a home race, just because a lot of the drivers have houses here due to the tax policies. This bunch of drivers include Mitsui, who invites half the grid to his place on thursday night, right before qualifying day. Rukawa doesn’t have Mitsui’s number and Miyagi is still not talking to him, but he gets brought along as Sendoh’s plus one.

It’s not a particularly big apartment—it fills the fifteen or so people, but there isn’t enough space to play padel. Rightfully, Mitsui ushers the interested players to the tennis court outside, leaving less of them lounging around the sitting room. Sendoh had brought his simulator along so he’s playing sim with Sawakita, who is shockingly bad at it. Rukawa had deliberately sat at a corner to get some peace, but his gaze trails to the group of them wheezing in laughter as Sawakita fights with the plastic wheel.

“You okay?”

Rukawa jolts at the sudden voice behind him. Mitsui smoothly slides to sit next to them, sipping his plastic red cup with some kind of orange-y liquid in it.

“Not a fan of sim?” he cocks his head when Rukawa just grunts.

“It’s fine,” Rukawa says. “Just feels like work, sometimes.”

“Huh,” Mitsui pauses. “I didn’t think you of all people would feel that way.”

Rukawa’s not sure if that’s an insult. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mitsui hums. “Well, you drive like…it’s your only world. Like you’re obsessed. Kind of like Sawakita,” he falls to. “It’s a good mindset for the championship, but it leaves little for yourself outside of it.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Rukawa says to that, frowning. “I get paid to drive, so it’s a job. I’m interested in other things.”

“Like?” Mitsui prompts, but Rukawa purses his lips staring back.

“…Things,” he says, and Mitsui snorts in laughter.

“I was once like you,” Mitsui says, as though he’s old and greying. “It took a lot though,” he muses. “Couldn’t do it long term.”

“Is that why you quit?” Rukawa can’t help but ask, tone a little hard.

Mitsui blinks, surprised, but he shutters it quickly. “I wanted to leave on a high,” he says after a while. “With good memories. I did all I set out to do. There was nothing more, so I left.”

There are a million words on Rukawa’s tongue. He’s not sure if he feels angry or disappointed or—or just—angry and disappointed. Clearly, Mitsui doesn’t remember the promise he made. Clearly, Rukawa was never a blip that registered on Mitsui’s radar. Clearly, Mitsui had never meant anything serious when he said he would wait for a rematch.

It’s childish, but Rukawa can’t stamp down the what about me, what about me, what about ME echoes in his head. It just feels so utterly bitter that a driver he admires—admired—so much for so long, affirms that he hasn’t come close, or even not at all.

Rukawa is lifted out of his spiral when the team watching Sawakita sim bursts into an uproar, deafening the room. Mitsui launches off the couch to see what’s happening, effectively ending their conversation. Rukawa stays seated, because he’s numb, and when it’s obvious that the attention will not return, he silently slips out of the apartment.

The air is crisp but not as cool as Rukawa would like. God, he will complain about everything now.

“Are you heading back?” Sendoh abruptly pops his head out, ignoring the startle that Rukawa makes from his appearance. He’d thought Sendoh was busy at the simulator. “I’ll come with you.”

“It’s fine,” Rukawa mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You can stay and sim or whatever.”

“No, I’m coming,” he insists, pulling his jacket off the door hook before he slips on his shoes. “I saw you talking to Mitsui-san. I want to know what happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Rukawa automatically sighs, annoyed.

That’s the tragedy, isn’t it?

Rukawa turns to shuffle down the road, and Sendoh hops to catch up.

“Tell me what you guys talked about. Word for word.”

“Don’t be nosy.”

“Come on, Kaede, I’ve been manifesting your meet cute for five years! You gotta give me something.”

Rukawa just grimaces and walks faster. “I’m telling you it’s not like that,” he snaps. “He just doesn’t remember me, that’s all.”

Sendoh physically grabs his wrist in surprise. “What? No, he knows who you are. He chats with you.”

Rukawa sighs. “He doesn’t remember…the thing. The rematch. Whatever. He doesn’t race anymore anyway.”

Sendoh releases his grip when he feels Rukawa tug it away. “Did you…remind him?” he asks slowly.

Rukawa scoffs. “Of course not.”

“Then—“

“Drop it,” Rukawa demands. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Sendoh is silent for a couple of steps. “…I could remind him.”

“I’ll kill you,” Rukawa returns in barely a second.

“You know, you’re completely screwing with the timeline I predicted for you and Mitsui-san,” Sendoh says casually. “I really thought you two would be like Shohoku destructive team rivalry 2.0 by now.”

“Not my fucking fault he decided to fucking quit.”

“Hm,” Sendoh agrees quietly. “…Yeah, that’s a problem, alright.”

It’s a shit weekend.

Miyagi wins. Rukawa is eighth. Fucking eighth while his team mate is number one. He somehow manages to stay for the podium ceremony, mostly because he was reminded that the team will be fined if he doesn’t turn up again. He yawns and checks his phone for the time. It’s a bit of a bland feeling watching Miyagi get sprayed with champagne by the Sannoh guys, watching Miyagi’s face light up like the sun while he lifts the trophy. He hadn’t paid much attention to whatever was going on at the front of the track because he’d been busy trying to out of Uozumi’s dirty air for most of the race, but apparently it’d been a thrilling battle where Miyagi slipped out of that infamous zone press at the end to grasp the lead.

“Coming for the party?” Sendoh shoulder bumps him while he’s walking back to the team hospitality. “It’s at Sawakita’s, apparently he has a heated pool. It’s gonna be fun!”

Rukawa’s not even in the mood to answer.

“…Wanna sim?” Sendoh tries when he sees Rukawa’s face.

“Hey, guys!“ Both of them startle at the appearance of Mitsui, who looks excited and frantic. “Do you know where Miyagi is?”

“Uh—probably with Sawakita and Fukatsu,” Sendoh answers, shrugging. “Not sure where they are, though.”

“Right, right,” Mitsui is almost bouncing on his feet. “Well, um, well done on track, I gotta catch Miyagi for some quotes before he gets drunk. I’ll see you guys later!” he waves before he hustles away.

Sendoh twitches his fingers in farewell at the retreating back, and then hooks his finger to the back of Rukawa’s collar.

“We’re gonna sim,” he declares.

Rukawa is too tired to protest, so he ends up spending the evening playing the simulator with Sendoh. They play the Monaco track, like they’re taking revenge on the day; Rukawa can close his eyes shut and remember everything fucking thing he did wrong while he was in the car. There’s no excuse for him to fall so far behind while Miyagi is first. He may be a rookie but he’s definitely not a second driver. But if he repeats this performance again, he might as well be.

Sendoh, who invited him to sim with good intentions, is unfortunately extremely competitive and weirdly talented at simming, and wins like 4 out of 5 of their races. It’s at this point where Rukawa seriously considers breaking the wheel to vent his frustration, but luckily Sendoh puts the game on pause to order pizza.

“…I’m going to go,” Rukawa says while Sendoh is tapping things on his phone, causing the other to look up.

“I just ordered two large pizzas,” Sendoh says, blinking. “I can’t eat all of that.”

“You can,” Rukawa returns bluntly. “Or you can give it to someone else. I’m tired, I’m going back to sleep.”

“Don’t be like that, Kaede,” Sendoh pouts. “You’re gonna feel worse if you’re alone.”

“I don’t feel better being here,” Rukawa states.

Sendoh sighs, and then glances at his phone again. “…Just stay for a minute more.”

“Why?” Rukawa frowns, suspicious.

He knows the answer within ten seconds, because he can hear very loud drunken singing coming from the outside.

“I am going now,” Rukawa declares, but there is no way to avoid the row of happy, drunk drivers inviting themselves into the apartment while trying to get out.

Sendoh tries to placate him, saying something about the rest wanting to bring the party to Rukawa since he didn’t want to go. Rukawa is honestly this close to hitting someone, if another person slaps his arm and calls him ‘bro’. Luckily, Miyagi grabs his wrist and yanks him to a corridor, making shooing noises to the rest. He’s short but he’s got enough strength to drag an unwilling Rukawa along his pace.

The first door that Miyagi opens happens to be the toilet, to which Rukawa refuses to enter. He pushes the other to the door next to it, which is Sendoh’s bedroom. There’s a full sized poster of a Sannoh race car right above the bed, which Miyagi stares at in incredulity.

“Is that weird?” Miyagi manages after a couple of seconds of silence, pointing to it.

Rukawa shrugs—he’s seen it before so he’s not surprised by it. Also, most drivers are Sannoh fanboys even if they drive for a different team. Sendoh is just unashamed by it.

“What do you want, senpai,” Rukawa says, crossing his arms. “You’re drunk, so you’re going to regret this tomorrow.”

“I’m not drunk,” Miyagi says, despite his alcohol flushed face. “I figured I needed a little something before I spoke to you.”

“Because you’re scared?”

“Because you’re a prick, Rukawa,” Miyagi throws back, hard. “But you’re my junior, so it needs to be said.”

Rukawa just raises one eyebrow as he watches Miyagi stuff his hands into his pockets and pace around, feet wobbling a little but he does walk in straight lines. Eventually Miyagi eyes the bedsheets suspiciously for a second before sitting himself on it. He looks at the space next to him, as a signal for Rukawa to sit too, but Rukawa doesn’t want to.

“Sit, or I’ll make you sit on the floor,” Miyagi threatens.

Rukawa is hardly threatened by someone he towers over, but he does sit at the edge, unhappily. For a long minute, Miyagi matches his grumpy expression.

“…I think you need to grow up,” Miyagi finally says, eyes steely. “If you can’t deal being here, you shouldn’t be in F1.” Rukawa bristles, obviously, but Miyagi continues before he can retort. “We don’t have to be friends, but we need to be civil. Even if you hate it, you have to play nice in front of the press. Everything you do in the paddock is filmed. Do you know how much damage control Anzai-sensei has to run when you sulk like that? It may be a lone sport but we’re only here because of the team. If you can’t respect that, then you don’t deserve to be here.”

Rukawa purses his lips. “I didn’t do anything,” he denies, but Miyagi doesn’t let him off easy.

He picks out his phone and types something in it before he flashes the screen to Rukawa’s eye level. It’s a google search on the Monaco race. The headlines that follow are absurd. 

Shohoku' s Secret War: Driver Drama Caught on Camera!

Turbulent Times for Shohoku: Miyagi and Rukawa's Bitter Conflict Stuns Fans!

Racing Ruin: Miyagi and Rukawa's Toxic Rivalry, Shohoku’s Rerun!

“That’s bullshit,” Rukawa says automatically.

“No shit, but that’s what they do,” Miyagi scoffs. “They did it to me and Mitsui, so I’m sure they’re just frothing for a second time,” he says.

Rukawa stares for a bit. “…You did fight with him though.”

“Mitsui?” Miyagi cocks his head. “Yeah, sure,” he shrugs, nonchalant for someone who very famously crashed into his teammate for a title fight. “The first year, it was bad, I’m not gonna lie. He was arrogant as fuck, and I…I was sort of, also. Maybe,” he allows. “We were selfish. We didn’t see how our rivalry affected everyone else on track. But we grew the fuck up. I’m not interested in repeating history with you, you get me?”

Rukawa exhales. “…I’ve never thought you were a second driver,” he says finally. “But I’m not one either.”

“That’s fine,” Miyagi says. “I won’t ask you to give me positions, and I won’t give them to you either. When we’re wheel to wheel, we fight. But, if there are team orders, we listen. Deal?”

“Fine.”

“You should also congratulate me, you know,” Miyagi adds. “It’s sportsmanship and stuff.”

Rukawa wrinkles his nose, but he does force out a very reluctant “good work or something”.

“You’re so shit at this,” Miyagi says, trying not to laugh. “This is one thing Mitsui was definitely better at than you.”

Rukawa probably shouldn’t dig his grave deeper, but he can’t help it. “What else?”

“Hm?”

“What else was he better at than me?” It sounds almost like a demand, from how impatient his tone is.

Miyagi doesn’t seem to catch on to the tension, tilting his head back as he thinks. “…You two don’t drive alike, at all, so it’s hard to compare. You’re fast, obviously, but Mitsui had a way with his racecraft…it always kind of seemed like he knew what to do at the right time,” he says, whimsical. “It’s super annoying on track,” he comments. “You’d know what I mean if you raced him.”

“He doesn’t race anymore,” Rukawa states, almost bitter.

“Nah, I’m sure he’ll race again at some point, he loves it too much,” Miyagi says, confident. “Maybe not in F1, but NASCAR or IndyCar…I’d bet my money on it. Once he’s done with his dumbass commentator gig anyway. If he wanted to stay on the paddock and not drive he should’ve taken Anzai-sensei’s offer to be our Chef Strategist but nooooooooooo he had to be a fucking embarrassment—“

Rukawa stares. “He…what?”

“Oh, I guess you hadn’t officially joined us yet then,” Miyagi continues, chatty. “But yeah, Anzai-sensei wanted to keep him close to the team, and even signed you on because he suggested it—“

“He what?” Rukawa repeats, louder.

Miyagi looks at him odd, like he can’t understand why Rukawa is so shocked. “Your name was obviously in the hat before Mitsui quit, but I remember afterwards when Anzai-sensei asked if he had an opinion, he said you were the most suited for our car. Not sure why he was so confident, but I guess he was right after all. Annoying fuck.”

“So he chose me,” Rukawa says quietly. “To replace him.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Miyagi answers slowly. “…Why do you look so…weird about it?” he ventures, blinking.

“It’s nothing,” Rukawa denies, but his voice is definitely shaking. “I…need a drink.”

Miyagi raises an eyebrow, dubious. “You’re still a minor—“

“I’m legal here,” Ruakwa throws back.

“You’re gonna regret this,” Miyagi says as he gestures for Rukawa to follow him out of the room. “But as your senpai, it is my responsibility to introduce to the real world. Let’s get some booze. Sawakita’s paying.”

They may have spent a couple of thousand on sake, but at least it’s on all their enemies’ dime. Rukawa wakes up the next day with a slight headache that goes away after a painkiller. Miyagi, on the other hand, is incapacitated and has to cocoon his head into a pillow for the entire day.

Needless to say, their rivalry continues.

In some way, knowing that Mitsui never intended to race him again is a closure. Rukawa thinks its better that he can bury this hatchet rather than hoping Mitsui will one day remember and make good on his promise. The fact that Mitsui chose him as his replacement, its a deliberate sign to say that they’ll never drive together.

Fine. That’s fine.

Rukawa will move on in his fucking life. Maybe it’s this spite that becomes his new found fuel, because he crosses the finish line first in Canada, and then in Spain. Miyagi sprays his face with champagne on the podium, and Rukawa never once allows himself to search the crowd for a certain someone.

Unfortunately, he didn’t count on Sawakita bringing Mitsui right to him after the media interviews. Rukawa is still all sticky from the champagne and all he wants is to dunk himself into very hot water for two hours.

“Super rookie,” Mitsui greets, smile wide as he fist bumps Rukawa’s shoulder. “P1 again! How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

Mitsui grins. “You keep this up and you have a very serious chance to win the championship.”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” Rukawa states. “I’m not here to win just one race,” he says, decidedly looking at Sawakita.

“Ooh, am I sensing some rivalry here?” Mitsui catches on, beaming at them both.

“You’re hundred years too early to compete with me, rookie,” Sawakita says, unperturbed.

“You should retire then, old man,” Rukawa shoots back.

Sawakita makes an offended gasp, which makes Mitsui burst into laughter.

“I’m only twenty two!”

“A dinosaur.”

“And you’re a baby,” Sawakita grumbles, crossing his arms.

“I heard you were the crybaby,” Rukawa says, deadpan, and while Sawakita drops his jaw in offense, Mitsui laughs so hard he starts coughing.

“Who told you that?”

“Miyagi,” Rukawa says, although that is completely untrue.

“Miyagi?” Sawakita repeats, blinking. “Does he know—…has he seen…no…that can’t be right…”

“Sawakita, you’re not denying this accusation?” Mitsui asks, grin on his lips.

“Real men cry, okay,” Sawakita huffs. “I have emotions. I feel things. Maybe Kaede needs to get in touch with his inner self. I have a therapist, she’s really good and—“

Rukawa is not staying to hear more of this. He just turns on his heel and walks off. But within five steps someone comes to sling their arm over his shoulders. It’s Sawakita, not Mitsui, who had stayed at the same spot prior to chat to Fukatsu.

“Don’t touch me,” Rukawa grumbles, shrugging the arm off.

“Hey Kaede—“

“And don’t use my first name,” Rukawa adds, annoyed.

“You can call me ‘Eiji’,” Sawakita offers.

“That’s not the point,” Rukawa wants to strangle this guy. “Why are you following me?”

“About Mitsui-san,” Sawakita says, unexpectedly. “You like him, right?”

Rukawa stops in his tracks so abruptly that Sawakita crashes into him, and they grapple before they both fall onto the ground. Nearby, Rukawa can see a camera swivel to their direction and he simmers, picking himself up quickly and almost storming off. Sawakita follows at his heel, unrelenting.

“You don’t have to be shy about it, Kaede—“

“Stop using my first name,” Rukawa spits, face burning as he power walks. “And—and no.”

“Oh come on, you were trying so hard to make him laugh,” Sawakita says, smiling widely. “It was cute.”

“I wasn’t trying to—“

“Kaede,” Sawakita says over him, with voice serene like Buddha. “I won’t tell anyone,” he winks. “Your crush is safe with me.”

“It’s not—…that,” Rukawa growls. “It’s not like that.”

“Then?” Sawakita raises an eyebrow. “You’re always looking for him in the crowd when you’re on the podium.”

Rukawa feels mildly creeped out that Sawakita has noticed that. “I’m not.”

“Oh, and the other time, when Mitsui-san was talking to me, you looked like you were going to murder me and leave me in a dirty ditch.”

“I was tired. I have a resting bitch face.”

“Sendoh confirmed it.”

Rukawa pauses. “He’s a liar.”

“Not about you,” Sawakita beams. “Anyway, I just wanted to say I support you. Love is love, yeah?”

Rukawa sighs in resignation. “Sure, whatever.”

“You know, I’m a great wingman—“ Sawakita starts, but Rukawa starts running. “Hey, hey—!“

Rukawa makes podium at Austria, carrying on his winning streak. However, when they get to the UK, to Silverstone, things turn to shit. Miyagi tells him its the weather. True, it’s dead in summer now, and the heat is incredible. One of the hottest summers for sure—Rukawa has been sitting in ice baths everyday if he can help it.

The Shohoku car seems to hate the heat too, becoming unpredictable. Once they were making podiums, now both him and Miyagi are fighting for P5 and P6, sometimes even P7. The Ryonan car, one the other hand, seems to be the exact opposite. Sendoh places pole in Hungry, and Uozumi wins in Belgium. By the time they get to Netherlands, Rukawa is sulking because he’s yet again P6 in qualifying, and it just feels like the car won’t go as fast as he needs it to. Meanwhile, Sawakita is P1 yet again.

Having a losing streak after a winning one is tough. Miyagi was right—the highs are highs and the lows are lows. Rukawa wants to curse his frustration at the engineering team for giving them such a shit car, but he sees them working overnights to tweak the set ups trying to get most out of the machine that doesn’t want to listen. Miyagi is completely calm, keeping his frustration in because he knows it’s not helpful to lash out. It’s certainly something Rukawa is trying to get better at.

End of the race, when Rukawa comes in P9, he takes some time to cool off. Quite literally, he means, in an ice bath. Miyagi had looked at the amount of ice cubes he had poured into the tub and left him alone, muttering something about ‘crazy’ under his breath. Rukawa just relishes the feeling of his entire body going numb—it’s better than the heat and soreness of his muscles.

“There you are,” a voice says, amused, and Rukawa cracks open his eyes.

He’s not prepared for Mitsui to be looking at him, wearing a thin white shirt with a collar that dipped to his sternum. His face is also flushed, likely because of the heat. Rukawa pauses, remembering that he’s wearing shorts, before he relaxes.

“Damn, that’s cold,” Mitsui comments as he leans over to dip his fingers on the water surface. “You could do with more ice, though.”

It’s obviously a joke, but Rukawa is not laughing.

“Why are you here?” Rukawa asks, because he came into the tub to get peace.

“Haven’t spoken to you in a while,” Mitsui says, honest. “Was wondering how you were doing.”

“I didn’t win,” Rukawa says bluntly. “Don’t you have to interview those people or whatever?”

“I spoke with Sawakita already,” Mitsui answers. “He told me I should check up on you, actually.”

Meddling asshole. Rukawa pushes himself further the water. “I’m fine. You can go.”

Mitsui, unfortunately, drags a stool from somewhere and sits down next to the tub. “I remember my first time in F1, driving a team specific car,” he says. “On good days, it feels like a dream. On bad ones, it feels like I’m fighting to not crash out. It is what it is, to drive something at the peak of an engineering marvel.”

“They could do better,” Rukawa grumbles.

“It’s built for speed, not reliability,” Mitsui smiles. “If you want reliability, you should go for Le Mans. Anyway, you’re still top ten on the grid. That’s incredible for a rookie.”

“I don’t care if I’m a rookie,” Rukawa says the last word with distaste. “I’m pro racer. It’s not good enough. You were ranked fourth in your first year.”

“Yeah, well—…” Mitsui trails off, pausing. “You remember that.”

Rukawa looks away. “Kawata Masahi was first. Fukatsu, second. Maki-san, third. What’s your point?”

“N-nothing,” Mitsui mumbles. “I’m just saying…you have the skills. You don’t need to doubt yourself.”

“I’m not doubting,” Rukawa denies. “I’m just…annoyed that I can’t go faster.”

“You are fast,” Mitsui says, serious. “One of the fastest I’ve ever seen.”

Rukawa is not sure whether the ice in his tub has all melted or he’s just feeling very warm for no reason at all. Mitsui is still looking at him, and Rukawa avoids the stare by slipping more of his head under the water. When he surfaces after a quick second, Mitsui is leaning over, hand brushing over his forehead before he pats Rukawa’s head. Rukawa is mostly in shock, unsure what’s happening.

“The car will be fine, and so will you,” Mitsui says. “Just hang in there. I know you can do it—”

“Rukawa, we need you—“ Miyagi abruptly pops his head into the room, causing Rukawa to accidentally slosh water as he attempts to stand up. “—you at the driver’s meeting.”

Mitsui extravagantly curses as he’s dosed in ice cold water, his entire shirt becoming translucent after being wet. Rukawa can’t help but have his gaze stuck on it, watching in silence.

“Oh my f-fucking g-god-d!” he shivers, hopping around. “Fuck, t-that’s cold! Rukawa, you’re insane!”

Miyagi snorts, trying not to laugh. “What the fuck were you two doing?”

“It’s not that cold,” Rukawa grumbles as he steps out of the tub, reaching for the towel he’d placed at the side.

“Give me a towel!” Mitsui demands, snatching it out of Rukawa’s hands.

Rukawa only has one towel, so he watches Mitsui wrap it around himself, trying to wipe himself dry before Mitsui throws it back to Rukawa’s face.

“I’m gonna go outside and dry myself in the sun,” Mitsui says, shoving himself out of there.

Rukawa wraps the towel around his frame, shaking his head to flick the water out of his eyes. Miyagi cleverly avoids the stray droplets.

“You know,” Miyagi says as they exit the room. “I think it’s kind of disgusting that you’re using a towel that someone else already has.”

Rukawa freezes minutely, clutching the towel tighter over his shoulders, but luckily Miyagi is too absorbed in leading him elsewhere that the other doesn’t notice it.

In Monza, Rukawa places fourth, which is better than his current performance. The car still feels like a struggle, and he hasn’t managed to put in good qualifying times yet. Miyagi seems to be slightly more comfortable with the unpredictability with the car, though he places fifth. Baku is a similar story, but with their positions swapped.

And then they get to Singapore.

Having grown up in Japan, Rukawa should be used to heat and humidity. But perhaps because he’d been traveling all year, he hasn’t been in a climate like this is a long time. The moment the plane landed, Rukawa felt the suffocation of the humidity—even the air conditioned airport did not ease the sweat that was starting to trickle down his temple.

He spends the first few days entirely indoors, even though Sendoh tried to drag him out to eat chili crab. Rukawa is not a fan of chili or seafood, so he is perfectly fine where he is in his air conditioned hotel room. Sendoh ended up calling a takeaway that left the sweet chili smell thick in the air even hours later.

It’s a night race, but it’s still unbearably hot. The bright lights of the track are capable of roasting, much less the heat of their engines. Rukawa ends up at P6 in qualifying, which is about what he expected, despite pushing the car as much as he could. He’s pretty sure it’s going to be the same old story as the last, with the Sannoh and Ryonan drivers up front.

But then, as he slips into his seat into the car, tucking his limbs in the right position, a hand comes to tap his helmet. His side vision is a little obscured but its clear that it’s Mitsui, wearing a Shohoku dry fit polo, kneeling down to reach and clasp Rukawa’s hand. Rukawa has so many questions—one, why is Mitsui wearing the team uniform, and two, why is Mitsui here right as the race is about to begin—but there’s literally no time to think.

“Super rookie,” Mitsui says, squeezing his hand. “In my first year, I was second on this track. I know you can beat me. Have fun out there,” and then the palm around his hand is gone.

While Rukawa lines his car up in starting position on the grid, his breath shallows. His brain wants to go on tangents, to pick apart why Mitsui said what he said, why Mitsui did what he did, but the red lights in front of him are appearing one by one, a countdown to the start.

There’s just no fucking time.

It’s almost an out of body experience when the lights flick to green. Rukawa watches himself steer the car gracefully to cut in front of the pack, settling into P3 behind Sawakita and Sendoh. It’s a massive advantage, one Rukawa intends to keep. The Singapore track is known to be crash-prone, given its tight lanes and sharp turns. Since it’s opening, there has been a safety car deployed at every single race, and it’s likely to happen if Rukawa doesn’t control his car properly.

It’s tricky, but his grip is strong and he swerves the corners fearlessly. Mitsui had indeed gotten P2 in this race, hot on the heel of Kawata, the Sannoh predecessor to Sawakita, but never managing to overtake him. Rukawa remembers it clearly because it was an entire fifty five laps of Mitsui chasing and never succeeding. It was a frustrating as hell race to watch, and Rukawa had thought Mitsui simply did not try hard enough.

Because Mitsui was clearly better than that.

Rukawa thinks about Mitsui in the Shohoku polo shirt, like he was part of the team, giving platitudes and advice to Ruakwa, like he was still part of team. Like he hadn’t quit racing and left Rukawa in Shohoku all by himself. Like he’d accepted Anzai-sensei’s offer to stay, even if he wasn’t a driver, to be a chief strategist or whatever.

And Rukawa feels…betrayed by the fact that Mitsui chose differently.

It’s also at this moment that Rukawa realises why he wants Mitsui to choose him. Not in the way that the other already has, as his replacement.

But as…an equal. To be side by side.

Because he feels thrilled by it.

Complete, by it.

It’s probably what Sendoh would refer to as being in love.

Rukawa overtakes Sendoh on lap thirty six, just because. There’s no need to give the other more vindication. It’s just Sawakita left now, in a three second lead up front. Rukawa pictures Mitsui in front of him and chases the image, knowing he’ll catch up, because he’s spent all his life doing it. By lap fifty, he’s dangerously close to hitting Sawakita’s back wheel.

Once again, he’s pitting himself against Sawakita. Rukawa has gone toe to toe with him one on one in Japan and he won, so he absolutely doesn’t see why he can’t do it again. Sawakita obviously seems to catch on on the pressure that he’s putting up, positioning his car smartly so that an overtake is impossible. It’s like Mitsui chasing Kawata all over again—the Sannoh car dominates because that’s what they do.

But Rukawa isn’t Sannoh, and even if he’d once dreamt as a young boy to drive for the other team, he’s first and foremost himself. He knows he can beat Mitsui now, even if they never have that rematch again.

On lap sixty two, Rukawa jams his car into the apex of the curve and forces Sawakita to swerve to prevent them from both crashing out. It’s not an illegal move, but terribly aggressive, and that’s who Rukawa is. There are gasps coming from his radio for his audacity. Rukawa ignores them and concentrates on crossing the finish line with Sawakita accelerating right next to him.

It’s a blur at the checkered flag, where both cars cross at the same time. It’s too close to call by the naked eye, but once Rukawa’s radio flickers to life, he knows he’s done it.

“P1, Rukawa! You’re P1!” Kogure shouts, delighted. “You beat Sawakita by 0.12 seconds!”

On his left, he can vaguely see Sawakita giving him a thumbs up while they cruise on a cool down lap. Rukawa’s slammed the moment he gets out of the car, jostled by the team who had ran over from the paddock.

“Amazing drive, Kaede!” Sendoh knocks their helmets together, right before Miyagi pushes him off and yanks Rukawa down to pat his head.

“That was crazy!” Miyagi yells, proud. “Damn, you showed him!”

Rukawa eases his helmet off, heaving for air in the humid heat. He might be smiling, just a little bit, especially when Sawakita comes over to clasp his hand.

“You’re dangerous,” Sawakita says, narrowing his eyes. “I could’ve let us crash out.”

“You would never,” Rukawa returns—because he knows Sawakita is a team player, unlike him.

“Super rookie!”

And there comes Mitsui’s voice amongst the bustle of the crowd. Rukawa hears him clearly even though its a mess all around. Mitsui is out of breath, like he’d fought to come to the track. He grabs and shakes Rukawa’s shoulders excitedly, eyes bright.

“I told you, didn’t I?!” Mitsui shouts, elated. “I told you—you could do it, fuck, you did it!”

 Rukawa just stares, aware of the dampness on his neck, the hug of his racesuit. His face warms, but it must be the heat of the track. Yet, his insides are fluttering, especially the thump in his chest like it’s running on adrenaline that won’t come down.

“—Rukawa?” Mitsui shakes him again, causing him to snap out of his stupor. “Are you listening, Rukawa?”

He hadn’t paid attention to what was being said, gaze fixed upon Mitsui’s face. Being aware of his feelings just makes it so distracting to concentrate, because he wonders what will happen if he just took a step forward to shut Mitsui up with his mouth.

“Mitsui-san, sorry, but we gotta go to the cool down room,” Sendoh cuts in, grabbing Rukawa’s wrist when the other gives way.

Rukawa finds himself being escorted in some direction with Sendoh’s hand flat on his back. Sawakita skips along next to them.

“Kaede, you got to snap out of it,” Sendoh says, voice low. “The cameras are watching.”

Rukawa immediately sobers, although its hard to get rid of how red his ears are. “…What did I do?” he ventures.

Sendoh and Sawakita share a look over his head, which is terrible.

“Nothing,” Sawakita says after a while. “Except for licking your lips while staring at Mitsui-san’s mouth. For like, two whole minutes. It could mean anything though!”

“Sawakita,” Sendoh starts, tone amused. “There’s no need to sugar coat it. It’s probably already a gif on twitter.”

“I…was dehydrated,” Rukawa says. “I am dehydrated.”

“You’re adorable,” Sendoh says to that.

Rukawa is silent for a moment. “…How did you know? About…me and…him?” he asks, frowning. “Am I that obvious?”

Sendoh lifts an eyebrow. “Did you come to some sort of revelation during the race?” When Rukawa doesn’t answer that, he just shrugs. “You’ve only ever really been interested in watching races if Mitsui-san was there…it wasn’t that hard to understand why.”

“Maybe I just like the way he drives.”

“Sure,” Sendoh nods. “Both things can be true. Oh, and there was that time when Mitsui-san announced his retirement, you didn’t come out of your room for a week.”

Rukawa frowns deeper. “And you?” he looks at Sawakita.

Sawakita is beaming. Even without any sort of malice in his expression, it looks insufferably smug.

“I’m observant,” he says simply. “Unlike everyone else on the grid.”

Sendoh coughs, and Sawakita deigns to correct himself to include the other. Rukawa crosses his arms, resigned. Later, on the podium, when he collects his trophy, he sees Mitsui in the crowd, standing out with his red polo shirt. The other is waving at him enthusiastically, and Rukawa feels his heartbeat skip.

This is his life now.

Asi ́va la vida.

In Texas and Mexico City, Sawakita is back on game, taking both poles. Rukawa stays on the podium like he’s riding a high. It does feel different somehow. The car seems to have stabilised the further they get away from summer and heat. It also feels a little different when Rukawa sits in the car, thinks about Mitsui waiting for him at the end, and shows off what he can do.

Rukawa doesn’t see Mitsui much at either race, but he knows the other is out there somewhere, commentating. He normally stays off social media but he can’t help but watch snippets of videos where Mitsui talks about his races, absorbing every compliment like its crack. It must be unhealthy for him to scroll down his feed listening to Mitsui yap about how he’d always seen Rukawa’s talent, how he’d always believed Rukawa was a gem driver. It’s not like Mitsui ever hidden his praise from Rukawa, but knowing that these nice words Mitsui says of him lives on the internet forever, it makes his heart burn.

On the grid, most of the drivers are oblivious (unfortunately Sawakita is right) or maybe they don’t care about Rukawa enough to notice. Miyagi, though, as his senior, comes close to it. From what he’s heard from Sawakita, Miyagi has subtly probed Sendoh on Rukawa’s ‘odd behaviour’, who had brushed it off saying that Rukawa was probably just having a moody bitch fit as usual. Sawakita also recounts that he’d reassured Miyagi that Rukawa probably just doesn’t like the cameras around when Rukawa was over at the corner glaring at him when Mitsui had came over with a microphone. Rukawa is not sure why Sawakita is telling him all of this like he wants a prize.

“Don’t worry, Miyagi won’t catch on,” Sawakita murmurs proudly, leaning into Rukawa’s personal space while they’re doing the driver’s parade. “Besides, after the Japanese GP, most people ship us, anyway,” he says, swinging an arm around Rukawa’s shoulder as he waves to the crowd.

Rukawa stares out into the hoard of screaming fans, most of which were holding banners. Although the low loader truck they’re standing on isn’t going particularly fast, it’s hard to read what’s on them. There are a string of numbers that keep repeating though:

0911 0911 0911

“What do you mean by ‘ship’?” Rukawa asks.

“They think you guys are banging,” Miyagi inserts between them, curious at what they’re whispering about earlier. “It’s all part of the game—Mitsui and I had those crazy fans too. It’s weird but mostly harmless, I guess.”

“I don’t like that,” Rukawa decides, moving himself away from Sawakita. “You’re overbearing. It won’t work out.”

Miyagi splutters a laugh as Sawakita blinks, surprised at the comment. He snorts about a second later, cocky grin still in place.

“You’re not my type either,” Sawakita says, waving him off. “You’re aggressive, also, super mean—“

“You’re just sensitive.”

“You—“ Sawakita pouts. “You have nothing going on for you. At least Miyagi’s cute.”

“W-what?” Miyagi chokes, glaring. “What the fuck did you say I am?”

“Um,” Sawakita, who is suddenly unsure of whether they’re joking around anymore, falters. “Cute?” He repeats, earnest. “I mean, you’re small sized—“

Miyagi exhales slowly. “I am going to fucking kill you—“

In Sao Paulo, Brazil, Rukawa realises that he’s not satisfied. Not with his driving, where he’s P4 in the sprint. Not with his situation with Mitsui, where he’s destined to just seek out Mitsui in the crowd, talking to other people.

It’s raining a lot after the sprint race too. Rukawa’s not a fan of wet races because its so hard to see the track, not to mention its super uncomfortable being half hot and half cold whilst in the car. Thanks to the weather, the actual qualifying gets delayed. Rukawa sits in the team hospitality bored out of his mind, and eventually dozes off. He’s super cranky when he’s awaken, and he’s told that they’ll do both qualifying and the race tomorrow.

There are whispers that the whole race might be canceled when its still raining the next day. But against all odds, they’re all told to suit up and get started. Rukawa has a trepidation that everything will go to shit the moment he brings the car on track. It’s literally a pool of water out there, and the wind splatters the rain over his visor so fast that he can only see a blur.

All Rukawa can say is that the track is a nightmare. Before Rukawa even gets to do his laps, there are reported crashes from the other teams. He squeezes himself out there and grapples with the lack of vision and grip, sliding around so much that it’s a miracle he doesn’t crash. He ends up going too slow and is out in Q2. He places P12.

Miyagi gets P2, looking fairly unperturbed when he climbs out of the car.

“Not sure what the fuck they’re thinking, sending us out there in this shit,” Miyagi says. “Thank god neither of us crashed out. Poor Aiwa, I doubt they can fix both cars before the race.” He looks at Rukawa’s expression. “Don’t worry about P12, I know you’ll catch up.”

“It sucks,” Rukawa says emphatically, towel over his shoulders. “But well done to you.”

“You’re still really bad at that,” Miyagi snorts. “But I’ll give you points for trying. Don’t take it personally, Rukawa, but I grew up racing in wet because it was the only slot that other people didn’t want. I know my way around the rain because I had to, to be a driver.”

“Hm,” Rukawa grunts. “I don’t care about your sob story.”

“Oh fuck you,” Miyagi kicks at his shin. “See if I comfort you again,” he sniffs loudly, grumbling under his breath.

Miyagi stalks off, shoulders brushing past Mitsui who had entered the team hospitality. Mitsui calls after him in greeting, and is puzzled when he gets ignored.

“Did you guys fight or something?” Mitsui queries.

“He’s pretending he’s mad at me,” Rukawa says.

“…Are you sure?” Mitsui blinks.

“We have inside jokes,” Rukawa replies, deadpan.

It’s clear that Mitsui doesn’t know whether to believe him or not.

“Okay, well…how are you feeling?”

Rukawa shuffles in his seat, pulling his towel over his head to hide his ears. “…Fine.”

“Are you really?” the other peers. “It’s the first time you’re down at P12…”

“Do you only come in to check on me because you think I might be upset?” Rukawa asks, gaze on Mitsui. “I’m a pro driver. I can deal with my own performance.”

“R-right,” Mitsui says slowly. “I was just—just…nevermind,” he murmurs. “I guess,” he sighs after a while, “You took my seat, so, I feel a bit responsible for you. It’s stupid, but—”

“I didn’t want to,” Rukawa says before he can stop himself. “I didn’t want your seat.”

Mitsui frowns. “What are you saying? You signed the contract—“

“I didn’t know you were leaving,” Rukawa spits, looking away.

“…I never intended to stay once I won the championship,” Mitsui says, uncharacteristically quiet. “Always thought it’s a little egoistic to hang on instead of giving a younger rookie a chance,” he grins halfway. “Though, seeing you drive…it does make me wish I stayed one more season to race with you.”

Rukawa swallows, gaze disbelieving. At this moment, somewhere in the distance, someone calls Rukawa’s name.

“You always prove me right, super rookie,” Mitsui says, reaching to pat his head. “The race is starting. See you after.”

It’s still pouring. The track is sodden, full of water puddles. Rukawa starts not even halfway down the grid, but at the back. Rukawa can’t fucking care about that right now.

Once Mitsui had said those words, it was over. Rukawa knows its a retrospective wish. A ‘what if’, and those kind of wishes are impossible to come true.

What if Mitsui had just stayed one more season?

Would Rukawa had gotten everything he wanted?

He doesn’t know, but the idea is just too good to leave it alone. He can’t make it happen.

But he can make Mitsui regret it.

Rukawa barely registers what he’s doing in the race. He can’t see, he can’t think. His hands move on their own accord. He doesn’t flinch when water pours into his seat, he doesn’t flinch when he dodges two crashes from nearby cars. He cuts through the water, overtaking every car he sees up front, until he reaches the back of the other Shohoku car. It’s Miyagi who brings him out of the car at the end, clutching him in a death grip as their helmets knock against each other.

Shohoku P1-2.

Miyagi takes P1, while Rukawa ran from P12 to P2. Everyone’s in a frenzy. Yet Rukawa can only hear the thunder of his heartbeat, and the blood coursing to his hands.

“You’re a monster,” Miyagi says to him as they hug, choking with delight. “Fuck. I’m so proud of you.”

“You did well, senpai.”

“Still shit at that,” Miyagi laughs, watery.

Sometime later, when Rukawa finally manages to grab a jacket because it’s gotten even colder when the sun has set, he notices Mitsui trailing behind Miyagi across their team hospitality, begging for some quotes.

“I told you I wasn’t gonna give you an exclusive if I won,” Miyagi snaps, making flicking hand motions at the other. “There’s the other winner, go bother him,” he points at Rukawa before scampering off elsewhere.

“Super rookie,” Mitsui beams, catching sight of him. “What did I tell you?”

“You’re not always right,” Rukawa says, crossing his arms. “You didn’t think I would finish that high.”

“Eh—“

“Don’t lie.”

“Alright, I kind of thought you’d be around P4 or 5,” Mitsui admits. “That was amazing.”

Rukawa shrugs. “It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”

“Not in a wet race, I don’t think,” Miyagi hums thoughtfully. “Wasn’t ever really that good in those. Miyagi’s always had a better knack for them,” he says, and then pauses, looking at Rukawa’s jacket. “…Is that my jacket?” he asks abruptly. “I’ve been looking for it everywhere.”

Rukawa looks down at himself, catching sight of the Shohoku logo in the front. He’d just taken the closest jacket out of his suitcase, and since it was all black, it hadn’t crossed his mind to take a closer look at it.

Rukawa clutches the jacket tighter to himself. “…Maybe.”

Mitsui cocks his head at the action. “You’re not gonna give it back to me?”

“No.”

“It’s limited edition,” Mitsui says, pulling at the sleeve. “I want it back.”

“You can race me for it.”

“Ha,” Mitsui barks a laugh. “You can keep it. Doubt I’d win it back anyway.”

Rukawa is mildly disappointed that Mitsui doesn’t take the bait. Mitsui is distracted by some buzzing in his pocket that turns out to be his phone.

“Ah, Norio is looking for me,” he says. “Enjoy your celebration tonight! I heard Sawakita booked a club.”

“That’s horrible,” Rukawa says in reflex.

Mitsui laughs. “Maybe I’ll see you there,” he waves, disappearing behind the door.

It’s stupid, but Rukawa goes to that club.

He doesn’t see Mitsui at all.

He wonders why he does this to himself.

With three more races to go in the calendar, Rukawa is told that he’s in line to fight for the championship. Sawakita’s obviously first in the rankings. After Las Vegas and Qatar, where Rukawa takes pole at one and second at the other, he gains enough to just surpass Fukatsu. Thinking back along the year, Rukawa started out racing believing that he’d win the championship one day.

One day.

Not the first year that he joins.

It’s a little surreal, but the points add up. Sawakita is on the podium for a lot of races, but there has been less poles for him this year, having been stolen by Rukawa and the rest.

Now at Abu Dhabi, it’s the last race of the season.

Miyagi has been hovering, asking if he feels pressured. Oddly enough, it doesn’t cross Rukawa’s mind at all. He’s just going to race the best he can, he’s not going to be calculative about what position he needs to get or where Sawakita needs to be for him to win.

The memory that hits him the most when he’s at the start line is Mitsui’s last race on the exact same track. Qualifying at P4, sandwiched between Sawakita and Fukatsu. It wasn’t a bad position per se—but it was a terrible one to be stuck between the Sannoh duo. Mitsui hadn’t let that perturb him at all, slamming his car right past Sawakita once the lights went on.

Most say it’s the one of the most boring races, because Mitsui look the lead quite quickly within a couple of laps, and stayed that way til the end. He finished with with a seven second lead over P2, cruising through with no problems at all.

For Rukawa, he’d watched it from start to end, never looking away. It reminded him of his own race with Mitsui, that dominance over the track. Rukawa relished it. He relished to see it again, and to destroy it with his own hands.

Maybe it’s poetic in the way that his race mirrors Mitsui’s. He narrowly misses the traffic at the start, escaping out front of the Sannoh cars to file behind Sendoh. Sendoh leads for about twenty laps before he gets an unfortunate wheel puncture, and requires to pit.

Once Rukawa takes P1, he doesn’t give it back.

At the end of the fifty eighth lap, Rukawa crosses the checkered flag in clean air.

He slows to a stop after a cool down lap, and is practically hauled out of the car by a bunch of hands yelling to reach for him. It’s loud everywhere, screaming, cheering; Rukawa is tossed around by the enthusiasm. Some people are dancing, some people are crying. It’s a little dramatic.

“Rukawa, Rukawa!” Mitsui grabs his arm within the crowd, jostled by the sheer number of people. “You won!” he says into Rukawa’s face after pulling off the helmet. “You won!”

Rukawa nods numbly.

“You won!” Mitsui repeats again, shaking him hard. “Rukawa, you—you won the driver’s championship!”

“You’re absolutely fucking crazy!” Miyagi shouts from the left side, grabbing Rukawa’s race suit from behind. “You won, you monster! You’re crazy, you’re fucking crazy—”

“…I think everyone needs to calm down,” Rukawa says, but it’s drowned in the noise.

Winning feels good, of course it does. Rukawa accepts his trophy for the race, and spies Sawakita dabbing at his eyes when Rukawa comes down from the podium. Oddly enough, he doesn’t really feel good about that.

“Feeling bad for him?” Sendoh peers over Rukawa’s shoulder when Sawakita excuses himself first after the ceremony.

“Maybe,” Rukawa admits.

“It’s alright, just give him some time. He knows how to deal with it.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Rukawa denies.

“So proud of you, Kaede,” Sendoh envelopes him in a big hug. “Winning in your first year. Knew you could do it.”

“You’re not disappointed that you didn’t win?” Rukawa asks, curious.

“Of course I am,” Sendoh says. “Everyone on the grid wants to be the winner. But I can be happy for you too.”

Suddenly, Rukawa understands what Mitsui had meant about leaving. Doing it once, to prove to himself that he’s the best of the best, that’s normal. Doing it more than that—…it does feel a little bit selfish. It’s arrogant in both ways, to leave because you think no one will beat you again and you’re giving a chance to someone else, or to stay, be number one again and gate keep that validation from anyone else.

“Mitsui-san’s here,” Sendoh says next to his ear when they both see the other pop up. “I can go.”

Rukawa shakes his head minutely, pausing Sendoh in his tracks.

“Hey champ,” Mitsui greets, fanning himself. “It’s crazy out there. I had to flex some past privileges to get in here. How are you feeling?” he asks, smiling. “You were in shock just now, but you’ve had some time for it to settle since then. So, how is it? Being a champion?”

“I wasn’t in shock,” Rukawa denies. “I was just thinking about what I should say. For the speech.”

“Oh?” Mitsui presses, curious. “I honestly thought you’d just say two words and leave it as that.”

Sendoh laughs, and Rukawa elbows him. “I’m not that predictable.”

“Prove me wrong,” Mitsui dares.

Rukawa exhales.

“I’ve decided to quit F1,” he says.

Both Mitsui and Sendoh freeze, just for a second.

“…Ha, you got me,” Mitsui says, lips twitching.

“I’m serious,” Rukawa continues, because he expected this response. “I achieved what I set out to do. I won. There’s nothing more, so. There’s no point in staying.”

“Kaede…are you…” Sendoh starts, then clamps his mouth shut when he sees the look in Rukawa’s eyes. “…I support your decisions but this is…do you need to think about this more? Maybe sleep on it?” he ventures, unsure.

“I’m sure,” Rukawa states. “I won’t drive next season.”

“Really?” Mitsui echoes, doubtful. “You’re doing so well! Why leave?”

“As I’ve said,” Rukawa says, tone unchanging. “I won. There’s nothing more. You of all people should understand this.”

“Yeah, but I raced for five years,” Mitsui retorts, frowning. “Winning was the end of it, but I stayed for five years. Not just one! Rukawa, don’t you know how special you are to win in the first year? And you’re leaving it, just like that?”

Rukawa matches his gaze, because he thinks Mitsui’s being a little hypocritical to sound that accusing.

“I joined F1 because I wanted to race you,” he says, direct. “But you left. So, there is nothing for me. Why would I stay when you’re not here?”

Sendoh’s surprise at Rukawa’s words are palpable, but not as much as Mitsui’s reaction. Mitsui stares like he can’t comprehend what Rukawa is saying, lips parted soundlessly.

“…You…what?” he manages incoherently. “What…what do you mean?” his voice edges into panic. “I…what?”

Rukawa crosses his arms, trying to ignore the flush of heat to his ears. “You’re not deaf. You heard what I said.”

“But I don’t know what it means!” Mitsui fails, tone getting high pitched. “You’re an incredible driver, Rukawa, you—you…you have to be in F1! It’s not about m-me!”

“You were supposed to be my teammate,” Rukawa says. “I was going to crush you. You promised me a rematch,” he continues, curling his hands into a fist by his side. “But I guess you don’t remember it.”

“I, I…I remember that,” Mitsui mumbles, looking down. “Why do you think I recommended you to take my seat,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his hair with a defeated sigh. “You were thirteen, Rukawa,” he says, lifting his gaze. “And you went wheel to wheel with me. I was entering F1. Do you know how crazy that is?” he demands, shaking his head. “God, fuck,” he curses, wringing his hands. “I’d knew you’d win, once you got on track. I couldn’t be here when you did. You’d destroy me.”

“I would,” Rukawa agrees, and Mitsui huffs, shaky.

“I’ll never let you race me again,” Mitsui swallows. “Sorry.”

“…It’s not fair,” Rukawa says. “You promised.”

“Sorry,” Mitsui repeats.

Rukawa turns his head away. It’s not fair.

That’s not fucking fair.

“Not to break up this lovely chat we’re having,” Sendoh suddenly inserts, “But I don’t think it’s going to stay private any longer,” he says, looking towards the door where they could start to hear voices from the bend of the corridor.

“It’s fine, I’ve said all I wanted to say,” Rukawa states, uncrossing his arms. “We can go.”

“Rukawa—“ Mitsui begins unsurely, but is decidedly ignored.

“There was one more thing,” Rukawa says over him.

Sendoh being there is not ideal, but Rukawa doesn’t think he’ll have another chance again. He looks at Mitsui straight in the eye, takes the step closer, and slips his hand out of his pocket to grasp the front of Mitsui’s shirt close. His eyes flutter close when he presses their lips together, just for a second, for him to dream.

Mitsui is stone still in absolute shock when he pulls back.

“Now we can go,” Rukawa tells Sendoh, who simply has his eyebrows raised so high that it almost reaches his hair line.

Rukawa has done everything he wanted to do in F1.

He retires as he’s said, causing more chaos than Mitsui did with his retirement speech.

He almost relishes watching the response, and wonders whether Mitsui also enjoyed it when the other did the same.

.

.

.

.

.

Retirement is…alright. Truth be told, Rukawa is bored as fuck. He’s been racing for so long that his body misses the adrenaline and pressure. But, he’s not missing F1 at all. He’d been absolutely certain about why he left, and he doesn’t regret it. In fact, it feels like he accomplished the thing he’d set out to do, and it feels good. It’s just that now, in the aftermath, he’s still taking his time to find something to fill his time.

It’s about two months into the new year when he gets a call from a number he doesn’t recognize. Rukawa actually misses it because he was busy running, and comes back to see several texts from Sendoh saying ‘you should pick that up’.

It’s very cryptic, but whatever.

He ignores it for about the half an hour that it takes for him to cool down and drink some water. Then, the curiosity gets better of him and he presses the redial button.

It’s received on the first ring.

“Uh, hey.”

Rukawa knows that voice anywhere.

Mitsui.

“Why did you call me?” he asks.

“Well,” Mitsui exhales, sounding fidgety and nervous. “Was wondering how you were doing. Haven’t heard from you since….since,” he pauses. “How’s retirement? For me, it was weird for a few months—”

“Why did you really call?” Rukawa interrupts, not sold on the blabber.

Mitsui sighs, loud. “Why are you like this, super rookie?”

“Like what?”

“Nevermind,” Mitsui mutters. “I was…thinking. About…you know,” he says, and Rukawa doesn’t know. “Anyway, I wanted to ask if you ever thought about competing in Le Mans.”

Le Mans, or The 24 Hours of Le Mans, is an endurance race. A team of drivers to race for 24 hours to cover the most distance. Having watched Mitsui for most of his racing career, Rukawa doesn’t particularly think endurance is Mitusi’s strong suit. He says as much.

“Ouch,” Mitsui replies to that direct comment. “Yeah, it’s not normally my thing, but that’s precisely why I want to do it. I need a new challenge, and it’s in that perfect spot of something I can probably do, but it won’t be that easy.”

“…And what do I have to do with it?”

“I want you to be in my team,” Mitsui finally gets to the point. “Let’s do it.”

“Why me?” Rukawa asks immediately.

“Because you’re free?” Mitsui replies just as fast. “I mean…you are, aren’t you?”

Rukawa scowls, but Mitsui can’t see it. “Maybe I’m busy.”

“Oh come on, you haven’t joined IndyCar, which I thought you were totally gonna do, so you’re definitely doing absolutely nothing. Join me for Le Mans. It’ll be fun.”

“...Fun,” Rukawa repeats, unconvinced.

“Yeah! You wanted to race with me, didn’t you?”

“I want to race against you,” Rukawa corrects.

“I said that’s not happening,” Mitsui shoots it down quickly. “But I want to race with you. Le Mans. We can do it. I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he adds, like time is a factor that would change Rukawa’s mind.

“Forget it.”

“Rukawa—“

“I’ll do it,” he says, causing Mitsui to squeak a bit in surprise.

“Wait, what, really?”

“Yes,” Rukawa says, lips pursed.

“Okay, okay,” Mitsui laughs, soft. “Okay, I’m gonna…gonna arrange stuff. I’ll call you back when it’s done. You can’t back out on me, super rookie. I’m holding you to it!”

“I don’t break my word,” Rukawa says. “Unlike you.”

“…Again, that’s super uncalled for,” Mitsui mutters. “Fine. I’ll let you have that. I’ll call you soon!”

Rukawa blinks at the giddy goodbye and dial tone echoing in his ear. He looks at his phone for a minute before remembering that he should save Mitsui’s number to his contacts.

Le Mans, huh.

Rukawa might regret this, but whatever.

Así va la vida.