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The crash echoed longer than it should have. He knew. He knew they were planning something. He could feel it. Why wasn’t he more careful? Why didn’t he just take a moment to pay attention, to focus more, to put his adrenaline and pride to the side for one second?! But at least he rang Ryousuke and told him. At least he warned them. At least he made sure Takumi would be safe.
Limping the FD back to the base of operations at the base of the mountain was like a walk of shame. No. It was worse than that. Shame implies a mistake; this was a failure. A failure of his own making. One powered by his ego. And what made it worse? He knew it couldn’t be fixed in time for the race tomorrow night. He knew, but he still tried: “Just jerry-rig it if you have to, I don't even care if she won’t drive straight, let me deal with the rest of it on the course!”
“You’re going to kill yourself!” Tomiguchi shot back, while Ryousuke’s glare drilled into Keisuke’s skull like a blade. That's why he wasn't looking at his brother. He wasn’t brave enough.
And then Aikawa had the nerve to rear his ugly head, lounging in his car with that smug, self-satisfied grin, openly mocking the team, and most of all, Keisuke. Every word was a jab, sharp and precise, meant to twist the knife and make sure it stayed in. Keisuke’s vision narrowed. For a heartbeat, all he could think about was closing the distance, ripping the bastard out of the driver’s seat, and breaking him until there was nothing left to smirk. It took an inhuman amount of restraint not to do it right then and there, settling for sharp words and growled threats. He swallowed it down, forced his hands to stay at his sides, even as something hot and ugly burned in his chest. Aikawa wanted this - wanted the reaction, the loss of control. And that realisation only made it worse. By the time the car finally pulled away, the air felt poisoned. The whole encounter stank of manipulation and unseen designs, like a trap already sprung and still tightening. Aikawa never showed his face unless he was setting something in motion, and whatever he’d started here, Keisuke had the sinking, furious certainty that the real damage hadn’t even begun.
“Fucking piece of shit!” Keisuke snarls, the words ripped straight from his chest as he slams his fist into the guardrail. The metal rings out dully, vibrating up his arm, but he barely feels it. In that moment, he doesn’t care who sees, who whispers, who files it away for later judgment. He just needs something - some small release to keep the pressure from blowing him apart. To stop the anger from spilling over onto his teammates. Onto his brother. Onto his lover.
He draws a sharp, shuddering breath, knuckles throbbing, vision swimming. “When you have finished yelling at the guardrail, come here.” Ryousuke’s voice cuts cleanly through the noise. Calm, measured. Too calm. There’s no heat in it, no sympathy, just cold authority wrapped in absolute control. The kind of tone that makes Keisuke’s stomach drop and his spine straighten despite himself. The kind that reminds him, brutally, that losing control has consequences. And that Ryousuke has already noticed
Begrudgingly, Keisuke slumped over to his brother, every step feeling like a walk to the gallows, bracing himself for impact he knew was coming. “What were you thinking?” The older of the Takahashi brothers asks, that unnervingly cold voice stripped of warmth, of brotherhood, sharp enough to cut.
“Huh?!” The blonde can’t help the defensive, almost desperate edge that snaps out of him, the sound ugly and instinctive.
“I made myself perfectly clear, Keisuke. Answer me. At what point during your run did you stop paying attention to the course?” Ryousuke demands, glare icy as it pins him in place, dissecting him piece by piece, like he’s already reached the answer and is just waiting for his brother to admit it. Keisuke stumbles out a response, words tangling over each other, half-formed and useless. Ryousuke’s gaze doesn’t waver, not even for a second.
“This isn’t about the oil.” Keisuke stiffens, like he’s been struck. “You stopped driving like you were thinking,” Ryousuke continues, voice level, controlled, and somehow that makes it worse. “You started driving like you were untouchable.” The younger swallows, throat tight, chest hollowing out. “This isn’t new. This is what you do when you get confident. This version of you gets people hurt.” Each word lands heavier than the last, sinking deep. “Now go cool off and think about what you did.”
Keisuke blanches, heat flaring in his chest, panic clawing up his spine. “Hold on a second—wait. What about fixing my FD? Am I just supposed to sit on my ass? If you don’t let me race, you’re just giving them what they want-” “You really don’t understand, do you?” Ryousuke interrupts, voice firmer now, tighter, pressing down until it feels hard to breathe. More serious. More final. “The FD took the hit it did because of your pride and carelessness,” he says, and Keisuke feels it like a verdict. “You risked your life, and the life of Tomiguchi.” The pause that follows is deliberate and cruel. “Do you think if it had been me behind that wheel, I would’ve fallen for that pathetic little trap? No. Because I race with my mind, not my emotions. Something you have yet to accomplish.” Keisuke’s hands curl at his sides, nails biting into his palms, because every word feels uncomfortably, painfully true. “Fixing your car is an exercise in futility at this point,” Ryousuke continues, already turning away. “Look at it. It’s gone. You’re sitting this race out. That’s final.”
And just like that, he leaves - back to the team, back to control - leaving Keisuke alone with the wreckage. Of course, Ryousuke wouldn’t have wrecked his car. Of course, he wouldn’t have risked his own life, or the life of his mechanic. Of course not. Of course, Keisuke did. Because out of everyone here, it’s always him. He just stands there, staring at the empty space his brother left behind, almost as if, if he looks long enough, Aniki might turn around. Say he overreacted. Say he was wrong. Say anything that doesn’t feel like a door slamming shut.
But nothing happens.
His breath comes out uneven, sharp in his chest, and he hates that his first thought isn’t anger, it’s understanding. Because Ryousuke isn’t wrong. That’s the worst part. He never is. Keisuke replayed the run in his head on instinct, every turn, every decision, every moment where he chose speed over caution because he wanted to push it just that bit harder. Because he wanted to prove something. Because he wanted, stupidly, to feel untouchable.
He rubs a hand over his face, fingers trembling. I should’ve known better.
The words loop, relentless. He always knows better. And he always does it anyway. Pride. Carelessness. Emotion. Ryousuke’s voice echoes in his head like it’s carved into his skull, and suddenly it feels obvious - inevitable. Of course, it ended like this. Of course, he was the one who fell for the trap. Of course, he was the one who almost got someone killed. The thought makes his stomach twist violently, bile rising as Tomiguchi’s face flashes through his mind.
What if it had been worse?
What if he hadn’t walked away?
What if Takumi had been in the car?
His hands curl into fists again, knuckles whitening. He’d risked everything on a feeling, on adrenaline, on ego - and now the proof of it sat mangled and useless, just like Ryousuke said. Gone. Irreplaceable. Another thing Keisuke broke because he couldn’t slow down long enough to think. He lets out a humourless breath, something bitter curling in his chest. The realisation hits hard, knocking the air from his lungs. It’s not just about the race. Or the FD. Or even the crash. It’s about the pattern. About how Ryousuke already expected this from him. Like he’d been waiting for Keisuke to prove him right all along.
And maybe that’s what hurts the most.
That no matter how hard he pushes, no matter how fast he drives, no matter how desperately he wants to be more than the reckless little brother, he keeps ending up exactly where he thinks he belongs. Standing still. Watching everyone else move on without him due to his own stupidity. Keisuke doesn’t even react when a pair of arms wrap around his abdomen, head resting on his chest in a way that would usually bring him comfort. "I love you." Takumi whispers, just loud enough for the blonde to hear. He doesn’t tell Keisuke it's okay, because it's not, that it will work out, because it won’t. So instead, he goes for the truth. Those 3 simple words.
“I’m fine,” Keisuke finally grits out after a few long moments, his hands resting half-heartedly on Takumi’s hips. Not strong enough to pull him closer, but just enough to reassure himself that his partner is really there.
“I never asked if you were okay,” the younger says, head still pressed to his chest, arms firm around him. “I just told you I love you.” Keisuke lets out a sharp huff, a self-deprecating grin tugging at his lips despite himself. He shakes his head and slowly nuzzles into Takumi’s hair, clinging to the contact. Needing that comfort more than words - needing the reminder that he is still loved in this moment, even when he can’t find a single good thing to say about himself.
The night drew on. The team cleared up the oil spill, and the couple stood together in silence until Takumi had to practice again. Keisuke stayed slumped beside his FD, leaning against her like he was afraid she might fall apart if he moved even an inch.
Then he heard it. The very familiar sound of another FD.
Hers.
Fantastic, he thinks bitterly. Just what I need right now. He slumps further into himself, shoulders caving in, hoping he might somehow turn invisible - morph into the car, sink into the ground, anything. All of it sounds like a better option than dealing with her obsessive nature when he can’t even bring himself to speak a single word to anyone, let alone look someone in the eye.
“Hey.” Just when the night feels like it’s about to go from catastrophic to apocalyptic, a saviour calls out. Takumi’s voice cuts through the noise as he leans out of the Trueno’s window, and it’s enough to pull Keisuke’s attention away from his spiralling thoughts. A simple tilt of his head, a small hand gesture, nothing more is needed. Keisuke pushes himself upright and heads over to the Trueno without protest, moving on instinct alone, like a kicked puppy desperate for reassurance. “Get in.” So he does. Without a second thought. The car he once despised moves with quiet grace as his lover slings it up the mountain pass, not showing off, because that’s not what Keisuke needs right now. Takumi just drives. In a way that feels familiar to both of them. Calm. Skilled. Normal.
Normal, on a night that has been anything but.
Keisuke notices, distantly, that his breathing has finally started to even out. The tightness in his chest loosens, just a fraction, enough that it doesn’t hurt to inhale anymore. He hadn’t realised how hard he’d been holding himself together until now, until the steady hum of the engine and the smooth rhythm of Takumi’s driving gave him permission to let go.
Takumi doesn’t look at him. Not once. And somehow, Keisuke understands that it’s intentional. There’s no pressure in the silence, no expectation for him to explain himself or pretend he’s okay. Just the road ahead, winding and familiar, and the unspoken promise that he doesn’t have to be fast here. He doesn’t have to be anything at all. He can just…be. The passenger seat isn’t for spectators. It never was. It’s for comfort, like it was made for him.
They reach the top without ceremony.
Takumi eases the Trueno into a familiar turnout, the engine ticking softly as it cools, the world stretching out below them in dark, distant lights. No one speaks. Takumi doesn’t rush to turn the car off right away, and Keisuke doesn’t move to leave. For a few suspended moments, they just sit there, breathing the same air, wrapped in the quiet that only comes when the climb is over.
The night is still up here. Different. Like the mountain is holding its breath with them. Takumi finally cuts the engine. The sudden silence is profound, heavy, but not uncomfortable. Keisuke keeps his gaze forward, watching the stars blur slightly as his eyes sting. Not enough to cry…not yet. Just enough to feel raw.
“I didn’t bring you up here to talk,” Takumi says gently, voice barely above a whisper. “Just… didn’t want you to be alone.” The blonde’s throat tightens. He swallows, nodding once. “Thanks,” he murmurs, barely audible. It feels like the most honest thing he’s said all night. Takumi turns toward him then, slow and careful, like he’s afraid of startling something fragile. “You don’t have to be strong with me,” he adds, carefully lacing his fingers through Keisuke's calloused ones. Those who have hurt people, carried weapons, and been abused under the hood of a car. Ones that are now shaking and oh so delicate when they wrap around his lover's smaller, softer hand. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
That does it. Keisuke lets out a shaky breath and leans over, forehead resting against Takumi’s shoulder. The Brunette doesn’t hesitate. One arm comes up around him, firm and grounding, the other steadying him like he knows exactly how much weight his other half needs him to carry.
“I love you,” Takumi says again, no urgency this time. Just a fact. Just truth.
Keisuke closes his eyes. The ache is still there, the mess still waiting for him when morning comes, but for this moment, it doesn’t matter. “I love you too,” he replies quietly. And up here, at the top of the mountain, with nothing left to prove, the words finally feel like enough.
A few moments, a few minutes, maybe even an hour later, who knows, because time has no effect up here, the blonde eventually pulls back, the trembling having somewhat subsided. "I-uh", he clears his throat, taking his hand out of Takumi's and running it through his own hair. "I need a smoke." His lover nods with a very gentle, breathy chuckle, immediately opening his door and climbing out. Keisuke follows, digging in his pocket for his box of cancer sticks and lighter. He is trying so hard to quit, for Takumi, as he has heard his boyfriend talk about how he hears his father's barking cough, the way the walls of the house are stained yellow with tobacco, and everything has the faint smell of smoke. He wants to quit, so his other half doesn’t have to live that way forever. But then life throws a curveball, and the urge comes back stronger, heavier, more nagging. Maybe it's the ritual, the routine, or maybe it's the fact that for most of his teenage years, when he was running the streets of Tokyo with gangs, they were the one thing he always had on his person. Maybe it's just yet another bad habit that he cannot free himself from.
The smoke from the cigarette disappears in the humid night air as he sits beside Takumi on the hood of the 86, the box and lighter beside him on the opposite side. An arm wraps around the brunette's waist, pulling him closer, head going onto Keisuke's broad shoulder. “You don’t break because you’re careless… you break because you feel cornered.” Takumi whispers, thumb gently brushing his partners thigh where his hand lies on his leg. Keisuke’s breath hitches. "That doesn’t make you a bad person. It just means you need space to breathe." There's a long pause, the only sound being the cicadas and the soft rustling of the leaves surrounding them. “When there’s nowhere to go, it scares you. You start to hurt when you can’t move. So keep moving."
"Takumi…" The name is breathed out, soft, shaky, vulnerable.
“You’re racing tomorrow,” Takumi says quietly, like he’s testing the shape of the words before letting them exist. “Just not in your FD.” The brunette’s doe-eyed gaze drifts down the mountain road, headlights long gone, asphalt swallowed by shadow. The silence stretches, filled with the low hum of cicadas and the distant cooling ticks of the 86's engine. “…She’s still here.”
Keisuke snorts softly, the sound brittle, humourless. “Of course she is.”
“Ryousuke grounded your car,” Takumi continues evenly, voice steady in that infuriating way of his, like nothing in the world could shake him. “Your car is broken.” A pause. Then, more deliberate, “There’s still a perfectly good driver available.”
The blonde exhales slowly, smoke curling past his lips, ghost-pale in the dark. It lingers between them before dissolving. “I don’t have a car.” Takumi hums, noncommittal, his thumb tracing idle, unconscious patterns against his thigh. He doesn’t look at Keisuke right away, his gaze still down the pass. “…You’re thinking about her.” Keisuke lets out a short huff, shaking his head as he takes another drag, jaw tightening around the cigarette. “That’s fucked.”
“It’s a solution,” Takumi says, finally turning to him. His gaze is calm, unwavering, too perceptive to be kind. “You’ve raced it. You know the strengths and the weaknesses of that car. You know exactly how it differs from yours.” He tilts his head slightly, thinking as he speaks. “Same drivetrain. Same measurements. Just a slightly different engine.” Keisuke says nothing. The cigarette burns down between his fingers, ash threatening to fall. His other half turns and looks up at him, then, really looks at him, eyes observant but not unkind. “Above all else,” he adds softly, “it’s a car.” A beat. “A way forward.” The words hang there, heavy, unavoidable, like the start line before a race, daring Keisuke to decide. He exhales, slow and shaky, fingers curling against the edge of the hood. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice rough around the edges. “I mean-”
“Babe.” Takumi interrupts, gentle but firm, like he’s reaching out and steadying the world with one hand. Keisuke turns to him. His lover is looking at him the way he always does when things get heavy - eyes soft, unreadable in that quiet way that somehow sees everything. There’s no fear there. No doubt. Just… him.
“I trust you,” He says simply. The words land harder than anything else tonight. “Go down there,” he continues, nudging Keisuke’s knee with his own, grounding him. “Borrow the car. Do what you must. Race.” A faint smile curves at his mouth, small but real. “Nothing will change the fact that at the end of each day, it’s us. Together. Lying in bed. Just being.” Keisuke swallows. His chest feels too full, like something might crack if he breathes wrong. “I know you,” Takumi adds, quieter now. “And I love you.”
For a moment, Keisuke can’t move. Can’t speak. All the noise in his head, the risk, the girl waiting, the road, the cost, goes strangely still. All that’s left is this: trust freely given, without conditions, without chains. Instead, he doesn’t use words. He leans over and presses a soft, loving, gentle kiss to Takumi’s lips. One that says a thousand words. "I love you too…"