Work Text:
It’s around your nineteenth birthday that you come to realize that most of your life is built on inference upon inference. So when you learn something that violates the foundation of your perception of someone - namely, your best friend - it’s a bit difficult to recalibrate your life, even with the outlet of street-racing at your disposal in the darkness of the streets. But it’s hard to adjust. Very hard. Especially when you find out in the same week that not only is your best friend in a Suicide Support Group but that, oh by the way, he’s the love of your life. But let’s rewind.
When you left Germany you promised yourself you’d live every moment to its absolute fullest. You promised yourself you’d never be caged again, that you’d reach for the stars and embrace every minute, every second, and you’d never stop. You’d make the world a better, brighter place. You’d do it all.
Funny how after only a month your dreams crashed and burned with the smell of smoldering rubber on asphalt and the rush of air in your hair that you just can’t feel.
You’re eighteen: young and reckless and ready.
Your hands grip tightly at the handlebars of the bike that costs a year of tuition back at that stuffy school your parents had once made you attend. You scowl at the dark and lonely road laid out ahead of you.
It’s called Rhyme, you quickly learned upon landing in Midorijama. Rhyme - the greatest thrill to hit the island in a long time. It’s fast, it’s flashy, it’s lights and adrenaline and lots of drugs and sex and alcohol and recklessness. It’s nothing like you imagined for yourself when you left the cold of Germany. But that just makes it all the better, all the sweeter. It makes that tang of metallic in your mouth taste sweet because that’s how it’s supposed to be.
Now, you have a colony of scars along your arms and legs that resemble the deep grooves of the asphalt. Most people wear helmets but you like to think you’re indestructible - because, technically, you are. Not feeling pain has its virtues, you’ve learned, and any falls or scrapes you encounter just make you all the more famous to the underground. You’re that foreign guy who is tough as nails. They call you the ‘Dark Horse’, roughly translated. It’s nothing you’re proud of, but then again you’ve never been one for a reputation. Reputations are always what got you in the end, weren’t they?
Tonight is no different.
The hot, red lights of the island flash down upon you as you give the engine a rev or two. Maybe three, just for luck. You don’t pay any heed to your opponent. A girl dressed in lacy stockings shows up on the asphalt in front of you with flags in hand. She winks at the pair of you, bends forward enough to show off the valley between her breasts, and she shouts above the roars of the tiny crowd,
“Ready, set, and Rhyme!”
And it’s a rush.
You met him during your third race. Someone once said, “third time is the charm” but you never really understood it until now.
His name is Sly - that’s all you know. Sly Blue. Your Japanese isn’t the best but you’re certain that isn’t his real name. Mostly because it’s English and just doesn’t make sense. But you go with it for a year.
He beats you mercilessly on the asphalt. He’s just as reckless as you, just as dangerous. He doesn’t wear a helmet either and throws all caution to the wind. His bike fits him - sleek, metallic, no frills and just muscle. He doesn’t hunch forward like most of the heavier guys do. No, instead, he almost leans back, hair in a messy ponytail flying in the wind as he races on. You catch yourself staring during the race and you almost crash.
He’s something out of a cinematic classic. His body bends and curves just as his lips twist up into the shadows of a smile. He holds himself high and nearly screams with victorious success the moment his tires screech past the finish line, the crowd going absolutely insane.
You’ve never seen anyone look so peaceful and free.
You want to learn to be that free.
So you become friends.
But friends is, strangely, not good enough. But you don’t catch on at first.
You don’t too much about Sly other than he lives with his Grandmother and twin brother. You know he’s a year older than you and you know he - surprisingly - hasn’t dropped out of University yet. But that’s it. You don’t know his fears, you don’t know much about his interests besides street-racing and ramen. You know he has a dog, but you’ve never seen him and only heard him mentioned in passing.
You don’t text - not much. You have each other’s numbers and meet up to discuss strategy for racing or when he wants to gloat about how much better he is than you. You don’t argue. You’re second best to him. But that’s fine. You oddly enjoy seeing someone who enthused, so ecstatic about something. It’s refreshing.
You sometimes work on your bikes with one another. He invites you over - but never inside his house, just outside. You sit out, sharing a glass of lemonade, and work. He goes on and on about the mechanics and you’re genuinely surprised that he’s made his bike himself from spare parts he’s managed to pawn from the junk shop he works at. And you learn that, too, that Sly Blue has a day-job and goes to University and street-races. He’s a marvel.
And your level of fascination unnerves you. You suck harder on the lemon and wonder if the bitterness can erase how light-headed you’re feeling.
You manage to go inside his house about half a year into the “friendship”. His Grandmother is a sweetheart and scolds you instantly for “recklessly endangering yourself like this numskull”. You haven’t really been fretted over like this before - not out of genuine care, anyway - and you can’t help but smirk. You hope you don’t come off as annoying or ungrateful, but you can’t help it. You aren’t used to human kindness, tenderness. Sly notices the goofy look on your face and elbows you painfully in the gut.
“Bunny boy, cut it out,” Sly chides, chuckling under his breath as he elbows by you completely this time. He ends up leaning against his kitchen counter, sipping on a glass of water.
You don’t realize you’re staring.
“Oi. I thought you were going to sign up for classes this semester,” Sly says, trailing off into a drawl. His gaze lifts up from his glass to yours and he blinks. Twice. Thrice. “Eh? What, loser?”
“Nothing,” you say, quickly, and scoff. You look off to the right and roll your shoulders into a shrug. “I lost track of time.”
“Uh-huh,” Sly says, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t dwell. He doesn’t dig deeper. You enjoy that about your friendship. “So, you comin’ out to my race tonight?”
“Yeah.”
He smirks. “Gonna cheer me on?”
“I guess.”
“You guess,” he says, huffing, and folds his arms, glass still in hand. “What an ass.”
“Tch.”
Sly actually laughs and closes his eyes. His eyelashes kiss his cheeks and your heart stutters. “You’re such a pain, you know that?” he tells you.
“Yeah?” you wonder, but you don’t pry, either. Instead, you walk by him to grab a scone that his Grandmother has left out for the pair of you. “That so?”
“Yeah, that’s so,” Sly says, reiterates.
It’s too bad you can’t agree - you’ve never felt pain.
hey
Texting is now a thing between you when you aren’t racing. It’s fun and it’s funny and you oddly enjoy it.
what’s up?
can’t wait for rhyme tomorrow haha. gonna beat your ass into the ground ;)
oh yeah? my ass huh?
… that’s what she said
lol
come on you twink text me something more than lol
it was funny
bull shit. i’ve heard you laugh like once.
maybe i was being polite
also bull shit. you owe me ramen.
again?
again, bunny boy.
whatever.
<3
???
never mind moron. see you later. don’t be late.
ok
The next race you have is dangerous.
Something absolutely despicable.
The two of you are electric, on fire, magnetic. Your bikes nearly collide as you skirt around the asphalt, burning rubber as you go. He rides on with grace and a dangerous edge, wind catching up and under his leather jacket. His knuckles are turning white and you barely can see his golden, sharp eyes behind his mess of a hair.
Your heart is beating out of control. Everything is a blur of blue and red lights. Everything is Sly Blue.
Your foot rams on the pedal even more, even harder, and you can’t breathe. You have to beat him. Just once. You push yourself, push your bike, to the limits. You wonder why your bike can’t be as fearless, as reckless as yourself. You wonder why your bike can’t feel pain, too. Can it? You don’t know anymore.
You’re chasing a rush. You both are, you realize. Whoever hits the finish-line first gets it. It’s the rush of winning after the rush of breaking the speed of light. It’s being defiant, it’s taking your own life in your hands.
You suddenly understand Sly Blue.
And by extension, you understand so much more.
And you nearly crash in the process. Because this is the rush you’ve been looking for - not the race, not artifcial pain. What you’ve been looking for is a rush of blood to the head - and you’ve found him.
You’re in love with your best friend and you don’t even know what any of that means.
So you naturally dream about him the next night.
You dream about pressing him hard against the metal frame of your bike. You imagine the way his tiny body molds against it, bending perfectly, beckoning you closer. You imagine touching all his curves, down from his thighs up to the zipper of his pants. You tug it down and you thrust your hand in. He's so eager and he's pushing his hips forward into you. His breathing is heavy and his touch is heavy as he circles his arms around your neck and brings you closer. You start jacking him off, and he's hot in your hand and you can feel and this must be a dream because he feels so smooth and soft and you can actually feel the way his heart beats against yours and the way his dick strains in your hold. You go faster and he's moaning and he's telling you More, more, more. You want to draw a parallel between racing and sex but you won't - all you want is Sly. He grinds into your hand and he's basically riding himself to an orgasm. But that's fine.
You kiss along his neck and he comes, loudly, right there in your hands as he arches back against the bike. He almost sets off the horn and it's fine because his face is flushed and he's breathing heavy and it's your name, your given name, he's breathing hotly as he comes and as he comes off his high.
And what's sweetest is the kiss he gives you.
... you can't sleep for two days after that dream, waking up with your sheets wet and your mind spazing out of control.
Rhyme has hit a low as of late, and it irritates you. It’s a week before your birthday and you just wanted to enjoy some reckless playtime before you finally signed up for University. You try going to the arcade, but it doesn’t work. You try watching videos online of races. That doesn’t work either. You try going to concerts - that doesn’t do the trick either.
So you start going to anything you seen on fliers. You go to community meetings at the town hall, to horrible band performances at cheap hot-dog joints. Anything to pass the time until Rhyme comes back.
And somehow you end up at a Suicide Support Group because it’s the only thing on the bulletin board for the night and you’re tired of watching nameless faces get off to fake stimulus.
You usually don’t say a word at the events you crash. You usually stand in the back and think about Rhyme. You think about the wind in your hair, you think about the way your piercings tug at your skin as you race along. You think about what the pain must be like to crash - to truly feel it. You think about improving your bike, of going faster. You think of the red lights and the crowd cheering and roaring and you think about the vibrations rumbling through you. You think about the way Rhyme has brought you closest to feeling.
But tonight is different.
Instead of thinking about metal and bikes as some acne-covered teenager sings into a cheap microphone about his first kiss, you focus. You actually focus.
Because the meeting is starting and you notice, from the base of the stairs you’re standing at, that amongst the circle is a familiar blob of blue hair.
It’s Sly Blue and the realization and ramifications of that crashes into you harder than any bike-crash could.
Sly Blue is a Suicide Support Group.
Sly Blue wants to die.
So you listen.
For once, you listen.
“Are you doing any better?” the guy in the middle asks of Sly after ten minutes of going around the circle for updates. When he finally hits Sly, you realize this isn’t the first time Sly has been here.
“Tch. The Old Woman isn’t railing on my ass as hard,” Sly says noncommittally, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. He shrugs for effect. “So I guess better. It’s whatever.”
“Have you spoken to you brother about any of your thoughts?”
“My thoughts?” Sly echoes, annoyed. “I told you to stop calling them that. I’m not suicidal. I just don’t care.”
“Apathy is the first sign,” the man reminds, almost kindly, and smiles. But it’s such a sad smile. “If you don’t start caring about yourself, if you don’t stop racing—”
“Fuck you, old man,” Sly says scathingly, brows knitting together. “I’m only here because the Old Woman will kick me out if I don’t.”
“Yes, Aoba, I know,” the old man begins, uneasily, watching as everyone else in the circle begins tuning out or rolling their eyes or looking nervous.
“Hey!” Sly says, loudly, booming, “I told you not to call me that. It’s Sly Blue.”
“Yes, well—” the man hesitates and then more firmly says, “I’m not trying to tell you what you’re thinking is wrong. I’m just trying to figure out how you’re thinking.”
“Bullshit,” Sly says and kicks at his chair, standing up. “Bullshit. These past three weeks all you’ve done is mumble about made-up science and bullshit. You don’t know me at all. So go fuck yourself and your pretentious ass. You don’t know anyone here and you aren’t helping them, either.” His eyes darken. “You might as well die, yourself. Because you don’t know what it’s like to feel anything other than stupid and meaningless joy. You don’t know pain. You don’t know what abandonment or rejection is like. You don’t know anything.”
Sly exits the circle and is storming off when he stops at the base of the stairs.
Because you’re there.
Because you’ve been standing there the entire meeting, listening. And he hasn’t noticed you until now.
His eyes go wide. He looks like he’s about to punch you. But then he looks terrified. He’s never looked like this, not even moments before a near-crash. He’s never looked anything but confident and cool. But here he is, standing, trembling, looking at you pale as a ghost. Your best friend is standing right in front of you.
Your best friend has been abandoned, rejected, is alone. Your best friend races because he wants to die and lives for a rush he can’t get. And even if he did get it, would it be enough?
“Noiz,” is all he says, shoves past you, and races up the stairs.
You don’t follow him.
Not yet.
You find him on the outskirts of where Rhyme is usually held. You know the area well - Sly usually stalks off here after a race, oftentimes drunk, with some girl on his arm. You never knew jealousy until the first time it happened, and you never knew pain until a week ago when you realized you loved him and saw him with someone else. But tonight he’s alone, head dipped down, eyes shut, and he’s trembling. Or maybe shivering. You think it’s cold but you just don’t know.
You approach him.
He doesn’t move.
“Hey,” you say.
“Go away,” he says, he grates.
“No,” you say, simply, and you stop a foot short of him.
“Come to patronize me like everyone else? Make fun of Sly Blue because he’s in some puny Support Group? Come to try and talk me out of racing now that you know that one day I hope my brakes fail and I go out in a blaze? Is that what you want to hear, Noiz?”
It’s only the second time you’ve heard him say your real name. It feels so wrong and so right and your mind is spinning. You bite your lip. You prod your snakebites.
“Aoba…”
“Don’t—“ he begins, tensing, and he doesn’t turn around. But then he laughs emptily. “Fuck, it doesn’t even sound bad when you say it. Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “‘m more fucked than I thought I was.”
“What?” You don’t understand any of that.
“You’re a brick,” he says, dully, and he finally shoots a dark glare over his shoulder back at you. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
You’ve never wanted to comfort someone before. But right now, you want nothing more. You hesitate, blinking, brows furrowing together in utter frustration. But then, then you gently reach out, hand stiff, and touch the side of his neck. When he doesn’t flinch, you slide your hand back behind his neck, touch the nape of his neck, brush the tiny blue hairs that begin there, and he sighs. You memorize the way the air escapes his half-parted lips, you memorize the sound and the feel - how you imagine his skin to feel, anyway.
“What, Noiz?” he demands, eyes heavy, body and mind tired, and you aren’t sure how to say it.
I want to help, you want to say. You left Germany to do something, be something more, and maybe he’s your reason. Maybe he’s the greatest rush you’ve ever felt and maybe he feels it, too.
“Don’t,” is all you say.
It takes him a second - and you, too - to realize what you mean by it.
Don’t kill yourself.
It’s oddly profound and simple and he just stares at you for a long while.
“Then give me a reason not to,” he says bravely, huffing just a tiny bit, and you’ve never felt more in love.
So you lean forward, close the gap between the two of you. You smash your lips against his chapped ones and you kiss the breath out of him. Your free arm goes around his tiny waist and you hold him close against you. You can feel the vibrations of his heart beating against your chest and you feel every single movement. You feel his arm tentatively begin to move. You feel the way his hand hesitantly twines into your short blonde hair. You imagine you can feel and you convince yourself you can. He tastes sweet and like candy and he kisses you back just as hard, holding onto you now like he’ll fall or die if he lets go. If he relents. He holds onto you like you’ve become his life source.
“I want to get better,” you think he whispers against your lips but you aren’t certain. And you want him to get better. You want him to want to live, which is silly because sometimes you want to die, too, and you wanted to die in Germany and yet… and yet with this beautiful wreck in your arms, you can’t imagine dying. You can’t imagine anything but his lips against your, his tongue rubbing at your piercing. The way he pushes even harder against you.
He’s all there is.
So you’ll try. And he’ll try.
You’ll both try.
Because you’re in too deep now and you might as well make yourself happy for the first time in a long while.