Chapter Text
February 8th, 35 days until the beginning of the season.
Expelled
That was the word Kageyama Tobio received that Sunday morning after the last race of the season, as harsh and direct as the look on his manager's face, who hadn't even bothered to put on a sympathetic tone.
It was just a simple, "I'm sorry, Tobio. You're done." Sure, as if that came as a surprise.
Kageyama wasn't an idiot, even though many of his former team engineers believed otherwise. He could read the atmosphere, and the truth was that, since race 13, the tension in the paddock had been so thick you could cut it with a rear wing. But it was one thing to expect it and another to accept it. Especially after that last race. The one that, according to his calculations, he should have won.
But no.
He finished in last place.
Last. Fucking. Place.
"It wasn't my fault," he growled, in his head to himself, but actually in his room behind the pits. He had thrown his helmet so hard against the floor that he was sure other teams could have heard it. What's more, the floor would be left with a mark from the paint he had scratched off.
The rest of the paddock thought otherwise.
And no, it wasn't his fault. He knew the race had been sabotaged in the pits. He knew it. Those tires were defective; they were cold, as if the entire team had decided to watch the "king of the track" crawl around the circuit. And his manager, of course, hadn't opened his mouth to defend him. How convenient!
"You brought this on yourself, Tobio," his manager had told him bluntly the day after that last race. The same race in which he had finished last. The same one in which he called the car "a piece of junk" over the radio, with everyone listening. It didn't matter that everyone was using the same models, and that detail only made his words more damaging.
Of course, he had it coming. But that didn't make the humiliation any less bitter.
"Shiratorizawa won't take you after this," his manager added with a sigh (weren't managers supposed to be there to guide?) as if it were a death sentence. And it was.
Now he was without a team, his reputation was in tatters, and the doors of Shiratorizawa, his supposed salvation, were slowly closing like a rusty trap. Expelled from his Formula 3 team, relegated to the infamous title of "the king of the track," condemned to watch his career—the one that was supposed to take him straight to Formula 2 with Shiratorizawa—slip through his fingers because of a damn defective tire.
To tell the truth, for someone who despaired so easily, he could say that he had never felt more frustrated in his life. Because he had no way out, he was trapped like a bird in a cage. A bird with wings that, as he saw it, others had broken. So it didn't matter if someone opened the cage doors; he would be resigned to staying there.
He had no choice; there was definitely no way out this time, not even his surname was going to save him. Shiratorizawa? Suddenly, his offers (somewhat driven by nepotism) had disappeared. Fukurodani? They had never noticed him for a second, and as far as he knew, they were pleased with the driver, who had a dazzling smile. Nekoma? Meh, it's not like he ever considered it. And so he could go on naming teams. No team wanted to risk starting with a spoiled driver who would humiliate them before the F1 races, even if it was in the preliminaries before the circuits.
Well, there was also Aoba Josai, but he'd rather race against Juan Pablo Montoya and have to risk his neck there than stick his head out over there.
Then something happened, something he could've never predicted.
It happened in an almost absurd way. The season was already over (at least he hadn't been fired halfway through), and he had nowhere to go. He was sitting in a café, arguing on the phone with his manager, clutching a cup of chai tea so tightly that it looked like he was going to break it.
That's when someone approached him. At first, he didn't pay any attention: just another guy with coffee, period.
He was a man of average height, with narrow shoulders and a posture that always tried to appear straighter than it really was, as if he were fighting gravity. His hair was dark brown, combed in a constant (and failed) attempt to keep it neat to one side, but inevitably a couple of strands ended up falling over his forehead, giving him the air of a clumsy college professor.
He wore thin-rimmed glasses, the kind that slide down to the tip of his nose when he's too focused on a spreadsheet or performance chart. His eyes, however, were what stood out most: large, expressive, always shining with a mixture of nervousness and stubborn optimism, as if, against all logic, he still believed that wingless birds would one day fly.
What really caught Tobio's attention was that this man was wearing a vest with a single patch on his forearm: the faded logo of "Karasuno Racing Team." And well, that was really something curious.
He had heard of them. Everyone had heard of them. A Formula 2 team that in the last five years had failed to make it to the podium, or even the top 10, or even stay in the race without some technical incident. They were called the "Wingless Birds" because even on the most favorable straight, they couldn't get off the ground.
To provide a bit more context, the Karasuno Racing Team was a Formula 2 team that went largely unnoticed. They had been very good in their day; they’d had a devastating team, not that they led the grid all the time, but they always caused problems for the other drivers on the track. Karasuno had had a dominant presence that took what other teams considered mistakes and used them to their advantage. They were definitely scavenger crows, living up to their name.
However, their strategy didn't last long. They began to wear down, losing technical staff, sponsors, and engineers. Their wings were broken for good when their best driver, nicknamed "The Little Giant," who was supposed to be the next Ayrton Senna, ended up exactly that way, crashing on the track. He died in the hospital shortly after being transported there. The blow not only shattered his back, but it also shattered Karasuno.
After that, the press went after them (not to mention the FIA), claiming that their risky strategies were what had led to the demise of a talented young driver. And from there, things only got worse. Drivers began to retire, not a single graduate made it to Formula 1, and now, the possibility of losing their place as a team was becoming increasingly imminent. Well, Kageyama hadn't paid much attention to them because it wasn't what he aspired to be as a driver.
Kageyama never paid attention to them. They weren't his goal. And yet, there was that man, approaching him.
"Kageyama Tobio, right?" he asked at first.
Kageyama simply gave a short nod and allowed the man to come a little closer. Then he introduced himself: "My name is Itettsu Takeda. Would you mind listening to me for a moment?"
Well, it wasn't like Kageyama had anywhere better to be right now.
"I'm the track engineer for the Karasuno Racing Team." Oh, so he wasn't just a fan, how strange, one of the few who hadn't given up. He even handed him a card; how sweet, this man still cared about the worst team on the planet.
"So it still exists," Tobio commented with a slightly sour smile. Well, he couldn't help that sarcastic remark. Although it was cruel, Takeda laughed.
"Yes, it still exists," and between laughs, he let out a tired sigh: "Bad luck, huh?"
Kageyama thought it was a very long bad streak. Tenma Udai had died almost seven years ago, and here they were, still eating dust like dirty pigeons.
Takeda cleared his throat and spoke again: "I heard you got kicked off your F3 team." Well, it was clear that this man could also be cruel. Of course, he could be cruel; you don't rub it in to a stranger who was on the edge of being unemployed (as if he wasn’t already).
"Yeah, maybe."
"And no F2 team is looking for you?” Asshole much?
"Well, rumors fly." Kageyama was getting tired of talking to this stranger. What was the point? To share that they were both fucked up and—
Oh.
Oh.
No fucking way.
"With all due respect, Takeda-san." He swears he made his best effort to be respectful. "I think any driver would rather never ride again than be on your team."
“With all due respect, Tobio, you're not a driver. At least not quite yet.”
Well, that was honest. It hurt a little because it still felt humiliating, but that man didn't tell any lies.
"You're in no position to refuse, Kageyama-kun. And, honestly? Here you’ll have free rein." Takeda Ittetsu, a kindly-looking man with a constant smile, seemed incapable of understanding the concept of failure, yet he was being totally accurate and realistic. Behind those glasses lay brutal honesty. Karasuno may not have the best reputation, but it has what you need: a way onto the track.
"Free rein, he says." Kageyama clenched his jaw. Free rein, yes. Because no one else wanted to get into a Karasuno car. Not even the engineers seemed convinced to stay.
The interior of the workshop probably wasn't the best either.
"You know what? Think about it." Takeda stood up and handed him his card again. "I'll wait for your call."
"I have to talk to my manager." He tried to argue that there was no way he would accept this suicidal deal.
"Oh, I already spoke to him. He has other reasons that will convince you. Beyond the obvious." Too optimistic for someone who was at rock bottom.
And yet, when he spoke to his manager at home, there was one detail that made him pause: Keshin Ukai was the grandson of legendary engineer Ukai Ikkei, eight-time constructors' champion with Mercedes. The old man had been a friend of Kageyama's grandfather, and although the grandson was now at the helm, Ukai senior had agreed to return, just to give it one last push.
Perhaps, Kageyama thought, that was the spark he needed.
So, a few days later, he was flying to meet the team.
After all, he had nothing to lose.
Thursday, May 1st, 219 days until the end of the season.
And when he arrived, Takeda's eyes sparkled as if he were seeing a miracle.
Takeda greeted him with a pat on the back and the energy of someone who had been waiting for this moment for months.
"Kageyama! It's so good to see you!" he exclaimed, guiding him toward the pit lane corridor.
The area smelled of fuel, burnt rubber, and stale coffee. The air vibrated with the metallic echo of tools striking the chassis and the low hum of a compressor. In front of them, a group of mechanics crowded around a single-seater, touching each part as if
it were a living heart. The distant roar of an engine on the track was a reminder that there was always someone testing limits.
"Come on, I'll introduce you to the team," said Takeda.
The first to look up was Daichi Sawamura, chief mechanic. His hands were covered in grease, and he had a serene expression, the kind that conveys control even in the midst of chaos. He looked him up and down, nodded, and gave him a brief, warm, and cordial smile.
Next to him was Sugawara Koushi, the track strategist, reviewing a tablet full of graphs. His tone was as friendly as his smile, the kind that makes you let your guard down without realizing it. "Welcome to the team!" he said with genuine warmth.
A little further away, Asahi Azumane, head of aerodynamics, was adjusting a front wing with the concentration of a craftsman. His hands moved as if he were working on a sculpture rather than a machine designed to roar at over 300 km/h.
In the pits, Tanaka Ryuunosuke, part of the pit crew, looked up and gave him a confident, almost defiant smile, as if to say, "You can count on me, no matter what happens." Next to him, Nishinoya Yuu, a fast mechanic and tire change specialist, twirled the pneumatic gun in his hands with the skill of a guitarist tuning his instrument. Kageyama had heard about him: he had the speed to be in F1, but he had stayed there by his own choice.
"Oh! You're the one who got kicked off his team for being bossy," Nishinoya blurted out, without a filter or the slightest bit of pity.
"We don't take orders from any spoiled brats here, you know?" added Tanaka, pointing at him with a wrench, and they both burst out laughing.
Great. The team clowns. Well, at least he was no stranger to that type of character.
A little further away, checking data on a screen with a serious expression, was Yamaguchi Tadashi, the telemetry manager. He seemed so focused on the curves and times that he was probably already thinking about how to shave tenths of a second off before Kageyama even touched the car.
"Oh, yes. Let me introduce you to our two girls; they're key here," Takeda added.
Kiyoko Shimizu, logistics coordinator, greeted him with a brief nod. It was clear that she was used to having everything under control: travel, hotels, transportation... nothing escaped her. Next to her, Yachi Hitoka, communications and public relations assistant, gave him a shy smile. Her job was to support Sugawara with networking, content, and media. Kageyama thought, with a touch of irony, that "taking care of Karasuno's image" was almost a suicide mission.
Before he could ask about the main driver, a very tall blond man appeared from the dressing rooms, with an expression of disinterest so marked that it almost seemed part of his face.
"Ah, that's Tsukishima Kei, our reserve driver," Takeda said.
Kageyama understood why they were looking for alternatives: this guy exuded superiority, but not the kind of ambition needed to reach the top.
"The king of the track" were Tsukishima's first words to him. Kageyama raised an eyebrow.
"Excuse me? I can't hear you from miles behind the pole."
Tsukishima didn't even blink.
"At least I'm not being sabotaged in the pit lane."
"How many races have you won, blondie? Maybe you're as tall as the number of podiums you've lost."
An awkward silence ensued. Daichi was about to intervene to prevent them from tearing each other's heads off right there when a voice roared from the pit radio:
"We don't have the budget for you to damage another car, Hinata Shoyo." It was Ukai Keishin, the race engineer, sounding as if he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Hinata Shoyo.
So that was the name of the lead driver.
He could see the boy racing on the screen. He was good, yes, he was super fast, lightning quick, a little reckless, and that was why Ukai was yelling at him. But just by watching him on the screen, Kageyama understood that what Hinata lacked in skill, he made up for in speed.
The noise of the circuit was a constant roar, a metallic heartbeat that vibrated in his chest, but suddenly Kageyama stopped hearing it. Or rather, everything became muffled, as if liquid crystal had come between him and the world. The only thing he could perceive clearly was that figure at the other end of the track, gliding around the curves at absurd speeds... and without a single car. He was running. He was running as if he believed he could compete with a V6 turbo engine, his steps precise, his body tilted at just the right angle to steal milliseconds from the wind. Was it just his impression, or was Hinata getting the most out of a base car?
The evening light bathed everything in a golden glow, illuminating the silhouette moving toward the pit lane. The runner slowed down just before reaching it, his sneakers squeaking against the asphalt. A couple of meters away, Kageyama saw him stop in front of one of the pits and bend down slightly to catch his breath, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly.
Then he brought his hands to his helmet.
His gloves caught on the visor and lifted it with a click, letting out a puff of hot steam. Then, with a slow turn, the helmet slid up, and at that moment, the sun decided that all the brightness of the day should be concentrated on him. Beneath the carbon fiber shell appeared sun-kissed skin, with small constellations of freckles scattered across his cheekbones and nose, as if someone had tried to paint summer on his face.
His hair, long and fiery like liquid copper, came loose in an instant and fell over her shoulders with a shine that seemed designed to catch the eye of anyone who saw it... and at that moment, Kageyama couldn't look away. There was something electric about the way those strands moved in the wind, something that had nothing to do with the speed of a car, but rather with the speed of a heartbeat that races without warning.
The eyes—still half-hidden behind the shadow of the visor—rose to meet his. And although Kageyama didn't believe in such nonsense, he could have sworn that the whole world was suspended in that precise second, as if all the engines, the screams, and life itself had decided to wait for him to understand what had just happened.
Was this his teammate? A very fast guy with a handsome face (not that the handsome face would make them win, though). Why wasn't Karasuno winning anything then?
The answer came when that same guy tripped getting out of the car and fell right in front of him onto the asphalt. Only then did he realize how small he was.
That red-haired disaster was now his track partner, whether he liked it or not.