Chapter Text

1. Champion

art by MBlydeZ

You only go because Maki refuses to waste the ticket.

That is the embarrassing truth of it, and she repeats it three times while you stand in your bedroom deciding whether an outdoor motorsport event deserves the good boots or the pair you do not mind ruining.

“They’re not cheap,” she says from your bed, stretched across the duvet with her phone held above her face. “And Mai was supposed to come, but she decided getting back together with the same woman she blocked last week is somehow more important.”

“She’ll block her again tomorrow,” you comment, raising a brow.

Mai is not really the best when it comes to choosing girlfriends. The one before Nobara tried to stab her. Twice. And they got back together after that but it didn't last. She got the audacity to wonder why.

“Exactly. Which is why you’re coming with me.”

You hold two tops against yourself and look at her through the mirror.

“Do people dress up for motocross events?”

“Some people barely dress at all,” she offers but that really doesn't help you.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It means nobody cares, come onnnnn.”

You care.

Not about fitting into the crowd, precisely. You have never needed the safety of looking like everyone else. But walking into a place you know nothing about while dressed as if you belong there feels easier than walking in uncertain. You choose dark jeans, a fitted black top, and a jacket that sits neatly over your shoulders. The boots lose in the end. You wear something sturdier, though the compromise annoys you until Maki points out that the event grounds are largely composed of dirt.

You have heard of motocross through Maki and Mai. You know motorcycles go fast, riders jump them, people crash with alarming regularity, and there are several companies whose logos seem to appear on half the clothing teenage boys wear. That is where your knowledge ends. You don't see how that appeals to anyone, but you're giving it a chance. It's free, you got nothing better to do.

Maki spends the drive attempting to educate you, but she is a poor teacher because she keeps skipping through songs and shouting at traffic.

“It’s not technically just motocross,” she tells you after changing lanes with unnecessary aggression. “There are different competitions today. Qualifying, races, demonstrations. They’ve got a freestyle presentation between classes. Sukuna is doing that too.”

The name means nothing to you.

“Who?”

Maki nearly misses the exit.

Her head turns so quickly you reach for the dashboard.

“Do you live under a rock?”

“I have a mortgage worth of useless information in my head. Forgive me for not knowing every athlete from a sport I don’t even watch.”

“He’s not every athlete.”

You give her a look because you know she’s about to start.

“He has pink hair,” she says, as though that should clarify everything. “Factory-backed. Four-fifty class. Multiple championships. Completely insane.”

“That sounds promising,” you say, not really interested in that many words you don't quite understand, but she goes on.

“He’s an asshole too.”

“Even better,” you deadpan, looking at your reflection on the little mirror in the sun blocker.

“I’m serious. He hates interviews. He fought with a reporter last year.”

“Physically?” Now she grabs your attention.

“No. I think his manager stopped it from becoming physical.”

You settle back in your seat.

“So you’ve brought me to watch an angry man with unusual hair throw a heavy machine through the air. There’s dirt and loud noise and overpriced food.”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. Great program. Loving it already.”

“You’ll understand when you see him.”

You don’t expect to.

The venue is already crowded when you arrive. Cars line the dry grass beyond the parking area, and people move toward the gates in groups wearing branded jerseys, caps, boots, sunglasses. Children carry miniature number plates. Men who look old enough to have grandchildren argue over tire compounds beside a food truck. The air smells of sun-warmed dirt, sunscreen, fried food and exhaust before you are anywhere near the track.

Maki has more than ordinary tickets. Mai had bought a package that includes afternoon access to the paddock, and this is apparently enough to improve her mood despite Mai’s romantic relapse.

A staff member scans your passes and loops laminated credentials around your necks.

The sound changes the farther you walk.

At first it is distant, a low mechanical agitation beneath the crowd. Then an engine fires somewhere beyond the transporters and the noise travels through your ribs before it fully reaches your ears. Another answers. A third rises abruptly into a high, violent note that makes several people turn.

The paddock is larger than you imagined. Team transporters form polished walls along temporary lanes. Beneath branded awnings, motorcycles rest on stands with both wheels lifted off the ground while mechanics move around them. There are spare tires stacked in racks, tool cabinets, fans, coolers and cables laid with the neatness of an operating room. Everything looks expensive, controlled and strangely clean despite the dirt coating the surrounding world.

Riders pass in partial gear, boots striking heavily against the ground. Some stop for pictures. Others keep their heads down and follow team staff through the crowd.

Maki walks with purpose and you follow because you have no better plan.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” you observe.

“I want to see him before practice.”

“Your charming asshole?” You coo at her with a grin.

“He’s not my anything. I just admire his work and his temper.”

“Your parasocially cherished asshole, then.”

She elbows you without slowing.

The line of people becomes denser near one of the largest team setups.

Black, bone-white and dark red dominate the awning. A stylized emblem stretches across the transporter, something between a shrine and an open jaw, though it is abstract enough to avoid being either. Merchandise hangs on temporary walls.

The number on almost every shirt around you matches the one printed across the motorcycle beyond the barrier.

49.

A mechanic leans over the bike, checking something near the handlebars. Another crouches by the rear wheel. The machine itself looks smaller than it did in clips Maki showed you while waiting to enter, although that impression vanishes when a team member rolls it off the stand and the seat reaches nearly to his waist.

Then you see the man beside it.

You know immediately which one he is.

He stands behind the metal barrier with one boot planted on a low case and the other on the ground, tall enough that everyone around him appears reduced. His jersey is fitted across his shoulders, sleeves pulled close over thick arms. The dark design of his gear follows the same severe palette as the team, broken by sponsor logos and the hard angular shape of his number — 49.

Protective pants sit heavy at his hips. A knee brace changes the line of one leg beneath the fabric. His hair is pink but not very soft-looking. It is unruly from sweat and the helmet he must have already worn, pushed back from a face built around sharp bones and a deep expression of boredom.

There is tape around both wrists.

A member of the crew tightens one strap while a mechanic speaks close to him, using short gestures toward the bike. Sukuna gives no sign that he is listening. His attention moves over the crowd instead.

Not searching.

Assessing.

He signs a jersey held over the barrier. Then a poster. A child offers him a small plastic number plate and receives it back with a rough pat to the head that seems almost impatient, although the child beams as if he has been blessed. Sukuna does not smile for photographs. He does not bend toward the fans or ask their names. His public performance appears to consist of standing there and allowing the public to be near him.

People seem to love him anyway.

Perhaps because of it.

Maki says something at your side.

You do not hear her.

Sukuna’s profile has caught your attention. There is a slit through one eyebrow, too straight to be natural. Small scars interrupt the skin near his mouth and one ear, faint marks suggesting piercings that were torn free or removed after injuries. His irises are darker than you expect when he glances toward the open side of the tent.

Crimson.

Not bright red — a deep, warm shade that looks almost brown until sunlight catches it.

The person at the barrier steps away.

For no reason you can identify, his gaze shifts again and lands on you.

It stops.

Not long enough to become an interaction. Perhaps no more than a second. Two at most.

But it is not the passing look he has given everyone else.

His eyes move over your face. Lower, briefly. Back up.

Your skin warms beneath your clothes.

Then the mechanic touches his elbow and Sukuna looks away, turning toward the motorcycle as if nothing happened.

“What?” Maki asks.

You realize you have gone still.

“Nothing.”

She follows the direction of your stare and makes a noise of sudden understanding.

“So you liked him, huh?”

“I’m merely observing the… whole preparation. Trying to learn something.”

“You’re observing something alright. Learning how to grab someone’s attention.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Maki grins.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m hot.”

“You were complaining about the wind five minutes ago.”

You move away before she can continue, though not far enough that you lose sight of him.

It should be easy to dismiss the moment. He is an athlete at a public event and you are standing among his fans. Looking at people is unavoidable.

That explanation lasts until he swings onto the motorcycle.

The shift in him is immediate.

The boredom disappears before the engine starts.

One moment he is seated with a hand resting loosely over the grip, listening to his mechanic say something near his shoulder. The next he presses the starter, and the motorcycle comes alive beneath him with a hard, concussive sound that cuts across every conversation nearby. Several children cover their ears. You feel it against the front of your body.

Sukuna lowers his goggles.

The man vanishes.

What remains is posture, calculation, purpose.

He rolls away from the team area standing lightly on the foot pegs, hips lifted from the seat. The bike moves under him rather than carrying him. His elbows rise. His knees hold the narrow frame. Even at walking speed there is something controlled in the way he balances it, each small movement precise.

Maki hooks her hand around your arm.

“Come on. Practice is starting.”

You let her pull you toward the track.

The circuit is built across a broad stretch of shaped earth. Natural slopes have been cut and reinforced into banks, jump faces and descents. Temporary grandstands rise along one side, while spectators crowd fences and higher ground elsewhere. Watering has darkened parts of the dirt. Other sections are already drying pale beneath the sun.

You find a place near a fenced corner with a clear view of the rhythm section and a long tabletop beyond it.

Riders begin moving onto the track.

You recognize Sukuna before you see the number 49 of the motorcycle’s plaque.

His riding is different.

You do not have the vocabulary for it yet, but your body understands the distinction before your mind does. Some riders seem to react to the track as it reaches them, motorcycles bucking beneath their weight. Sukuna appears ahead of everything. He is already shifting before the front wheel reaches the next rut. He stands through rough sections, legs absorbing the movement. At the entrance of the corner nearest you, he brakes later than the rider in front and drops into a deep inside groove with his body forward, one boot briefly extended before returning to the peg.

The rear wheel bites.

Dirt erupts behind him.

He is gone before it strikes the fence.

You turn your head quickly enough to follow him into the rhythm lane.

He crosses it in a sequence that looks impossible until another rider attempts the same combination and lands shorter, losing speed. Sukuna clears the next jump low.

Not merely low — sideways.

For one suspended instant, the motorcycle lies almost flat beneath him.

His body remains connected to it at the hands, knees and boots. The rear wheel hangs out across the line of the track. The handlebars turn slightly. It looks wrong, like the beginning of a crash occurring several meters above the ground.

Then he brings the bike back beneath himself and lands on the downslope with both wheels aligned.

The suspension compresses hard.

He accelerates away.

You forget to breathe.

“What was that?”

“A scrub,” Maki says, smug because she knows something you do not. “Keeps him low. Less airtime.”

“That is supposed to make him faster?”

“Yeah.”

“He put the bike sideways,” you know you sound a bit scandalized.

“I told you.”

You stare at the far corner where he disappears behind a rise.

“That thing weighs more than I do.”

“Probably twice as much. Three times, you gotta eat better.”

“And he just—”

“Yeah.”

The engine note rises again before he returns to view.

This time you watch him rather than the motorcycle.

You watch the pressure through his legs. The angle of his shoulders. How he adjusts in the air with movements that are smaller than the result they produce. He lands into the approach of a turn, brakes, lets the rear move just enough, then catches it under power. Dirt and noise and speed surround him, but there is no panic in his riding.

Not even when the bike kicks sideways over a rough patch.

His left leg comes off the peg. The handlebars twitch. For a fraction of a second the machine threatens to turn against him.

He saves it.

Not dramatically — there is no pause for relief. He puts his foot back, straightens and takes the next jump as if the mistake belongs to someone else.

You look at Maki.

She is watching the track with rapt attention, smiling.

“You were right,” you tell her.

She does not even ask about what.

“I always am.”

By the time practice ends, you understand the beginning of an obsession.

Not a romantic obsession, it’s technical.

You need to know how he does it.

On the drive home you search his name. Maki laughs when you begin reading race reports aloud, but she answers every question she can. When she cannot, you find interviews, breakdowns, track maps and slow-motion clips.

You learn that the motorcycle is a 450cc four-stroke, built from a production platform but altered around him.

You learn about suspension settings, gate choice, braking bumps, ruts and whoops.

You learn that the move you cannot stop replaying is indeed a scrub and that Sukuna is known for carrying it lower than most riders.

The clip you find has been edited from three angles.

You watch all three.

Then again.

At home, you tell yourself it is curiosity.

The next event is two weeks later.

Maki does not have to persuade you.

You buy the tickets before she finishes asking.

This time you know where to stand.

You choose a fitted red top under a dark jacket, not because of the team colors, you insist, but because it looks good against your skin. You do your hair differently. You take more care with your makeup than the dust and heat deserve. Maki notices and says nothing for nearly thirty minutes, which is worse than teasing.

When she finally does speak, you are entering the paddock.

“You know he wears a helmet for most of this, right?”

“I’m not dressed for him,” Not even you believe in that.

“Of course not,” she croons.

“I dress well when I go out!”

“You wore a sweatshirt to my birthday dinner.”

“It was cold,” you dismiss her with a vague gesture of your hand.

“It was indoors, fuckass.”

You ignore her.

Sukuna is not signing anything when you reach the factory area. He sits on a folding chair while a trainer wraps his wrist. One boot is off, and the heavy sock beneath his riding pants has been rolled down. There is a red mark circling his ankle where the boot pressed. His mechanic crouches beside him, speaking while pointing at a tablet.

He looks tired.

Not generally tired. Specifically worn at the edges, as if he did not sleep enough and has been carrying the deficit for days. There are shadows under his eyes. His hair falls over his forehead instead of standing away from it.

His attention lifts before yours reaches him fully.

Recognition happens in his face.

It is slight. A pause, then the smallest narrowing of his eyes.

You stop near the barrier.

Maki looks between you both.

Sukuna says something to the trainer without looking away. The man follows his gaze, glances at you, then returns to taping.

You should wave.

Should you wave?

No, that would be weird, you do not know him. So you don’t.

It feels too ordinary for whatever is happening.

So you hold his stare until the corner of his mouth curls up. An acknowledgment of the game.

The trainer finishes and Sukuna flexes his hand. His forearm tightens under the skin, veins pressing into view. He says something to his mechanic, rises and picks up his helmet.

A sponsor representative appears before he can move toward the barrier.

You know she is a sponsor representative because of the branded polo shirt, the headset and the expression of a woman paid to make difficult men stand in designated places. She catches Sukuna by the upper arm and points toward a temporary backdrop where cameras are waiting.

His jaw tightens, eyes narrow, and he goes.

You watch him stand beside two executives, one hand holding his helmet while they smile on his behalf. A photographer directs him to move closer. Sukuna does not. The executives adjust instead.

His eyes find you once more between flashes.

The look holds long enough that the representative notices.

Her head turns.

You lift your chin, refusing to appear embarrassed.

Then someone calls Sukuna’s name, the photograph ends, and the chance is gone.

It happens again at the next race.

And the next.

A pattern forms.

You appear. He sees you.

Sometimes you are close enough to notice the exact moment recognition settles over his features. Other times the track separates you, and the evidence comes through the way his helmet turns after a race while he rolls past the front row. Once, during an indoor Supercross exhibition, you sit close to the landing of a large triple and feel certain he cannot possibly identify anyone beneath the stadium lights.

He does.

After the finish, he takes the final jump with a whip intended entirely for the crowd. The motorcycle rotates sideways, his body loose and controlled over the frame. He holds it there longer than necessary, straightens at the last possible instant and lands cleanly.

The audience surges to its feet.

He rides past the barrier.

His helmet turns toward you.

Not the whole section.

You.

Your stomach drops with the same frightening speed as the motorcycle, the moment lasts a second at most but it plays out in slow motion in your head, repeating again and again days after.

You become shameless about attending.

At first Maki comes with you. Then her schedule conflicts and you go alone, purchasing better seats each time.

You learn how to access presales, which venues offer paddock passes and where riders move between team areas and media obligations.

You learn to recognize Sukuna’s mechanic, a broad man named Choso who rarely smiles but speaks to him without fear.

You identify the trainer who works on his wrists and shoulder after races, blonde tall man who looks too composed for that job.

You know the woman in the sponsor polo is called Mei Mei and that she can make a group of grown men rearrange an entire hospitality tent with a single look.

You learn the details of Sukuna’s riding until admiration becomes information.

He is hard on the bike, but not careless.

Aggressive.

He brakes later than most riders and keeps weight over the front entering corners. He trusts the tire to hold. When the track becomes deeply rutted, he commits to lines other riders hesitate over. In whoops he keeps the front light and drives across the tops until the rear begins to step sideways, then corrects without losing much speed.

When conditions turn muddy, he grows more dangerous.

You watch him race through rain with his jersey plastered to his body and mud covering everything but the narrow clean strip behind his goggles. Other riders lose visibility, tear-offs disappearing one after another. Sukuna takes the holeshot, reaches the first turn ahead of the field and stays in clean air for most of the race.

Late in the moto, the track deteriorates. Ruts deepen. Jump faces become scarred and slick.

His pit board shows a comfortable lead.

He does not slow.

The commentators call it unnecessary.

You understand by then that necessity has very little to do with him.

Afterward, he stands on the podium soaked in mud and rain, a sponsor cap pulled over wet hair. He answers questions with short phrases while the interviewer tries to drag celebration out of him. His left hand opens and closes at his side, forearm visibly swollen.

He is in pain.

You see it because you are looking for it.

His shoulder does not lift fully when he raises the trophy.

You remain near the exit from the podium area while staff and photographers move around you. For one impossible moment, he walks directly toward where you stand.

Your heart becomes painful.

He is close enough for you to see mud dried in the fine lines beside his eyes.

Then Choso intercepts him, one hand coming to the back of his neck while he says something urgent. Sukuna’s expression changes. Not fear, just attention. He turns, and the team closes around him, leading him toward the medical area.

You watch him disappear.

He does not look back.

You tell yourself you are disappointed because you wanted to know whether he was injured or not.

That is only partly true.

The tension grows from all the moments that fail.

A glance through a barrier.

His hand lifting as if he might call you closer before a reporter pushes a microphone toward him.

Your body turning instinctively when his engine starts inside the paddock.

The way he sometimes looks for you after landing, scanning the front rows until he finds the dress, jacket or color you chose specifically to make the task easier.

You know how to be noticed.

This is not vanity.

It is a skill and you excel at it.

You understand lines, fabrics, contrast. You know when a neckline becomes memorable rather than excessive, when a coat shapes your body instead of hiding it, when a flash of gold at your throat catches stadium light. You know how to stand without fidgeting and meet a man’s eyes as if you have every right to hold them.

Sukuna notices everything, that much you can tell.

The more often you appear, the less he bothers pretending otherwise.

Once, he is being interviewed beside the track after winning a heat race. His helmet is off. Sweat has darkened his pink hair at the roots, and his chest rises hard beneath the jersey. The interviewer asks about a pass in the rhythm section. Sukuna answers while looking past the man’s shoulder toward your seat.

You smile at him.

His next sentence stops halfway through.

The interviewer glances back, trying to locate the distraction.

Sukuna drags his attention away and finishes the answer with irritation sharp enough that the man immediately changes topics.

Another time, you are at the paddock barrier when a woman holds out her phone and asks for a photograph. She leans too close. Sukuna signs the case instead of posing. When she protests, he hands it back and looks over her head at you.

You should not feel pleased with that, it’s petty, you know.

However, you do.

Months pass like this.

A period long enough for the people near his team area to begin recognizing you.

Choso gives you an assessing look the fourth time he sees you. By the sixth, he nods. Mei Mei watches with open calculation, gaze moving from you to Sukuna and back. One of the younger mechanics smiles whenever you arrive, as if you are part of an ongoing joke no one has explained.

Sukuna remains unreachable.

Until the night he decides otherwise.

It happens after a stadium event late in the season.

The main race is over. Sukuna wins after a poor start and a violent charge through the field, taking the lead with four minutes remaining. His final pass is made through the whoops, rear wheel skipping hard enough that the bike kicks sideways twice before settling. He crosses the finish and throws one arm up.

The roar inside the stadium becomes physical.

You are close to the floor, standing near the barrier with your hands gripping the rail. He takes the victory lap slowly, helmet turned toward the stands. When he reaches your section, he stops accelerating.

The bike rolls.

His head tilts.

The dark lens of his goggles points directly at you and for you, the time freezes.

Then he revs once and continues.

Your legs remain weak for several minutes. You live in that moment for a whole hour.

The freestyle presentation follows later, after interviews and another class race. Sukuna appears on a separate bike beneath moving lights and smoke, introduced not only as the night’s winner but as the reigning 450 champion.

The announcer builds the crowd with old footage of his biggest saves and most aggressive passes.

He performs two enormous whips, one in each direction, then a no-hander that makes you forget how dangerous confidence can be when attached to skill.

His final jump is lower, faster and more controlled than the others.

Not the most spectacular.

The most like him.

When the show ends, people begin moving toward the exits. You wait because leaving immediately means spending an hour trapped in traffic and because part of you is not ready to let the night finish.

Maki is not with you. You came alone, wearing a short dark coat over a fitted dress and boots chosen for appearance rather than comfort. Your feet ache. Your throat is dry from cheering. Your ears ring despite the plugs you wore through most of the program.

You wander toward the outer concourse, then down a route marked for hospitality access because your upgraded ticket allows it, considering lighting a cigarette just to spend time.

Staff are clearing equipment. Music still plays through the stadium at a lower volume. People with team credentials move between service corridors.

You nearly miss him.

The sound catches you first.

A motorcycle engine at idle, unmistakable for you after obsessing over them for so long.

You turn.

Sukuna is seated on the bike near a gated service lane, one boot planted on the concrete. He is still wearing his gear, though the helmet is off and rests against the bars. His hair is damp and disordered, face flushed from exertion. The top of his jersey has been pulled loose at the throat.

There is no crowd around him.

No barrier either.

Just a security guard farther down the corridor and a team member speaking into a radio near the gate.

Sukuna looks as if he has been waiting.

The thought is too arrogant to trust until he speaks,

“You planning to walk past me?”

You stop.

His voice is deeper than it sounds through interviews.

Rougher too.

Your mouth goes dry for a second time and your eyes widen a fraction.

“I didn’t know I was allowed to stop,” you reply, then beat yourself up for it for the next seconds.

“Hasn’t stopped you from staring.”

You recover enough to smile.

“You stare back.”

He looks you over slowly, with no attempt at politeness. Heat gathers beneath your coat despite the cold draft moving through the service entrance.

“Do I?”

“You’re not subtle, champion.”

“Never needed to be.”

The engine vibrates low and steady beneath him. He keeps one hand on the clutch and shifts his weight on the seat. The movement looks casual until you notice what it does — opens his body toward you, brings one knee slightly wider, allows him to lean closer without standing.

You take a few steps nearer.

The security guard glances over. Sukuna does not acknowledge him.

Up close, the aftermath of the race is visible. Sweat tracks from his temple to his jaw. A faint scrape crosses the skin beneath one eye. His forearms are pumped beneath the sleeves, veins pronounced from grip and exertion. The tape at his right wrist has begun peeling.

“You nearly lost it in the whoops,” you comment, casual, as if you are someone that can comment on an athlete's decision.

His eyebrows lift.

You can see it is not the opening he expected.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Your rear kicked twice.”

“I felt it.”

“You looked like you were about to get thrown over the bars.”

“If I were about to get thrown, I would’ve been thrown.”

“That sounds like something people say after surviving a really bad decision.”

His mouth curves.

Not the false, impatient expression he uses when sponsors expect friendliness.

A real grin.

It shows the edge of one sharp canine and changes him enough that the immediate effect reaches you , low, hot.

“You think it was a bad decision?”

He drawls and the arrogance is there.

“I think passing there was unnecessarily dangerous.”

“I won.”

“That does not improve the logic behind the bad decision,” you raise one eyebrow as you point out.

“It improves everything. I look amazing.”

You laugh despite yourself.

His gaze stays on your face while you do. Something in him seems to ease, though his shoulders remain held with the rigid tension of someone whose body has not yet accepted that the race is over.

“So. How long?” he asks.

You frown.

“How long what?”

“How long have you known enough about motocross to criticize my line choice?”

“A little while,” you offer, feigning innocence.

“That supposed to be an answer?”

“You’ve seen me enough times to know I don’t come only for the fireworks, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you.”

The words are quiet.

Certain.

They strip the teasing out of the exchange for a moment.

The engine idles between you, filling the silence with a dense mechanical pulse. Sukuna leans forward, resting one forearm across the handlebars. The posture brings his face closer. His eyes are still vivid despite exhaustion.

“You were at Foxborough,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Mud race before that.”

“Mhm.”

“Exhibition in Osaka.”

You had not been sure he saw you there.

Your chest tightens.

“You keep count?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You just listed them in order, though.”

He studies you for a long second, then looks at your mouth.

The shift is slight.

You feel it everywhere.

A team member approaches from the gate.

“Sukuna, Mei Mei wants—”

“Later.”

“She said now.”

“She says a lot of things.”

The man hesitates, glances at you and seems to understand something.

“Five minutes.”

Sukuna’s expression hardens, still his eyes don’t leave you.

“Ten. Maybe. I'll see her when I see her.”

The team member leaves without arguing.

You look after him.

“You seem easy to work with,” you smirk, looking at the poor staff that will probably be in the receiving end of the woman's fury.

“I’m excellent to work with.”

“Everyone appears terrified of you.”

“Efficient, isn’t it?”

He turns off the motorcycle.

The sudden absence of vibration makes the corridor feel strangely intimate. Your ears adjust to distant music and the rolling wheels of equipment cases.

Sukuna swings one leg over the bike and stands.

You know he is tall.

Knowing does not prepare you for him unfolding to his full height directly in front of you.

The motocross boots add even more. His shoulders are wider than they appeared across the barrier. The gear exaggerates him in some places and constrains him in others. He takes one step closer and the space between you becomes too small for indifference.

“You got somewhere to be?” he asks.

“No.”

“Someone waiting?”

“Nope.”

His eyes flick down to your event pass, then back up.

“Come with me.”

You should ask where. You follow him instead.

He rolls the bike beside him through the service gate, walking with the slight stiffness of someone locked inside heavy boots and protective equipment. The security guard watches but says nothing. A staff member opens another door after seeing Sukuna’s credentials.

You enter a restricted corridor lined with temporary signs, cables and stacked cases. The noise of the public areas fades behind concrete. Sukuna hands the motorcycle to a crew member without explanation.

“Team’s loading it,” the man says. “Choso wants feedback on the rear.”

“Too soft after the heat.”

“He thought you’d say that.”

“He should’ve fixed it before the main, then.”

The crew member rolls the bike away.

You look at Sukuna.

“Was that why it kicked?”

“No. That was me being faster than the section.”

The confidence is unbearable.

His dressing room is not glamorous. You expected something built around celebrity, but it resembles a functional locker room with better furniture. There is a couch, a padded table, a small refrigerator and a rack holding casual clothes. Bottles of water and electrolyte drinks crowd the counter. Fresh towels sit beside a medical kit.

Sukuna closes the door behind you.

Not locks, that would’ve been alarming, — though you doubt you'd try to run — simply closes.

Without the engine and the public space, you become sharply aware of his breathing. It is not as controlled as his voice suggests. His chest still rises more deeply than normal. Fine tremors pass through the muscles of one forearm when he flexes his hand.

He catches you watching.

“What?”

“Your hands.”

He looks down as if they belong to someone else.

“Arm pump.”

“Bad?”

“Had worse.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“You always interrogate people you’ve just met?”

“Only the ones who nearly launch themselves into stadium seating before asking me to follow them into private rooms, why you ask?”

His grin returns.

He reaches for the zipper at his throat.

“Private bothering you now?”

The question lands heavily.

You hold his gaze and trust he can't hear your heart thundering inside your chest.

“No.”

“Good.”

He draws the zipper down while maintaining eye contact.

The sound is small, metallic and obscene in the quiet room.

You look away on instinct.

That lasts approximately two seconds.

The riding suit opens over the jersey, peeling away from the breadth of his chest and shoulders. He works one arm free, then the other, pausing when the right shoulder catches. His jaw tightens. He rolls it carefully before tugging the sleeve down.

“You hurt it tonight?”

“Old.”

“Unstable?”

His eyes narrow.

“You a doctor?”

“No.”

“Then stop diagnosing me.”

“You’re the one wincing over there.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

He lowers the suit to his waist and turns partly away to remove his gloves. The jersey clings between his shoulder blades, soaked darker with sweat. You can see the movement of every muscle beneath the fabric. The shirt pulls when he reaches behind his neck, exposing a strip of tan skin above the waistband.

Your attention stays too long.

“You came in here to talk, hm?” he says without looking at you.

“I am… talking.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He drags the jersey over his head.

Thought becomes way more difficult after that.

He is not merely muscular in the way attractive men who visit gyms are muscular. His body is built by repeated violence against motion. Thick shoulders, large arms, a chest carved by strength and breath. His waist narrows sharply beneath his ribs, deep V line vanishing under his lowered suit. Dark tattoos cross his skin in bands and angles, following the planes of muscle rather than hiding them.

Scars interrupt the ink.

A pale line near his collarbone. Small marks along one shoulder. A larger scar low across his side. Bruising darkens both hips where gear or impact pressed during the race. Red lines cross his ribs and back from protective equipment. The pressure marks at his waist look almost painful.

He turns.

You fail to look away, enthralled by his image.

His crimson eyes settle on your face, then drift lower as if checking where your attention has landed.

“Like what you’re seeing?”

The heat in the room changes.

It is probably your imagination. The dressing room is warm from the building systems, and you are still wearing a coat intended for the cold outside. That must be it.

That does not explain the dampness at the base of your spine and between your legs, though.

You take off the coat because doing something with your hands seems necessary.

Sukuna watches the movement.

“You asked me in here and started undressing,” you say. “Feels unfair to mock me for looking.”

“Not mocking.”

“No?”

“Enjoying.”

His gaze moves over the dress you chose specifically because it shapes your waist and leaves just enough skin visible at the chest and thighs to be remembered.

Recognition glints in his eyes.

“You always dress like this for races?”

“Only the good ones.”

“Lying already?”

You smile despite the pounding in your chest.

“You think you know me, superstar?”

“I know you choose where you stand in every race.”

His voice lowers.

“Know you wear things I can see from the track.”

You go still and hold your breath.

He steps out of the suit, lowering it over his hips and thighs. The base layer beneath is fitted close, leaving no question about the strength in his legs, nor the... well, you lower your eyes. One knee is enclosed in a brace with articulated supports. He unfastens it methodically while holding your gaze.

“You noticed me, then,” you aim on sounding smug, but your voice comes out too low for that.

“I notice everything on track.”

“That isn’t exactly track, is it?”

“No. Still worth noticing.”

The answer is immediate.

Your pulse becomes almost painful.

Sukuna sits on the edge of the padded table to remove his boots. He has to pull hard at each one, forearms flexing with the effort. When the first comes free, he exhales through his nose and stretches his ankle. A vivid red pressure mark circles the skin. The second boot reveals a scraped shin and another deep line where the protective shell pressed.

You stop trying to hide your concern.

“How much of you is bruised?”

“Enough.”

“That seems unsustainable.”

“So is racing. Hasn’t stopped me.”

He tosses the boot aside and looks up.

The shiver moves through him then.

Quick. Nearly invisible.

His shoulders tighten once, skin lifting with gooseflesh despite the warmth.

Adrenaline leaving.

You recognize it from what you read.

Without thinking, you take one of the clean towels from the counter and hold it out.

Sukuna looks at it.

Then at you.

Something unreadable passes through his face.

“You planning to dry me yourself?”

“You’re shivering,” you comment as if it’s not obvious to him.

“I’m not cold.”

“I know.”

For the first time that night, he has no immediate answer.

He takes the towel eventually, fingers brushing yours. His hands are big, veiny, rougher than you imagined. Calluses sit thick at the base of each finger, skin worn by grips, gloves and years of holding a machine that tries constantly to leave him behind.

He rubs the towel over his hair.

The gesture leaves it more disordered. Charming, nonetheless.

“What was your favorite part?” he asks casually.

You need a moment to follow the change.

“In tonight’s race?”

“Unless you’ve got something else in mind.”

There is enough innuendo in the sentence to make you look at him sharply.

He lifts one slit eyebrow.

You decide not to reward him yet.

“The pass through the whoops.”

“Thought it was a bad decision,” he jeers.

“It was. Still impressive.”

“What else?”

“The left whip during the presentation,” you offer, tilting your head, remembering the maneuver.

“Why?”

“You held the bike flatter.”

“Opposite direction’s harder.”

“I know.”

His towel stills for a moment and you see the doubt flashing behind carmine eyes that narrow as they find yours.

“You know?”

“You drop your right shoulder more on your natural side. Going left, you keep your upper body tighter and pull the bike farther under you before landing,” you nerd out without thinking much about how you’ve really studied him and the sport he excels at.

You're explaining his maneuvers and methods to himself. You may have gotten to the point of looking like a weirdo or a stalker.

Silence.

Not empty silence.

Sukuna looks at you with a focus more intense than any glance across a crowd.

You feel seen down to the choices that brought you here.

“You really did your homework,” he says. "Good girl."

“I wanted to understand what I was watching,” you pretend you didn't hear the praise for your own good and the well being of your heart.

“Most people just want a crash or a backflip,” he deadpans.

“I wanted to know why you look different from everyone else,” you say in a sheepish tone, but really honest.

His expression shifts.

You have complimented him before, indirectly, through your attendance and attention. But this reaches him in a place applause does not. You can see it in the way his grip loosens around the towel. In the brief movement of his throat when he swallows. In how he looks away for the first time since you entered.

“What makes me different, then?” he asks.

The question is quieter than you expect from him.

You lean back against the counter.

“You don’t look like you’re fighting the bike out there.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

“What are you doing, then?”

“Making it do what I want.”

You open a warm smile.

“That.”

He gives you a look that suggests the answer pleases him more than he intends to show.

Then he stands, crossing the room toward the clothing rack.

He is close when he passes.

Too close for accident.

The heat of his bare skin reaches you. His shoulder nearly touches yours. The towel hangs around his neck, and one end brushes your arm. You catch the scent of sandalwood, sweat, leather, the mineral bite of dried dirt and the faint medicinal smell of athletic tape.

He stops beside you instead of continuing.

Your breath catches and you go still like a deer in headlights.

Sukuna reaches slowly past your shoulder for a bottle of water on the counter — his chest inches from yours.

He twists the cap open and drinks while watching you over the rim. Water moves down his throat. A small drop escapes near his mouth and tracks along his jaw.

You look, because how the fuck could you not?

He notices.

Impossible not to at this distance.

“You’re sweating,” he comments.

“Because you’re standing on top of me?” You try your best not to let your voice crack.

“Could move.”

He does not.

Neither do you.

“You invited me to talk, right?” you remind him.

“Talking.”

“Could've fooled me." you deadpan and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“I guess it's your turn to undress then.”

He is teasing you, you know it, and he’s so fucking infuriating you just blink at him.

It should ease the tension.

Instead, the familiarity makes it a bit worse.

Sukuna finally steps away, turning to pull on dark jeans. He dresses without modesty and without making a performance of it, which somehow turns every ordinary movement into one. He adds a black shirt, fitted enough that the shape of his body remains obvious. A thin silver chain follows, the dog tag resting against his sternum. Heavy leather boots replace the motocross ones. He shrugs into a leather jacket last.

The transformation is startling.

The athlete disappears again, but not into the hostile public figure from behind the barrier. This version looks as though he belongs in dark bars after midnight, one hand around a glass and the other resting somewhere perhaps dangerous.

He catches you staring at the jacket.

“Disappointed?”

“That you put clothes on?” You glare at him, but you kinda are.

Your lips curve up slightly.

His grin sharpens.

“Honest, aren’t we?”

“Almost always. Trying my best here,” you shrug.

“You’re really bad at it,” he tilts his head slightly.

“Then why do you look this pleased?”

“Because you’re bad at hiding everything else too.”

He approaches again.

This time he stops far enough away to give you a choice, though his eyes make the distance feel meaningless.

“I’m getting a drink,” he says. “Come with me.”

Your answer is a nod that is more enthusiastic than you wish it was.

The expression that crosses his face is too satisfied for such a small victory.

Champion, champion

I'm calling you from the future
To let you know we've made a mistake
There's a fog from the past that's giving me
Giving me such a headache

And I'm back with a madness
I'm a champion of the people
Who don't believe in champions
I got nothing but dreams inside
I got nothing but dreams

I'm just young enough to still believe, still believe
But young enough not to know what to believe in
Young enough not to know what to believe in, yeah

If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
I can do anything

If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
I can do anything

Champion, champion
Champion, champion

I got rage every day, on the inside
The only thing I do is sit around and kill time
I'm trying to blow out the pilot light
I'm trying to blow out the light

I'm just young enough to still believe, still believe
But young enough not to know what to believe in
Young enough not to know what to believe

If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
I can do anything

If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
I can do anything

Champion, champion
I can do anything
Champion, champion
And I can do anything

Champion, champion
And I can do anything
Champion, champion
I can do anything!

If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
And I can do anything

If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
I can do anything

If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this, I can do anything

If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this

I can do anything
I can do anything
I can do anything
I can do anything!

Champion, champion