Chapter Text
The engine screams beneath Narumi, the living thing vibrating through his bone and nerve. The steering wheel flickers with shifting lights as he dives into Turn 7, tyres biting into the asphalt just enough, the rear twitching in that familiar way that tells him exactly where the limit is.
Narumi already knows this car. Even if it’s only pre-season testing. Even if it’s the last day on track. He doesn’t know it fully, not yet. It’s too soon. But it’s enough.
“Surface temperature rear left is climbing. Manage the exit.”
Hoshina’s voice slips into his ear, calm and clean through the static, the way it’s been doing for a while. Controlled. Measured. Predictable. It’s already a habit. It’s already irritating.
Narumi exhales through his teeth, sharper than he intends. “Copy.”
He doesn’t lift. He keeps the throttle pinned half a heartbeat longer than planned, lets the car drift wide before snapping it back into line. The delta on his dash flashes green.
He’s faster.
A slow smirk curls beneath the visor.
“Sector two improved,” Hoshina says, tone unchanged. “But that wasn’t the run plan.”
Narumi rolls his eyes even though no one can see it. “It’s testing.”
A pause follows. It’s not long. It’s just enough to register.
“It’s data,” Hoshina corrects. There’s something almost imperceptible in his voice. Not anger, not quite.
Maybe annoyance. That sounds right.
The straight opens in front of him, sun glaring off the track. Narumi shifts up, engine climbing through the gears, the sound filling every empty space in his skull until there’s no room for anything else.
He doesn’t need data to tell him what the car is doing. He feels it in his wrists, in the way the rear slides under load, in the subtle vibration through the seat. He knows when it wants to be pushed. He knows when it wants to breathe.
And for a fleeting second, he wonders why Hoshina doesn’t trust that. Why that man doesn’t trust him.
Oh well. It has only been a short time since they started working together.
“Lift and coast into Turn 10.” Hoshina’s voice is sharp as he gives the order.
Narumi’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t like being ordered around. He doesn’t like the sound of it. And he doesn’t do it.
The car surges forward instead, engine roaring as he keeps his foot down. The lap ends two tenths quicker than the previous run. He can’t stop the pleased smirk from reappearing on his lips.
There’s silence. Just silence. It’s what Narumi wanted. What he prefers. So why does it feel so wrong?
Then, measured as ever, Hoshina repeats, “That wasn’t the run plan.”
And silence again. Somehow, that calm, steady repetition irritates him more than any shout could. It doesn’t rise to meet his defiance. It doesn’t crack. It just stands there.
Narumi hears the heavy thud of his heartbeat inside the helmet, louder than the engine now that the straight is ending. There’s a bitter taste on the back of his mouth, sharp and metallic, despite the better lap time. Despite being faster.
He clicks his tongue as he finally backs off the throttle, lets the engine drop from its scream to a controlled growl as he guides the car through the final sector. He is sure Hoshina heard that. And he doesn’t care.
“Box this lap.”
Of course.
He hates receiving orders. He hates that he has to follow them. Most of the time. He doesn’t answer immediately. He lets the silence stretch—just a fraction. Then clipped, edged with something close to frustration, and only because he has to, he says, “Copy.”
Pit limiter on. The car suddenly feels restrained, caged. Artificially slow after dancing on the edge of control. He hates this part as well—the forced calm after the rush.
The garage opens in front of him like a red mouth waiting to swallow him whole. The mechanics line up with practiced precision as the car rolls into position. Brakes hiss. The engine cuts.
Silence crashes down. It’s always violent—that first second without noise. Hands are already on the car. Tyre blankets. Cooling fans. Cables snapping into place.
Narumi stays seated a moment longer than necessary before unclipping the wheel. He pulls himself out in one fluid motion, helmet still on, visor down. For a second, he just stands beside the car, feeling the absence of speed still vibrating through his bones.
Then he removes the helmet, and the world rushes back in. Voices overlapping. Screens flickering. The faint smell of hot rubber and fuel clinging to the air.
And beneath all of it—still there—the echo of Hoshina’s voice.
It’s bothering him more than it should.
He doesn’t look at anyone at first.
He already knows where Hoshina is.
At the pit wall monitors. Slightly to the left. Arms folded, or one hand resting against the desk, headset still hanging around his pristine neck, watching the numbers come in before looking at the driver.
Narumi walks toward the people at the pit wall, gloves half-off, sweat cooling on his skin beneath the red suit.
Shinomiya Isao is there too.
Of course he is.
“Long-run pace was inconsistent in the final stint,” Isao says as Narumi approaches them, eyes still fixed on the screen. His voice is calm. Assessing. It always is.
Narumi shrugs lightly. “Track’s evolving,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest.
Hoshina’s voice comes from his right, not raised, not sharp. “You pushed three tenths beyond target delta in Sector two.”
It’s not an accusation. Hoshina never accuses him. It’s a fact. Just an objective fact. And yet Narumi’s stomach tightens all the same, his fists curling before he even notices.
He leans back against the table, pretending to study the graphs lighting up the monitor. Fuel load simulation. Degradation curve. Ride height comparison.
But he isn’t looking at the data. He couldn’t care less, not right now.
He’s looking at Hoshina Soushirou.
The sleeves of his black shirt are rolled neatly to his forearms. Slender fingers tap once against the edge of the console. His expression remain composed, almost detached, the sharp line of his jaw set in quiet concentration. Not a single strand of purple hair out of place.
Controlled. Precise. Untouchable.
Narumi’s gaze lingers a second longer than necessary before he forces it back to the screen.
He tells himself that he is evaluating his engineer.
Nothing more.
Hoshina doesn’t look at Narumi when he speaks. He addresses Isao instead. Narumi bites his lower lip.
“If we commit to the plan, the tyre life stabilizes by lap fifteen,” Hoshina states, a faint trace of tiredness slipping into his otherwise even tone.
We.
Narumi jaw’s tightens again. He hates that word right now. Because it doesn’t feel like we. It doesn’t feel shared. It feels like control.
“I improved the sector,” Narumi says, lightly irritated, his brows drawing together. “That’s kind of the point.”
And finally—finally—Hoshina turns his head.
Their eyes meet. Crimson blood against bright magenta. Steady. Unflinching.
“And compromised the long run,” Hoshina replies.
No edge. No heat. That calmness in his voice scrapes against Narumi’s nerves. It doesn’t rise to meet him. It doesn’t clash. It simply stands. He’d almost prefer anger.
Almost.
For a second, neither of them speaks again.
Then, it’s small. Subtle. But something shifts. Narumi feels his pulse hammering in his throat. His lips part slightly before he presses them together again. He wants to snap back. To say something sharp enough to crack that composure.
But he can’t.
He just can’t.
Isao clears his throat, slicing cleanly through whatever had begun to build between his lead driver and his race engineer.
“We’ll review tonight,” he says shortly, dismissive. “Good work.”
The improvised meeting dissolves in an instant. And the world resumes around Narumi as if nothing happened.
Shinomiya Kikoru hops down from the pit wall—has she always been there?—following her father for a step before veering off toward Ichikawa Reno’s side of the garage. Hasegawa Eiji is already deep in discussion with the rookie when she joins them, animated, focused.
Narumi doesn’t move. He stays where he is a second too long. Still holding Hoshina’s gaze for no reason at all.
Then Hoshina turns back to the screen without a word. As if the conversation is finished. As if Narumi is finished.
And that—
That unsettles him far more than the disagreement ever could.
—
The air outside feels cooler than it should.
Late afternoon light spills across the paddock, mechanics rolling equipment crates toward transport trucks, engineers still half-buried in data, reluctant to let the last numbers go.
Narumi leaves his garage before anyone asks him to stay. Not that anyone would ask anyway. He doesn’t have many friends in the paddock, not even among his team.
He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t turn his head toward Hoshina’s station.
He tells himself he doesn’t need to. He needs to be somewhere else right now.
Yeah. That’s right.
By the time he reaches the press room, it is already crowded. Cameras angled forward, sponsor logos printed across the backdrop. The usual white sofa positioned beneath the lights, bottled water lined up neatly at their feet.
He drops onto the seat with practiced ease, legs stretched slightly, posture loose in a way that looks effortless.
Ferrari t-shirt. Black trousers. No cap.
He never wears the cap. It would ruin the careful two-toned dye of his hair, and he refuses to hide it just because the team asks nicely.
He leans back and surveys the journalists. Their restless shifting. Their barely concealed hunger.
He likes the attention. He just doesn’t like the questions. He exhales slowly, silent and controlled.
Across from him, Ashiro Mina is already seated.
Her long black ponytail falls over her left shoulder. The dark blue of the Red Bull shirt makes her orange eyes look even sharper beneath the lights. She looks composed as ever. The Red Bull team branding frames her like a crown.
When she turns and their eyes meet, she gives him a small nod. Professional. Neutral. Narumi nods back.
To his left, Hibino Kafka is smiling at something one of the journalists said off-mic, shoulder relaxed, as if this whole circus is mildly amusing.
Narumi still can’t believe that late bloomer is genuinely in the conversation for the world championship. McLaren really does love a gamble.
Further down the row, Mercedes’s Shinonome Rin sits straight-backed, hands folded neatly in her lap, unreadable. When her gaze briefly crosses his, Narumi notices the faintest hint of pink rising across her cheeks. He doesn’t think much of it. He doesn’t think of it at all.
Finally, the moderator clears his throat, and the room shifts with him. The microphones click on, the cameras refocus.
And Narumi waits for the questions to come.
“Narumi, Ferrari showed promising pace today,” the first journalist begins, his eyes flicking between him and the tablet in his hand. “Do you believe you’re ready to challenge McLaren and Red Bull from the opening race?”
It’s an expected question. Ferrari has struggled these past years—more than Narumi would ever admit out loud. He brings the microphone closer to his mouth, the answer already resting on his tongue.
“We don’t come here to participate for sure,” he says, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. A few restrained laughs ripple through the room. “We come to win.”
Confident, as always. Clean, as he was instructed. Exactly what he’s supposed to say.
He doesn’t look at the other drivers. He doesn’t look at Mina when he says it. He doesn’t want to.
The next question shifts to her.
“Ashiro, Red Bull looked consistent across long runs. Do you feel the pressure from Ferrari—or the other teams?”
She smiles faintly at the correction.
“Pressure is constant in this sport,” she replies coolly. “We focus on execution.”
Execution.
Narumi has heard that word before. In Hoshina’s voice, among the many instructions he repeated during the testing days.
His fingers tap once against his thigh before he stills them. He bites the inside of his lower lip without realizing it.
The moderator’s gaze moves between him and Mina, a subtle glint of anticipation in his eyes.
“You two have been racing each other for years. Does that rivalry add anything to this season as well?”
Mina finally turns her head toward him fully, her ponytail sliding behind her shoulder.
“It makes things interesting,” she says.
There’s the faintest curve to her lips. Because they are seated close, Narumi notices it.
Their gazes lock.
“Depends on who’s ahead,” he replies, returning the smile.
It’s playful on the surface. But beneath it? There’s an edge.
He doesn’t know exactly why though. They have been racing against each other since karting. This is nothing new.
So what’s different this year?
He doesn’t have an answer to that.
And that bothers him more than the question ever could.
The session drags on. Questions rotate. Technical, political. Predictable. Narumi answers on autopilot, his mind is already elsewhere.
He wants to get out of here.
He hears his own voice responding smoothly, confidently, exactly as instructed. But in the back of his head, Hoshina’s words keep replaying.
If we commit to the plan…
Crimson eyes.
Steady. Unflinching.
Narumi shakes his head slightly, as if that could dislodge the image of Hoshina’s face.
Finally, the session ends. Microphones switch off, the cameras lower. All the drivers stand, exchanging polite words, casual nods.
Mina steps down from the platform and walks away without hesitation.
Narumi moves in the same direction, mostly because the exit is shared. That’s what he tells himself. But Mina doesn’t turn toward the Red Bull hospitality area. She keeps walking. Toward the edge of the paddock corridor where engineers can gather.
Narumi’s brows draw together.
What is she doing here?
He slows his steps, curiosity pulling him forward before he can stop himself.
And then—
He sees him.
Hoshina is there, seated comfortably on a folding chair, tablet balanced on one knee. Not speaking but just observing something on the screen. Composed. Unbothered.
Mina says his name easily.
“Soushirou.”
Not Engineer Hoshina. Not Hoshina. Not formal.
Familiar.
Hoshina looks up.
And for the first time today—Hoshina smiles. Small. But real. It’s quick. Almost imperceptible.
But Narumi sees it. His lips part, just slightly, before he can stop them. Something tightens in his chest, sharp and sudden, and it has nothing to do with championship standings.
He swallows. Shakes his head, again, as if irritation alone could explain it. He tells himself it’s the rivalry speaking. It’s history. Maybe Reb Bull politics, even.
He tells himself that it doesn’t matter who Hoshina talks to. Of course it doesn’t. He can talk to anyone he wants.
Even to Ashiro Mina.
Narumi knows—somewhere, buried deep—that Hoshina and Mina have been friends since childhood. That this familiarity isn’t new.
It should be normal. It should mean nothing.
But he watches a second longer than he should. Long enough to notice how easily they stand beside each other. How natural it looks. How Hoshina’s posture shifts ever so slightly toward her.
Long enough to feel—
Unsettled.
His fists clench at his sides. He turns sharply and walks in the opposite direction.
They shouldn’t have seen him.
He doesn’t feel a burning gaze following him as he disappears around the corner.
He doesn’t feel it at all.
—
The paddock is quieter by the time the sun begins to sink behind the grandstands. Transport trucks hum softly, mechanics laugh somewhere in the distance, relief settling in now that testing is over.
Narumi doesn’t head toward hospitality. He tells himself he just needs air. His stomach still feels unsettled.
The sky is streaked in orange, fading slowly into red. The Ferrari garage lights glow brighter against the dimming track.
He walks with his fists buried in the pockets of his trousers when he spots him.
Hoshina stands near the outer barrier, away from the center of it all. The headset is gone, the tablet is tucked under one arm. His black jacket is draped neatly over his shoulders.
He always looks composed at the end of the day.
As if nothing has touched him.
Narumi inhales slowly as he approaches without announcing himself.
“You’re done analyzing my mistakes for today?” He asks, half a joke, half edged with irritation.
His gaze lingers on Hoshina’s face for a second too long. He looks gorgeo—
Hoshina doesn’t startle when he hears Narumi’s voice brushing his ears. Of course he doesn’t.
“I don’t categorize them as mistakes,” he replies, voice quiet, controlled. Almost soft.
Narumi stops a few steps away from the engineer. Close enough to hear his breathing if he focused.
He clicks his tongue. “Just deviations from the holy run plan, then?”
There’s the faintest shift in Hoshina’s expression. Not irritation, not amusement. Just acknowledgment.
“You’re fast,” Hoshina says. His crimson eyes lock onto Narumi’s.
And for a moment, Narumi forgets how to breathe.
“That’s not in question,” Hoshina concludes.
Narumi clears his throat, forcing air back into his lungs. He doesn’t like the pause that follows Hoshina’s words.
“Then—”
“It’s consistency that decides championships.”
This time, the word lands heavier than it should.
Championships.
Narumi bites his lower lip. He folds his arms across his chest, defensive without meaning to be.
“You think I can’t manage a race?”
“I think,” Hoshina says, the faintest hint of a smirk touching his lips, “that you don’t like being managed.”
Direct. Clean. No accusation. Just truth.
Narumi’s pulse stutters.
How does he know? Is he really that easy to read?
The wind lifts slightly, carrying the vague scent of fuel and cooling asphalt. Somewhere far down the pit lane, a shutter slams closed.
Narumi steps half a pace closer before he even realizes he’s done it.
“And you like controlling everything?” He asks quietly, his eyes never leaving Hoshina’s.
Hoshina doesn’t step back.
Instead he steps forward. Close now. Close enough that the fading light traces the sharp lines of his face. Close enough that Narumi feels the warmth of his breath.
Narumi swallows.
“I like minimizing risks,” Hoshina murmurs, the words brushing against Narumi’s skin.
“That’s not how you win.”
Narumi doesn’t move. He can’t. Because if he does, if either of them shifts even slightly—
They might end up somewhere they shouldn’t.
“That’s how you finish,” Hoshina replies, just as quietly.
Their gazes remain locked. The tension between them isn’t loud. It’s tight. Compressed. Suffocating.
Narumi feels it again—that sharp, unfamiliar pull beneath his ribs. The same one from the garage. From the press room. From the moment Hoshina smiled at Mina.
He doesn’t understand it, though. So he pushes against it instead.
“You smiled,” Narumi says before he can stop himself. Before he thinks.
Hoshina’s brow furrows slightly. “During testing?”
“With Ashiro.”
If Narumi were thinking clearly, he never would have said that. But he isn’t thinking clearly.
His mouth moves faster than his restraint ever could.
Fuck his stupid mouth.
And there it is. Barely disguised. That feeling he can’t understand intensifies inside his chest.
A beat of silence stretches between them.
Hoshina’s expression shifts—not defensive, not guilt.
Just confused now.
“She’s an old friend,” he says evenly.
“I didn’t ask,” Narumi replies immediately.
Too quickly.
Another pause.
The air feels heavier now. Charged. As if something invisible is pressing between them.
Hoshina studies him. Not clinically, not professionally. But carefully. His eyes travel over Narumi’s face, searching. As if trying to find something there. As if trying to understand.
He doesn’t.
And then, as if nothing has just passed between them, he says, calm as ever, “If you want this to work, you’ll have to trust me.”
Narumi’s jaws tightens. His chest feels heavy, tight in a way he doesn’t like.
“And if you want this to work,” he replies, voice quieter now, rougher around the edges, “you’ll have to stop acting like I’m a liability.”
The sun dips lower. Shadows stretch long across the concrete. For a second, it feels like something could tip. Like one of them might step forward instead of away.
Hoshina holds his gaze. Unflinching.
“You are not a liability.” He says.
A pause.
“You’re unpredictable.”
And that shouldn’t feel personal.
But it does.
Narumi lets out a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite frustration.
Testing is over. No more laps to prove anything today.
And he’s the first one to step back.
“See you in Melbourne.”
It’s strange for Narumi to let something like this go first. Usually, he doesn’t.
It’s not soft, it’s not warm. It feels unfinished.
And Hoshina notices it. He inclines his head, just slightly.
“See you on track.”
After that, Narumi turns and walks away.
The paddock noise swallows him again—distant laughter, rolling cases, engines starting somewhere far off.
But Hoshina’s voice lingers in his head. Steady, controlled, infuriatingly calm.
And Narumi doesn’t feel irritated.
He feels unsettled.
He still doesn’t understand why.