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Tomoya loves the smell of sea salt. Had loved it even before he started riding bikes.
His toes dig into cool sand, arms wrapped around his knees, and he’d swim if not for the fact that he hasn’t got anything to wear. He’s content like this, though, sitting in the sunshine--that is, until a shadow falls over him.
Looking up has Tomoya smiling and greeting, ”Hey, Gussan.”
“Hey, shortstack.” An inside joke, if only because Tomoya’s got almost twenty centimetres on him, but Tatsuya sits by Tomoya’s side all the same and offers him a can of pop cracked open. When Tomoya takes a drink of it he tastes strawberry, and he licks the taste off his mouth and holds it in two of his hands, quietly pleased that he’d gotten his favourite flavour.
The can is already sweating, likely because of the heat, but Tomoya doesn’t mind.
“Leader looks like he’s got a lot of work to do,” he mentions, grinning cheekily as he points to where Joshima throws a frisbee back and forth with a little girl. Tatsuya lifts his head a little more to see, then lets out a scoff in reply. “Shige’s gotten even tanner than me, have you noticed?” The mild annoyance is clear in his tone, but Tomoya’s known his two friends long enough that Tatsuya’s going to smile two seconds after. “And he’s never had to get in the water even once. The lifeguard who can’t swim--” There’s the smile. “--is tanner than the one who actually saves lives out there.”
“Y’know Leader’s always wanted to be a dad,” Tomoya offers.
“Yeah,” Tatsuya agrees, sighing, “but he doesn’t have to play with literally everyone who looks lonely, either. What if he pisses yakuza off one day?”
Tomoya giggles. “You think someone like Leader could piss anyone off?”
Tatsuya looks at him, deadpanning, “Maybe if he told his puns.”
And Tomoya knows that it’s mean to laugh at that, but he’s got to admit that Tatsuya’s got a point. Tatsuya grins, pleased his joke made its mark, but as he’s never one to dwell he holds his hand out without delay. “So? Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“Your phone.” Tatsuya’s hand curls and uncurls in a ‘give it to me’ motion, and just the mention of the word ‘phone’ has Tomoya’s face going hot.
Until Tatsuya presses his can of pop to Tomoya’s face and he jerks back in surprise. “Hey!”
“No spacing out,” Tatsuya scolds, clicking his tongue. “What’s this about the loser you were texting? Why won’t you give me your phone?”
“He’s not a loser!” Tomoya whines, rubbing the cold water off his face. “He’s my mechanic, and he’s really cool, like... he’s all smart and mature, and he knows all these old songs and likes all these weird movies, and he’s funny when he’s drunk, and he’s really good at cooking, it looks like, and he doesn’t know how to use a computer but he texts first every morning and…”
The memory of it makes his cheeks warm again--that first night from weeks ago, the first message that popped up on his screen. The last time he checked, his lock screen had Masahiro: What do you mean you know a lifeguard who doesn’t swim on it, and while Tomoya itches to message back, he’s sure Tatsuya would peek over his shoulder the whole time.
“And you have a crush on this guy.”
Tomoya’s throat closes up again. “I--!”
“You can’t even lie about it,” Tatsuya remarks with a laugh, and this time he puts his can down to hold both his hands out. “Come on, come on. Show me his texts!”
Tomoya shakes his head furiously, almost violently, and now the burn on his cheeks is intense. A crush, Tatsuya said, and somehow affixing those words to it makes everything that’s happened so far ten times clearer--and ten times worse. Watching Matsuoka sleep, seeing him smile, putting his first name into his phone, telling everyone he knows how amazing he is--
The fact that half his brain is focused on the promise of texting Matsuoka again--
“No!” Tomoya yells when Tatsuya lunges forward in an attack, his can of pop held over the top of his head as he tries to dodge it. Some of it spills out, of course, but Tatsuya refuses to be deterred; he pats at Tomoya’s pockets quickly, reaches into his left one, and finally pulls his phone out with a triumphant grin.
Tomoya says it again: “No! ”
Tatsuya pauses. He looks at the phone in his hand, looks at Tomoya’s face (and this is where Tomoya ramps up how pathetic he looks, praying to god he hits a merciful bone in Tatsuya’s body), then takes another look at the phone in final deliberation.
He sighs, sitting down and handing it Tomoya’s way. Then he leans his back against Tomoya’s bicep and takes a big swig of pop, his cheek resting against his shoulder. “Can I at least see a picture?”
The word crush thrums in Tomoya’s head. It rings with all the consistency of a million bells, loud and clanging and taking over his life, and has been since Tatsuya said it out loud that one sunny day. After he showed his friend a picture of Matsuoka (or rather, a picture of the both of them; Matsuoka didn’t understand the concept of ‘front camera’ but sure warmed up quick to seeing the two of them on one screen), Tatsuya whistled and yelled for Joshima to come. And sure enough, the memory of his Leader nearly tripping in the sand in a furious attempt to run is already so embarrassing on the forefront Tomoya isn’t sure how to deal with it.
It only gets more embarrassing because he can remember with absolute clarity how Joshima’s eyes brightened. He can remember how excited he became, how he couldn’t believe that when Tomoya said he was ‘having fun’ with his new job he was actually ‘having fun like that’. Tatsuya laughed then, and Tomoya was so mortified he found himself unable to do little more than bury his face in his hands, but still all Joshima could do was sway gently and simply from side to side, happy and proud.
“He’s awfully handsome,” Joshima said, admiring the picture.
The worst thing is that Tomoya blindly (face still covered) answered him with, “He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever met.”
Hottest guy… This echoes in Tomoya’s head too, but in a worse manner because Tomoya can hear it in his own voice. He’d acknowledged it himself--that he found Matsuoka attractive, that he found him the most attractive--and somehow it’s changed everything. So he holds his phone with two hands, his palms sweating uncomfortably, and with his teeth digging into his lip his gaze shifts from the screen beneath him reading Masahiro: At the tracks, where are you? to the garage area where Matsuoka’s no doubt waiting inside.
Today is the fifth race. Tomoya hasn’t seen Matsuoka since bringing him home.
He gulps, pushes the door to the garage open, and tries to keep his cool when Matsuoka turns and greets him with a pleased grin. “Hey!”
It shouldn’t be normal, Tomoya thinks, to get this attached to someone so quickly--to find them so fascinating without knowing enough. But when Matsuoka tosses him a rag for them to get to work on polishing the metal parts, when Matsuoka asks Tomoya how his sleep went, when Matsuoka says that he prepared a bento today for Tomoya to eat--you know, for energy--he realises that normal or not, for the most part he’s just glad to see Matsuoka so happy.
(A tiny voice in Tomoya’s mind wonders: is Matsuoka happy because of him?)
In the middle of his wandering mind, Matsuoka lowers a box of bolts in front of Tomoya’s face. “Look,” he says, and Tomoya’s so out of it he barely recognises what it is until he’s told out loud, “these bolts are lighter than the old ones we used, but they’re exactly the same size at a higher durability. You know what that means?”
“Not really,” Tomoya admits once he’s caught himself, a sheepish expression coming up, and his eyes shut closed just before he feels the tell-tale smack of Matsuoka’s hand on his forehead.
“Okay, well, see,” Matsuoka starts, pulling a bolt out and setting the box down on the floor, “this is lighter, right? On its own it’s only lighter by, what, probably a fifth of a gram compared to the old bolts we were using, but when you put together how many bolts we use in total, it takes off at least five whole grams off your weight.”
“Uhuh.” Tomoya’s brows pull together. “Which means…”
“Which means,” Matsuoka snorts, “you’ll be able to go faster, genius.”
“But that’s just five grams.”
“And it makes a huge difference--” Maybe Tomoya should be listening more, but as it is he’s really just watching the way Matsuoka tosses the bolt from hand to hand like a trick; Matsuoka frowns a little at him, pokes his nose lightly with it, and Tomoya flinches back in surprise. “--trust me, I’d know.”
And Tomoya agrees, because when it comes to his bike, it’s not necessarily wise for him to argue against the man who works on it at all.
“You’re spacey today,” Matsuoka says as they work, tightening a nut with the wrench before setting the tool aside and picking his rag up again, “more than usual, at least. Something happen?”
A crush, Tatsuya coos in his head. Tomoya inhales sharply, feels his hands shake, and then determinedly keeps them steady as he rubs his exhaust pipe to shining. “Not really,” he promises, and while Matsuoka gives him a look like he isn’t buying it, Tomoya sticks his tongue out in reply. “Look, if there was something wrong, I’d let you know, right?”
There’s silence for a while. “I don’t know,” Matsuoka says as he picks up another part to polish, rag moving quick and steady in even strokes, “would you?”
Tomoya frowns, keeping his eyes on his work. “Aren’t we friends?”
For what it’s worth, Matsuoka’s gaze doesn’t lift either. “Are we?”
And for a moment, Tomoya panics. Wonders if maybe Matsuoka knows--if he’s figured it out--if maybe whatever precarious dynamic they’d made together has shattered because of Tomoya’s bizarre and unexplainable feelings. But when Tomoya gulps, his head turning to regard the man at his side, it seems Matsuoka’d been watching him all this time, and that serious expression he wears melts into the smile of a man amused.
“I like you, you know,” Matsuoka says.
The words are honest, true. They speak even more volumes with how soft Matsuoka’s eyes become, how full of simple fondness, how the warmth of them is heightened by how round they are. In return Tomoya lets out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding in, relief washing over him like a flood, and with no delay he returns the kindness shown his way.
“I like you too,” he says, smiling.
Then he pauses.
“Ehhhh--!?”
Tomoya whines over his Matsuoka-made bento, so engrossed in it he barely even notices Aki pulling a piece of tamagoyaki out. “He asked me out on a date! Who does that?”
“Everyone,” Aki says as he takes a bite out of it. It’s just the two of them now, waiting patiently for the race to start, but Tomoya’s stuck on one image: Matsuoka pushing the bento into Tomoya’s waiting hands with a grin, telling him he’ll see him after.
“But--but, but--b-b-but--” Tomoya’s stammering, reduced to a furious mess of repeating syllables, and he thinks so hard about how it is Matsuoka coaxed a confession out of him his head starts to hurt.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Aki mentions, sucking the bits of oil off his fingers and reaching for the water bottle at his side. He takes a good swig out of it, caps the bottle back closed, and sets it down. Tomoya wishes he could move that easily, but his chopsticks are shaking and he thinks he might puke. “Matsuoka’s a cool guy, you’re kind of dweeby but with merit--what’s the harm in going out with him?”
“We work together!”
“So? You never heard the term ‘fraternising’?”
The fact that Aki knows that word aside, Tomoya groans. “You know that term’s used in a negative way for the most part, right?”
And Aki, in a way no-one would be surprised by, says, “Oh.”
He can’t do this. Looking down at his bento and the perfectly packed rice, the sauteed vegetables to the side, the rolled tamagoyaki, and the tonkatsu, he can’t shake the image of Matsuoka kindly laying everything out for him. He was already at the tracks at an absurdly early hour; what time did he wake up to prepare this? Tomoya’s stomach churns and toils with a hearty mixture of anxiety, excitement, guilt, and joy, but he reaches down for a slice of egg and takes a bite out of it regardless (it’s the least he could do).
That it’s delicious doesn’t escape him. Tomoya’s eyes water a little bit, the back of his hand pressing to his mouth as he shuts them closed.
“Is he okay?” Gonzo asks as he comes over, setting his work briefcase down and undoing the knot of his tie. Aki shrugs and adds, “I think he’ll get out of it.”
But to Tomoya’s credit, he finishes the bento. His heartrate steadies, he goes over the fact that Matsuoka asked him out, and the more he considers the thought of them out together--alone--and all the things they could talk about, all the things they could do, all the smiles Matsuoka might give him--the easier it becomes to handle.
He’s happy when Matsuoka is happy. Maybe that’s all that matters.
With steadier fingers he wraps the bento back up in the cloth Matsuoka used to hold it together, unable to keep himself from brushing his fingers over the light purple fabric. It looks old and worn, sentimental and simple, and the more he touches it, the more in awe he is of how soft it is. How kind. How like its owner it is.
Tomoya stays there a while, thinking of how nice Matsuoka’s been so far, and the reminiscence lasts until Shin calls him over for the next race with a hand ruffling his hair. “Let’s go, Tom.”
So with a full stomach and a quickly beating heart, Tomoya looks up and nods, chirping, “You go ahead!” as he picks the wrapped bento up. Suddenly he feels a little shock start in his chest--he notices the kanji for Matsuoka sewn into the corner, the name formed by his lips and written in his mind--and a goofy smile comes up as he jogs to his bike to roll it out.
Matsuoka himself stands there with it, of course. His fingers are curled loosely over the handle, the bike held up on his strength alone, and when Tomoya returns the tied bento Matsuoka rolls the bike forward towards him in reply.
“I finished everything,” Tomoya says. Matsuoka’s lips quirk up, pleased, and as Tomoya’s own hand takes Matsuoka’s place on the handlebar, their fingers brush together.
“You do good out there.”
Tomoya’s throat dries, but he nods his head. “I’ll do my best.”
Matsuoka grins at him. “You’re my racer, Tomo. You’ll be the best.”
On the way to the track, Tomoya’s cheeks burn. And this time, to calm the nerves in his chest, he thinks not of the sea and that first ride, thinks not of the way the wind had whipped around his body or how the sun had shone, but of the way ‘Tomo’ had sounded in Masahiro’s mouth.
The way Aki looked at them as they left is an image that won’t leave Tomoya’s head. He watched, mortified, as his friend flashed a thumbs up, raised both his eyebrows up and down, and made obscene flicks of his tongue, while to his side Masahiro just laughed and laughed and said, “Fuck you, I kiss better than that!”
Which is to say Tomoya’s left thinking of kissing, how Masahiro must kiss, and that proves to make things very difficult when Masahiro reveals some amazing factoid Tomoya feels he should’ve been told earlier: they’re going to ride a motorbike together.
The helmet on his head is red--Tomoya’s favourite colour--and he finds himself wondering if Masahiro came prepared. Was he planning on asking him out all along? Did he not consider the possibility Tomoya would say no? These things clash and bang in Tomoya’s head in the split-second it takes for Masahiro to buckle the fastenings in, and when he says, “Jeez, you look cute.” all Tomoya can do in return is laugh and say “Quit it!”
It’s different holding onto someone, though. The sensation of Masahiro’s back against his chest is something Tomoya’s never felt before--not with anyone--and along with the familiar sensation of an engine purring beneath his thighs, it makes for quite the combination.
“I didn’t know you rode!” Tomoya shouts around the noise.
“I don’t!” Masahiro tells him, voice cracking towards the end. “I just wanted to impress you!”
Tomoya blushes at that, blushes even harder when Masahiro turns his head back for a split-second to offer him a grin, and then finally grasps himself enough to yell, “Watch the road, you jerk!”, his hands jumping forward to land over Masahiro’s own and steer.
The motion is instinctive; he didn’t catch himself doing it before they landed. But now that they touch skin to skin Tomoya’s breath hitches in his throat, and it gets even more intense when Masahiro takes this opportunity to lean back into him.
Tomoya wishes he could bury his face into something, anything, but the helmet makes that impossible.
Masahiro spreads his fingers out just enough for Tomoya’s to fit between the gaps.
The air smells like the city: the smoke of cars, the various smells of street food, and the ever-present scent of asphalt. But above all that is Masahiro’s cologne, like a blanket, and Tomoya wonders if Masahiro can feel the erratic beat of his heart thumping right against his back.
They ride like this, moving at a leisurely pace straight over streets and turning at corners. It isn’t the rush that Tomoya’s used to--isn’t the taste of the sea and the feel of the wind--but it’s enough for him to smile, enough for him to laugh, enough for him to feel excitement if only because Masahiro’s never ridden a bike before, never even tried, but chose to because it’s something Tomoya loves to do. Something settles in his heart: a stone or a fire or a butterfly, he’s not sure; when they finally stop in front of a patisserie, Tomoya almost feels sorry he has to let go.
But Masahiro holds his hand out to him after he gets off. And Masahiro grins at him, confident and shy all at once. And Tomoya’s embarrassed as all hell--he’s not sure how anyone can look so cute--but how can he say no to that?
Naomi pulls Masahiro’s glasses off and runs away.
“So he’s…” Taichi watches Masahiro gasp and toddle after her, watches as he yells ‘I’m gonna get you!’, watches as Naomi giggles and runs faster and Masahiro doesn’t speed up at all. “… your boyfriend?”
“Sort of?” Tomoya can’t stop smiling, elbows on his thighs and hands on his cheeks as he watches Masahiro go. “I mean, he takes me out on dates sometimes! We don’t really call each other ‘boyfriend’, and mostly we just eat out, and we don’t really kiss or anything like that, but…”
“He’s your boyfriend.” Taichi shoots him a look and Tomoya’s face heats up.
“I… yeah. He is.”
And Taichi lets out a ‘huh’, his arms crossing and his legs crossing at the knee. Metres away from them Masahiro picks up the pace, hands landing on Naomi’s tiny waist and picking her up, and Naomi squeals and screams as he seats her atop his shoulders. Tomoya’s heart quails at the sight: Naomi’s awe, Masahiro’s hands holding hers, the sunlight falling on them just right--it’s picturesque, almost, like the sort of thing people advertise in camera commercials. More than that, though, Tomoya just thinks the sight of his best friend’s kid atop his boyfriend’s shoulders is one of the kindest things he could witness.
Before he realises what his hands are doing he’s moved to snap a picture of it. To his left, Taichi chuckles, and when Tomoya looks at him he has his own phone whipped out, too.
“You ever figure out why he quit the MotoGP?” Taichi asks, tucking the device back into his pocket. Tomoya shakes his head, his arms dropping and his hands back on his lap, and he watches as Masahiro brings Naomi over to a tree. He tip-toes as slowly as he can, reaching his arms up to help the little girl’s fingers brush over a branch, and Naomi giggles as happily as a three year old girl can. She’s probably never felt so tall before.
“We’ve talked a lot,” Tomoya says, fingers twirling his phone in circles, “but never about that, I guess. It just…”
“Stopped mattering the more you got to know him.”
Tomoya laughs, looking down at his phone again, at how he has a purple case around it and how tapping the home button has a picture of a handsome man’s goofy face showing on his lock screen. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Something like that.”
“That’s how people work,” Taichi says with a nod. “You start out finding this one thing that’s cool about them--something attractive, you know?” He turns his body just a little to face Tomoya properly, his hands moving to gesture as he speaks; it looks a little bit like he’s holding invisible eggs in both of them. “Something that makes you want to keep talking. Then you find out more, and more, and this idea you had of them that you thought was brilliant--you realise it was a skeleton all along.
“’cause they’re so much more colourful than that. So much more… interesting.”
Tomoya waits for Taichi to say more, but when he doesn’t continue he remarks, “You have a lot more to say about this than I thought.”
“Shit,” Taichi swears, well away from earshot as far as Naomi’s concerned, “that’s why I stayed as your manager even when you guys fucking sucked.”
Tomoya blinks at that, curiosity winning out as he opens his mouth to ask. Taichi catches him, though, and fixes Tomoya with a glare that has him pressing his lips together instead.
He continues without preamble, “You and Yamaguchi and Leader--you guys had heart. And I’m saying, like, you didn’t back down, you know? You were positive about it, you kept trying even when you failed, you wrote these horrible songs but got so proud of just finishing them--”
“Taichi-kun, please.” Tomoya laughs. Every word Taichi speaks is bittersweet.
And Taichi smiles apologetically. “If I’m being honest, I just became your manager ‘cause I was young and stupid and I thought your pretty faces’d carry you through. And… they didn’t, but…”
“But?”
“Look, Nagase, if my kid and I can hang out in a park with you and your weird boyfriend--who you’ve never kissed--and enjoy it, then I gotta say there’s something about you that makes it hard to not want to be around you. And, sure, you don’t got that good a talent for music--” Tomoya pouts and Taichi holds both his hands up in self-defence. “--but I think with the right push you can pretty much do good at anything you try. Even the band thing.”
Taichi smiles and Tomoya smiles back, but all in all it’s a funny thought. He’s doing well as a racer--much better than he ever did as a musician--and he gets to work with his friends, so it’s not like it’s that bad a chore. ‘The band thing’ is something he pushed in the past, something he moved on from. To go back to it so suddenly sounds stupid now that he’s doing so well.
“That being said--” And Tomoya’s surprised out of his thoughts, because he figured Taichi was done talking, but he seems to have a lot to blab about today. “--you really ought to try and kiss that boy one day. Why the hell haven’t you kissed yet?”
“Taichi-kun!” Tomoya squeaks, hands clumsily smacking Taichi’s arms away.
Taichi grins at the same time he reaches one arm out to brush a fist against Tomoya’s cheek. “Go and get ‘em, you gorilla.”
“Get what?” Masahiro asks as he returns, reaching his hands up to pluck Naomi off his shoulders and put her down. “She wants water, by the way.”
On cue two chubby hands reach out, Naomi perking up with a, “Water!”, and in true fatherly nature Taichi’s unable to resist. At the same time he moves to pick the backpack on the grass up, Masahiro sits by Tomoya’s side, an arm slipping around his shoulders with ease.
Naomi glugs and glugs, apparently thirsty after all that running, and once she’s done she looks over at Masahiro with sparkling eyes. “Can we play?” she asks, nearly dropping her jug entirely if not for Taichi’s hands catching them; Masahiro grins because he can’t resist, and he’s about to say ‘yes’ when Taichi stands up instead.
Tomoya’s eyes widen to plate-size. “Matsu-kun’s gonna play with Naga-kun first, if that’s okay.”
“Oh!” Naomi says, head cocking slightly as her gaze shifts to face the men in question. Masahiro doesn’t seem to mind; his fingertips brush absently over Tomoya’s bicep at the same time Tomoya’s cheeks burn and burn--and burn brighter when he feels his boyfriend looking at him, too.
Even from the corner of his eye, the expression on Masahiro’s face tells Tomoya enough about how much he’s figured out. From behind his glasses his eyes are bright with promise, and he pinches Tomoya’s arm once before looking back down at Naomi’s curious face. “Yeah, Tomo and I wanna hang out a bit. But you can play dragon games with your papa too--right, Kokubun-san?” The formality makes Taichi’s nose crinkle, but he does nod his head.
“Okay…” Naomi murmurs, her lips pursing in a child’s version of a pout, but the moment Taichi grabs her hand and starts to take her along, she brightens like the sun.
And Masahiro, bastard that he is, pulls Tomoya a little closer.
“’Go get ‘em’,” he quotes. “What the hell were you and Kokubun-san talking about?”
“You can call him Taichi, you know,” Tomoya says in a pathetic attempt to change the subject. “Everyone calls him Taichi.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It’s none of your business!”
“But it’s making you blush,” Masahiro points out, and Tomoya opens his mouth and closes it, knowing the red on his cheeks can’t very well be explained as a reaction to the weather. They’re sitting in the shade, after all, and the breeze is really very nice, and Masahiro’s arm is strong and safe and--
The tips of his fingers brush over Tomoya’s jaw, drawing goosebumps. “Are you supposed to be getting me?”
Tomoya’s head turns sharply to look at him, but whatever answer he might’ve had dies in his throat in the wake of Masahiro’s fond smile.
“I… I, uh…”
Almost shyly, Masahiro murmurs, “You think I could get you instead?”
And Tomoya’s about to ask ‘what the hell does that even mean’, but Masahiro leans in and kisses him and words don’t seem all that important any more.
If he’ll be honest about it, Tomoya can’t get enough; that first kiss had only been a gateway. Every time they have some moment of privacy he’s either pulling Masahiro over or leaning in for a kiss himself, and every time Masahiro will either fall into it or meet Tomoya halfway. It might be becoming a problem--when Masahiro slips into his car Tomoya’s pulling him over the gearshift, when it’s raining hard and they’re under a bus stop roof they’re pecking, when they have a private little table in a corner no-one can see their lips are touching and their tongues are meeting and--
Quite frankly, Tomoya should be disgusted at himself. What self-respecting man in his thirties kisses as often as he does in as many places as he can? He feels like a teenager--excited at the prospect of physical affection, even more excited at the promises that come along with it--and the concept of it makes his insides twist. But Masahiro’s mouth is so warm, and kind, and soft, and the only reason he isn’t kissing him right now is because Mariko’s still in the garage with them.
His thigh is jumping, though. His teeth are worrying his lip. And he ends up fumbling so much Masahiro laughs and gives him a little smack on the forehead, telling him maybe he ought to take a break while he does the rest of the work on his bike.
“But--” Tomoya starts, only for Masahiro to shoo him off. So now Tomoya sits in the corner, his hands on his cheeks and his eyes the slightest bit half-lidded, and he watches with some undeniable case of fondness as Masahiro smoothly fits all the pieces of his bike back together again.
Mariko doesn’t take as long as Masahiro does. She’s standing up and craning her neck once she’s gotten Shin’s bike up and finished checking the engine; Masahiro, meanwhile, has yet to reassemble the front of Tomoya’s bike at all.
Mariko catches Masahiro’s attention with a ‘yo, I’m out’, he lifts a hand towards her in acknowledgement, and Tomoya feels an unhealthy mix of ashamed and excited the moment she’s out of the garage and the door closes shut behind her. They’re alone now, he and Masahiro, and given that privacy can only mean one thing--
“’hiro?” Tomoya calls.
There’s a thudding noise as Masahiro’s wrench drops to the floor, and Tomoya barely has enough time to brace himself before he’s pulled out of his seat and two hands are on his cheeks. Masahiro steps and steps and Tomoya’s back presses to concrete; his lips part, a gasp between them, and Masahiro’s happy to fill that space with his tongue.
Some underlying meaning must be here--kissing in the room their stunningly quick friendship started. Tomoya’s hair is longer than it was when they first met, his chin and jaw clean-shaven, but Masahiro’s stubble brushes against Tomoya’s skin and the contrast makes his toes curl in his shoes. Heat, impossibly subtle, blooms in the pit of his stomach, and when he says Masahiro’s name a second time he feels the shift in position that leads to Masahiro settling between Tomoya’s spreading legs.
Tomoya’s arms wrap loosely around Masahiro’s shoulders, Masahiro’s own hands slipping down Tomoya’s front and gripping his hips, and when their kiss breaks it’s just so Masahiro can look up at him and grin, his hands warm and huge and moving over Tomoya’s thighs to lift them.
On instinct he wraps his legs around Masahiro’s waist. The proximity makes Tomoya shiver, and he doesn’t miss the wash of heat over Masahiro’s own face before their lips meet again.
“Oh--!” Tomoya flinches the slightest bit when Masahiro’s teeth sketch over his lip and across his jaw, evolving to full-out shivering when that draws a chuckle from the man holding him up. “G-God, Masahiro, that isn’t funny!”
“It’s a little funny,” Masahiro purrs, mouth warm over the column of Tomoya’s throat. His tongue rolls against it and Tomoya’s thighs jump up, and while on one hand he ought to be grossed out, on the other he’s just glad Masahiro finds him tasty. “Sensitive little kid.”
“Calling me a kid makes this--” They smooch, Tomoya melts, and he almost loses his train of thought in the wake of Masahiro’s lips dressing his chin with affection. “--ah--c-creepy, I was going to say creepy.”
Masahiro laughs. “You just act like a kid, is what I meant.”
“But I’m not a kid,” Tomoya says almost immediately; his fingertips skirt the fascinating lines of Masahiro’s bone structure to draw him closer, though, and get their lips touching once more.
Intimacy. The word for this is intimacy. Masahiro kisses him slow and steady in an essentially empty garage, and Tomoya kisses back because there’s nothing else he’s capable of doing.
“Work,” Masahiro murmurs, the word hot in Tomoya’s mouth.
Tomoya swipes the syllable with his tongue. “What?”
“I have to get back to work.”
“No, you don’t.” Sealed with a kiss, Tomoya relishes the sound of Masahiro’s breath hitching, and when his tongue flicks out he’s pleased to feel Masahiro returning the sentiment with ease.
Unfortunately, he pulls back with a wet sound moments after, groaning into Tomoya’s neck. “Fuck--”
“Here?” Tomoya’s breathless himself, but he wraps his arms tight around Masahiro’s shoulders in a hug. “Really?”
“No, idiot!” Masahiro laughs again, but he does pull back to offer Tomoya a warm smile. “I have to work and you have a race to win.”
“I can’t win if you don’t kiss me.”
“You got first place once,” Masahiro says swiftly, “and all I had to do was call you ‘Tomo’.”
But to his credit, Masahiro leans in to give Tomoya one last peck before pulling away. Tomoya’s feet hit the ground again, his arms slip off, and he resists the mighty urge to pout as Masahiro’s fingertips brush over his cheek and tap over the bone with his thumb.
Then the urge goes away entirely when Masahiro coos, “Now let’s put that bike together so we can kiss more before your race starts.”
The sight before them is one for the ages: Tatsuya at 165 centimetres is standing his ground against Masahiro who’s at a whopping 181.
“This is so stupid!” Taichi says, hiding a grin behind his hand. Tomoya nudges him to shut him up.
“Ready!” Joshima calls. “Let’s have a good match!”
And Tomoya starts to cheer the moment the sumo wrestling starts.
Tatsuya and Joshima, lifeguards extraordinaire, live in a house by the beach they rent. It only works because the owner is their boss and lets them stay free on the condition that some of their pay is cut; neither Tatsuya nor Joshima have any big plans in life, though, so it’s not like they need a lot. And the house comes especially handy when it’s time to celebrate the fact that Land Snail Racing is in the semi-finals.
Joshima met Masahiro once before this occasion at a grocery store--had recognised him from the pictures Tatsuya forced Tomoya to show off that one day and immediately went over to say ‘hello’ like it was normal. Masahiro, ever the charming one, only smiled in return and asked if they’d met before, but all Joshima had to do was say he was friends with Tomoya for any walls Masahiro might’ve put up to be torn down immediately.
Sometimes Tomoya really does wonder about the plausibility of fate; it was thanks to Joshima’s reassurance that Tatsuya let Masahiro come along to their home in the first place.
And now Tomoya cheers as his boyfriend is bodily slammed into sand.
“Go, Gussan, go!” he yells, his hands cupped around his mouth.
“Why aren’t you cheering for me!?” Masahiro yells back, but at this point Tatsuya’s gone into a victory dance beside his fallen body, so it’s not like it makes much of a difference.
Tomoya greets Masahiro with a kiss when he comes over to sit beside him, both his hands on his cheeks. “Nobody beats Gussan, ‘hiro.”
“I can tell.”
Masahiro’s not new to hanging out with Tomoya’s friends, that day with Taichi and Naomi a weighty victory under his belt along with the night spent with Land Snail Racing, but the way he acts with Tomoya’s band friends makes it seem as if he’s known them for years. He barbecues meat over the grill, taking orders like a champ and setting them on a plate that Joshima holds out, laughs at all of Tatsuya’s dirty jokes, and listens as Taichi rambles about his beautiful wife and child. He interacts easily, smoothly, and save for his distress when Tatsuya starts teasing him with a snake he caught in the sand, Masahiro is for all intents and purposes an easily-fitting cog in the machine of what once was JURIA.
The day is filled to bursting with joy--sun and surf and laughter. Masahiro and Tatsuya compete over just about everything, Taichi and Tomoya build castles, and Joshima brings seashells back to decorate them (along with writing little ballads and epics of King Taichi and Sir Tomoya, the Shining Knight). They go swimming, save for Joshima who turns into a merman under Taichi’s expert sand-sculpting hands, and later, when they’re tired and beat and tanned from their fun, Joshima brings out a guitar while Tatsuya sits on a beatbox; Masahiro lights a fire that crackles and reaches for the sky.
It’s a nostalgic thing, seeing Joshima hold a guitar again, but Tomoya doesn’t say this out loud. True to his reputation, however, Taichi points out a “You guys can’t sing.” and gets Tatsuya’s middle finger in response right before bursting into laughter. Joshima scolds Tatsuya for it with a light slap to his wrist, but Tomoya’s laughing at how Tatsuya pouts, at how Joshima’s eyes smile, and how Taichi himself is still laughing; even Masahiro chuckles a little, and without much thought Tomoya presses the smallest kiss to his shoulder.
Still, Joshima starts to play and Tatsuya starts to tap. The song is familiar and old, and while it takes a moment to sink in, Tomoya knows that the look of recognition that flashes across his eyes is the same one Taichi wears. (Masahiro obviously doesn’t know it, but he also doesn’t seem to mind.)
“’Love You Only’?” Taichi claims, crinkling his nose. “Wasn’t that your opening song on the last album? It goes quicker than that.”
“We re-arranged it,” Joshima explains, strums simple and gentle in time with Tatsuya’s thumping. “Made it less childish, more mature. I don’t know why we thought making a pop song was a good idea.”
“Pop is popular,” Tatsuya says.
“Yeah,” Joshima agrees, “but it just wasn’t the JURIA sound, was it?”
Masahiro raises his hand. “What’s the JURIA sound?”
“Dude, we’re not in school,” Taichi teases. “Put your hand down.” So Masahiro does, taking the opportunity to slip his arm around Tomoya’s shoulders and pull him a little tighter.
Tomoya’s cheek thumps onto his shoulder, warm and blushing. “Leader, Gussan, and I wanted to write rock music.”
“Nuh-uh,” Tatsuya pipes up. “That was all you and Shige! I just wanted cash.”
“Well.” Tomoya laughs. “I guess Leader and I wanted to and Gussan’s too cool to want anything. Better?”
“Much.”
“But what’s the JURIA sound?” Masahiro ferrets in.
Joshima strums his guitar a little harder for emphasis. “This, Matsuoka-kun!” And then he returns to an easier pace, leaning to the side and offering Tatsuya a smile. Tatsuya clears his throat and fumbles through a beat, but catches himself after. “This is what we wanted to sound like.”
Masahiro stares. Joshima smiles at him.
“That doesn’t help at all,” Taichi snorts, and Joshima’s shoulders slump at the same time Tatsuya bursts out into laughter. “Oi, Nagase! Sing a little.”
So Tomoya jumps a little, eyes wide. “Eh?”
“The JURIA sound isn’t complete without their vocalist, right?” Taichi offers, and the tone of his voice speaks volumes of how he can’t believe he’s having this conversation at all. “You know how Love You Only goes--wait, does this thing have the same lyrics?”
“Of course it has the same lyrics,” Tatsuya says. “That’s the point of a re-arrange.”
Joshima nods in agreement, then turns to face Tomoya with a smile. “Now you come in.”
Tomoya blinks once more, brain still catching up. “I come in.”
“As in you sing, Nagase,” Taichi says.
“I…” He swallows, momentarily uncertain, but Masahiro gives him a little ruffle to his hair.
“They won’t let it go until you do, Tomo,” he teases, and while Tomoya’s tempted to say you just want to hear me make a fool of myself, he lets out a sigh and smiles up at him because Masahiro’s not necessarily wrong.
It’s been a long while since he last sang for any reason besides showering--a long while since he had Love You Only on the brain. But as Joshima’s fingers shift over the frets and play the opening chord before the lyrics start, Tomoya sings as if on instinct: “I’m so in love with you…”
And it feels… good.
He’s rusty, certainly, and on that note, this isn’t even the Love You Only that JURIA recorded for their last album. It’s slower, and it’s lower, and it fits Tomoya’s range a little better, and it sounds so much like a proper love song now--one that isn’t sung by silly boys with no experience--he’s not sure what to think.
In a way, Tomoya always assumed he threw his old life away. He thought that every memory of it was set aside when he bought his very first Harley, but it comes back with a fresh wave of nostalgia, feeling good in his throat and on his tongue even when his voice cracks a bit.
The fire is warm; the night air is cool. The sand is soft under Tomoya’s toes when he wiggles them, and the smiles of his friends give him power in a way he remembers they always did when he was on stage.
Except now there’s more than Joshima and Tatsuya. Now Taichi isn’t backstage with silent support. And now there’s Masahiro, who grips Tomoya a little tighter as he reaches high notes he hasn’t tried to reach in ages.
The song doesn’t last very long; Tomoya finishes with a final I’m so in love with you before burying his face into Masahiro’s arm. But its meaning isn’t any less poignant--on the contrary, Tomoya thinks he feels relieved.
For so long Love You Only was simply the first song in JURIA’s last album: a memory of failure and what could have been. And while Tatsuya and Joshima have always operated on different wavelengths from Tomoya himself, he thinks he understands the re-arrangement this time--understands what it means to have a JURIA sound and why it’s so important.
Pop music for popularity, the rock music they wanted.
His friends are clapping for him, and Tomoya laughs sheepishly and tries to wave at all of them to shut up.
Still, Taichi manages to sneak in a, “Dude, that sounded so much better than the one on the album.”
It’s a little past three in the morning when they stumble into the guest room of Joshima and Tatsuya’s beach house, Tomoya giggling and Masahiro trying to shush him before they fall into bed.
“I haven’t sang that much in so long,” Tomoya whispers, wrapping his arms around Masahiro’s shoulders at the same time he tilts his head back. Little kisses are pressed to his neck, just enough for Tomoya to squirm and laugh, but Masahiro eventually settles with his face pressing into his chest and his arms curling around Tomoya’s waist.
His voice is low, purring. “You sure? You sounded too good to be inexperienced.”
“You’re just saying that ‘cause we’re dating.”
“True,” Masahiro agrees, lifting himself up and kissing Tomoya’s chin. Tomoya laughs again, but he basks in the attention--smiles in the dim light as he runs his fingers through Masahiro’s hair while Masahiro speaks into his jaw. “But also because your voice is the sweetest thing I’ve heard.”
“I think you’re biased,” Tomoya breathes, tugging Masahiro’s head up properly to look at him.
And Masahiro grins, warm and fond. “I think you’re dumb.”
Then he kisses him, and any argument Tomoya has dies on his tongue.
All the while, they’re smiling. Laughing as they kiss and pull back, as their mouths touch and then break away. There’s shyness there, somewhere, but Tomoya’s arms wrap tighter, surer; on the way, Masahiro’s hands drift to grip the back of Tomoya’s neck and the narrow slice of flesh between the hem of his shorts and the end of his shirt.
“It was really,” Masahiro murmurs past their last kiss, their noses touching, “really nice-sounding.”
Tomoya nuzzles him, face and body warm. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because you don’t believe me.”
They kiss once more, sweet and happy, and Tomoya isn’t surprised when Masahiro manoeuvres them enough for Tomoya to lie atop him. It’s not like they haven’t flirted with the possibility--they’ve kissed long enough, hot enough, for the want for something more to edge towards the surface, but never quite had the guts, the time, the space for it. But now Tomoya’s gasping into Masahiro’s open mouth, his hands curling into his shoulders, and Masahiro’s hands have stroked high enough along his back that it feels like Tomoya’s shirt is going to be pulled off his body.
A flick of his tongue, and then Masahiro’s lying back, his fingertips brushing along the knobs of Tomoya’s spine. “Lift your arms,” he purrs, “little songbird.”
“I’m taller than you!” Tomoya whisper-shouts, but that’s primarily to take away from the fact that his face is on fire. He knows that it’s dark all around them--that they can only barely make each other out in the black--but there’s a significant difference from being naked for Masahiro in fantasy and being naked for him with the man in the room.
Masahiro pecks him out of his stupor. “Yeah,” he agrees, “but you’re also too shy to get your shirt off without me doing it for you.”
“Why do you--” Tomoya makes some indignant noise. “--why do you want me out of my shirt, anyway?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
Yes, he does, but the sound of Masahiro’s laughter is sweet and honest and Tomoya can’t get enough of it.
“You’re a terrible liar, Tomo,” Masahiro says, and whether Tomoya tugs his arms up or not doesn’t seem to matter. His shirt is pulled higher, and higher, and when the garter of it argues against Tomoya’s shoulders, Masahiro only pulls harder until Tomoya’s arms are forced to lift on their own.
The cotton slips up and off, a whisper over Tomoya’s skin and hair. Masahiro tosses it aside, and Tomoya’s not sure if he’s shivering because of the cold or because of the callused hands that brush over exposed flesh.
“Ah--” Tomoya flinches at the touch of a thumb to his nipple, pressing and then circling, but whatever argument he might’ve made is swallowed by the mouth that so insistently starts to kiss him once more.
Masahiro’s tongue moves slowly, sweetly. It’s nothing Tomoya’s not already used to, not by a longshot, but the addition of fingers pressing and squeezing over his skin is enough to get him light-headed. Masahiro touches him as reverently as he treats him; he leaves no stone unturned, no inch of his torso untouched. The ends of his nails, blunt and curved, crawl down Tomoya’s torso and up his back--Tomoya moans, sighs, and feels himself arch into Masahiro’s touch when his palms slide back down to grip his ass.
Tomoya breaks away just to breathe, whimpering the slightest bit when Masahiro’s hands knead and squeeze. His shorts are tightening, the space between his legs heating, and while his first instinct is to lift his hips away, Masahiro presses down enough for their bodies to be flush together.
“’hiro,” Tomoya breathes.
“Yeah.” Masahiro exhales, and they turn just enough for Tomoya’s back to press into the mattress, his legs falling apart and Masahiro fitting right between them. They’ve been like this multiple times, have been locked in arms and legs so many other occasions besides now, but this time when Tomoya’s back arches and his hips press to the bed, Masahiro’s own hips only press lower, and the feel of another cock pressed to his own makes Tomoya keen at the same time Masahiro groans into his jaw.
“’hiro,” Tomoya says again, the name dissolving on his tongue as Masahiro starts to rock against him. “Ah--ah, ‘hiro--”
“Yeah.”
And even though he’s acknowledged--even though Masahiro speaks--they don’t stop moving. Their hips roll, writhe, press and move, and Tomoya clutches into Masahiro’s shirt just for something to hold onto.
And Masahiro kisses him just to moan into his mouth.
It’s an elementary form of relief, rutting against your lover like this, but as far as first times go Tomoya can’t say he’s complaining. They kiss, hands all over, they press and rub and promise, and by the time both their flies are open and Masahiro’s thick fingers grip them both, it doesn’t take much for Tomoya to come--white and sticky and thick over Masahiro’s fist.
Coming back to the track is a little embarrassing. In the one day they’d spent out in the sun both Tomoya and Masahiro have become considerably tan, and Aki points it out with a finger and a laugh on his lips, teasing about romantic getaways and tropical fun.
“We were with friends, Aki-kun,” Tomoya scoffs.
And Aki follows it up with, “Doesn’t mean you guys didn’t fuck.”
Tomoya spits his water out at the same time Shin smacks Aki upside the head, but given Aki’s laughing again, it’s not like any of that really matters. Tomoya’s cheeks burn, his hand rapidly rubbing at his wet mouth, but more than embarrassment it’s more a direct reaction to the memories that burn in his head.
Of Masahiro’s hand, uncurling from them both.
Of Masahiro’s fingers, brushing come over Tomoya’s lips and telling him to suck them clean.
He shakes his head rapidly, furious (as if it’s not his fault he won’t stop remembering), and when he comes back to himself he sees everything’s settled down around him.
“Friends,” is what Shin says as he sits by Tomoya’s side. “You guys have fun, at least?”
Tomoya nods and smiles. He can at least think that much and not want to bash his head in. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we did. We were out with JURIA, you know?”
“Thought you guys broke up?” Shin asks, surprised. Tomoya nods again, taking a proper gulp of water now that Aki isn’t pestering him. “We did,” he affirms, “yeah. A few years back. But we’re still friends, you know. Me, Leader, Gussan, Taichi-kun…”
“And now Matsuoka, huh.”
Tomoya grins sheepishly. “I couldn’t leave him behind.”
“Good,” Shin says, giving Tomoya a pat on the shoulder. “Because if you did, I think he’d have texted me all day moping about it.”
Tomoya laughs as Shin gets back to his feet, saying something about going to check on his bike and Mariko--about how he hopes it’s his turn next to get lucky with his mechanic, and why couldn’t I have been into guys like you, Tom? Regardless, Tomoya shakes his head, watching his friend go for a grand total of three seconds before it hits him--
“Wait, since when’ve you and ‘hiro been talking about me!?”
And Tomoya would’ve run after him too, but Aki grabs his wrist and pulls him back with a little click of his tongue.
“Best you don’t ride that thought,” he says sagely, but the illusion is promptly shattered when he adds, “and ride Matsuoka instead like he wants you to.”
Tomoya sputters. “What!?”
He only has fifteen minutes to try and strangle answers out of Aki before Gonzo separates them both, and even then it’s to remind them they’ve got to roll their bikes out. Needless to say, the images in Tomoya’s head have increased in danger levels, and he’s starting to wonder if exploding on the track really is possible.
Part 3
His toes dig into cool sand, arms wrapped around his knees, and he’d swim if not for the fact that he hasn’t got anything to wear. He’s content like this, though, sitting in the sunshine--that is, until a shadow falls over him.
Looking up has Tomoya smiling and greeting, ”Hey, Gussan.”
“Hey, shortstack.” An inside joke, if only because Tomoya’s got almost twenty centimetres on him, but Tatsuya sits by Tomoya’s side all the same and offers him a can of pop cracked open. When Tomoya takes a drink of it he tastes strawberry, and he licks the taste off his mouth and holds it in two of his hands, quietly pleased that he’d gotten his favourite flavour.
The can is already sweating, likely because of the heat, but Tomoya doesn’t mind.
“Leader looks like he’s got a lot of work to do,” he mentions, grinning cheekily as he points to where Joshima throws a frisbee back and forth with a little girl. Tatsuya lifts his head a little more to see, then lets out a scoff in reply. “Shige’s gotten even tanner than me, have you noticed?” The mild annoyance is clear in his tone, but Tomoya’s known his two friends long enough that Tatsuya’s going to smile two seconds after. “And he’s never had to get in the water even once. The lifeguard who can’t swim--” There’s the smile. “--is tanner than the one who actually saves lives out there.”
“Y’know Leader’s always wanted to be a dad,” Tomoya offers.
“Yeah,” Tatsuya agrees, sighing, “but he doesn’t have to play with literally everyone who looks lonely, either. What if he pisses yakuza off one day?”
Tomoya giggles. “You think someone like Leader could piss anyone off?”
Tatsuya looks at him, deadpanning, “Maybe if he told his puns.”
And Tomoya knows that it’s mean to laugh at that, but he’s got to admit that Tatsuya’s got a point. Tatsuya grins, pleased his joke made its mark, but as he’s never one to dwell he holds his hand out without delay. “So? Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“Your phone.” Tatsuya’s hand curls and uncurls in a ‘give it to me’ motion, and just the mention of the word ‘phone’ has Tomoya’s face going hot.
Until Tatsuya presses his can of pop to Tomoya’s face and he jerks back in surprise. “Hey!”
“No spacing out,” Tatsuya scolds, clicking his tongue. “What’s this about the loser you were texting? Why won’t you give me your phone?”
“He’s not a loser!” Tomoya whines, rubbing the cold water off his face. “He’s my mechanic, and he’s really cool, like... he’s all smart and mature, and he knows all these old songs and likes all these weird movies, and he’s funny when he’s drunk, and he’s really good at cooking, it looks like, and he doesn’t know how to use a computer but he texts first every morning and…”
The memory of it makes his cheeks warm again--that first night from weeks ago, the first message that popped up on his screen. The last time he checked, his lock screen had Masahiro: What do you mean you know a lifeguard who doesn’t swim on it, and while Tomoya itches to message back, he’s sure Tatsuya would peek over his shoulder the whole time.
“And you have a crush on this guy.”
Tomoya’s throat closes up again. “I--!”
“You can’t even lie about it,” Tatsuya remarks with a laugh, and this time he puts his can down to hold both his hands out. “Come on, come on. Show me his texts!”
Tomoya shakes his head furiously, almost violently, and now the burn on his cheeks is intense. A crush, Tatsuya said, and somehow affixing those words to it makes everything that’s happened so far ten times clearer--and ten times worse. Watching Matsuoka sleep, seeing him smile, putting his first name into his phone, telling everyone he knows how amazing he is--
The fact that half his brain is focused on the promise of texting Matsuoka again--
“No!” Tomoya yells when Tatsuya lunges forward in an attack, his can of pop held over the top of his head as he tries to dodge it. Some of it spills out, of course, but Tatsuya refuses to be deterred; he pats at Tomoya’s pockets quickly, reaches into his left one, and finally pulls his phone out with a triumphant grin.
Tomoya says it again: “No! ”
Tatsuya pauses. He looks at the phone in his hand, looks at Tomoya’s face (and this is where Tomoya ramps up how pathetic he looks, praying to god he hits a merciful bone in Tatsuya’s body), then takes another look at the phone in final deliberation.
He sighs, sitting down and handing it Tomoya’s way. Then he leans his back against Tomoya’s bicep and takes a big swig of pop, his cheek resting against his shoulder. “Can I at least see a picture?”
The word crush thrums in Tomoya’s head. It rings with all the consistency of a million bells, loud and clanging and taking over his life, and has been since Tatsuya said it out loud that one sunny day. After he showed his friend a picture of Matsuoka (or rather, a picture of the both of them; Matsuoka didn’t understand the concept of ‘front camera’ but sure warmed up quick to seeing the two of them on one screen), Tatsuya whistled and yelled for Joshima to come. And sure enough, the memory of his Leader nearly tripping in the sand in a furious attempt to run is already so embarrassing on the forefront Tomoya isn’t sure how to deal with it.
It only gets more embarrassing because he can remember with absolute clarity how Joshima’s eyes brightened. He can remember how excited he became, how he couldn’t believe that when Tomoya said he was ‘having fun’ with his new job he was actually ‘having fun like that’. Tatsuya laughed then, and Tomoya was so mortified he found himself unable to do little more than bury his face in his hands, but still all Joshima could do was sway gently and simply from side to side, happy and proud.
“He’s awfully handsome,” Joshima said, admiring the picture.
The worst thing is that Tomoya blindly (face still covered) answered him with, “He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever met.”
Hottest guy… This echoes in Tomoya’s head too, but in a worse manner because Tomoya can hear it in his own voice. He’d acknowledged it himself--that he found Matsuoka attractive, that he found him the most attractive--and somehow it’s changed everything. So he holds his phone with two hands, his palms sweating uncomfortably, and with his teeth digging into his lip his gaze shifts from the screen beneath him reading Masahiro: At the tracks, where are you? to the garage area where Matsuoka’s no doubt waiting inside.
Today is the fifth race. Tomoya hasn’t seen Matsuoka since bringing him home.
He gulps, pushes the door to the garage open, and tries to keep his cool when Matsuoka turns and greets him with a pleased grin. “Hey!”
It shouldn’t be normal, Tomoya thinks, to get this attached to someone so quickly--to find them so fascinating without knowing enough. But when Matsuoka tosses him a rag for them to get to work on polishing the metal parts, when Matsuoka asks Tomoya how his sleep went, when Matsuoka says that he prepared a bento today for Tomoya to eat--you know, for energy--he realises that normal or not, for the most part he’s just glad to see Matsuoka so happy.
(A tiny voice in Tomoya’s mind wonders: is Matsuoka happy because of him?)
In the middle of his wandering mind, Matsuoka lowers a box of bolts in front of Tomoya’s face. “Look,” he says, and Tomoya’s so out of it he barely recognises what it is until he’s told out loud, “these bolts are lighter than the old ones we used, but they’re exactly the same size at a higher durability. You know what that means?”
“Not really,” Tomoya admits once he’s caught himself, a sheepish expression coming up, and his eyes shut closed just before he feels the tell-tale smack of Matsuoka’s hand on his forehead.
“Okay, well, see,” Matsuoka starts, pulling a bolt out and setting the box down on the floor, “this is lighter, right? On its own it’s only lighter by, what, probably a fifth of a gram compared to the old bolts we were using, but when you put together how many bolts we use in total, it takes off at least five whole grams off your weight.”
“Uhuh.” Tomoya’s brows pull together. “Which means…”
“Which means,” Matsuoka snorts, “you’ll be able to go faster, genius.”
“But that’s just five grams.”
“And it makes a huge difference--” Maybe Tomoya should be listening more, but as it is he’s really just watching the way Matsuoka tosses the bolt from hand to hand like a trick; Matsuoka frowns a little at him, pokes his nose lightly with it, and Tomoya flinches back in surprise. “--trust me, I’d know.”
And Tomoya agrees, because when it comes to his bike, it’s not necessarily wise for him to argue against the man who works on it at all.
“You’re spacey today,” Matsuoka says as they work, tightening a nut with the wrench before setting the tool aside and picking his rag up again, “more than usual, at least. Something happen?”
A crush, Tatsuya coos in his head. Tomoya inhales sharply, feels his hands shake, and then determinedly keeps them steady as he rubs his exhaust pipe to shining. “Not really,” he promises, and while Matsuoka gives him a look like he isn’t buying it, Tomoya sticks his tongue out in reply. “Look, if there was something wrong, I’d let you know, right?”
There’s silence for a while. “I don’t know,” Matsuoka says as he picks up another part to polish, rag moving quick and steady in even strokes, “would you?”
Tomoya frowns, keeping his eyes on his work. “Aren’t we friends?”
For what it’s worth, Matsuoka’s gaze doesn’t lift either. “Are we?”
And for a moment, Tomoya panics. Wonders if maybe Matsuoka knows--if he’s figured it out--if maybe whatever precarious dynamic they’d made together has shattered because of Tomoya’s bizarre and unexplainable feelings. But when Tomoya gulps, his head turning to regard the man at his side, it seems Matsuoka’d been watching him all this time, and that serious expression he wears melts into the smile of a man amused.
“I like you, you know,” Matsuoka says.
The words are honest, true. They speak even more volumes with how soft Matsuoka’s eyes become, how full of simple fondness, how the warmth of them is heightened by how round they are. In return Tomoya lets out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding in, relief washing over him like a flood, and with no delay he returns the kindness shown his way.
“I like you too,” he says, smiling.
Then he pauses.
“Ehhhh--!?”
Tomoya whines over his Matsuoka-made bento, so engrossed in it he barely even notices Aki pulling a piece of tamagoyaki out. “He asked me out on a date! Who does that?”
“Everyone,” Aki says as he takes a bite out of it. It’s just the two of them now, waiting patiently for the race to start, but Tomoya’s stuck on one image: Matsuoka pushing the bento into Tomoya’s waiting hands with a grin, telling him he’ll see him after.
“But--but, but--b-b-but--” Tomoya’s stammering, reduced to a furious mess of repeating syllables, and he thinks so hard about how it is Matsuoka coaxed a confession out of him his head starts to hurt.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Aki mentions, sucking the bits of oil off his fingers and reaching for the water bottle at his side. He takes a good swig out of it, caps the bottle back closed, and sets it down. Tomoya wishes he could move that easily, but his chopsticks are shaking and he thinks he might puke. “Matsuoka’s a cool guy, you’re kind of dweeby but with merit--what’s the harm in going out with him?”
“We work together!”
“So? You never heard the term ‘fraternising’?”
The fact that Aki knows that word aside, Tomoya groans. “You know that term’s used in a negative way for the most part, right?”
And Aki, in a way no-one would be surprised by, says, “Oh.”
He can’t do this. Looking down at his bento and the perfectly packed rice, the sauteed vegetables to the side, the rolled tamagoyaki, and the tonkatsu, he can’t shake the image of Matsuoka kindly laying everything out for him. He was already at the tracks at an absurdly early hour; what time did he wake up to prepare this? Tomoya’s stomach churns and toils with a hearty mixture of anxiety, excitement, guilt, and joy, but he reaches down for a slice of egg and takes a bite out of it regardless (it’s the least he could do).
That it’s delicious doesn’t escape him. Tomoya’s eyes water a little bit, the back of his hand pressing to his mouth as he shuts them closed.
“Is he okay?” Gonzo asks as he comes over, setting his work briefcase down and undoing the knot of his tie. Aki shrugs and adds, “I think he’ll get out of it.”
But to Tomoya’s credit, he finishes the bento. His heartrate steadies, he goes over the fact that Matsuoka asked him out, and the more he considers the thought of them out together--alone--and all the things they could talk about, all the things they could do, all the smiles Matsuoka might give him--the easier it becomes to handle.
He’s happy when Matsuoka is happy. Maybe that’s all that matters.
With steadier fingers he wraps the bento back up in the cloth Matsuoka used to hold it together, unable to keep himself from brushing his fingers over the light purple fabric. It looks old and worn, sentimental and simple, and the more he touches it, the more in awe he is of how soft it is. How kind. How like its owner it is.
Tomoya stays there a while, thinking of how nice Matsuoka’s been so far, and the reminiscence lasts until Shin calls him over for the next race with a hand ruffling his hair. “Let’s go, Tom.”
So with a full stomach and a quickly beating heart, Tomoya looks up and nods, chirping, “You go ahead!” as he picks the wrapped bento up. Suddenly he feels a little shock start in his chest--he notices the kanji for Matsuoka sewn into the corner, the name formed by his lips and written in his mind--and a goofy smile comes up as he jogs to his bike to roll it out.
Matsuoka himself stands there with it, of course. His fingers are curled loosely over the handle, the bike held up on his strength alone, and when Tomoya returns the tied bento Matsuoka rolls the bike forward towards him in reply.
“I finished everything,” Tomoya says. Matsuoka’s lips quirk up, pleased, and as Tomoya’s own hand takes Matsuoka’s place on the handlebar, their fingers brush together.
“You do good out there.”
Tomoya’s throat dries, but he nods his head. “I’ll do my best.”
Matsuoka grins at him. “You’re my racer, Tomo. You’ll be the best.”
On the way to the track, Tomoya’s cheeks burn. And this time, to calm the nerves in his chest, he thinks not of the sea and that first ride, thinks not of the way the wind had whipped around his body or how the sun had shone, but of the way ‘Tomo’ had sounded in Masahiro’s mouth.
The way Aki looked at them as they left is an image that won’t leave Tomoya’s head. He watched, mortified, as his friend flashed a thumbs up, raised both his eyebrows up and down, and made obscene flicks of his tongue, while to his side Masahiro just laughed and laughed and said, “Fuck you, I kiss better than that!”
Which is to say Tomoya’s left thinking of kissing, how Masahiro must kiss, and that proves to make things very difficult when Masahiro reveals some amazing factoid Tomoya feels he should’ve been told earlier: they’re going to ride a motorbike together.
The helmet on his head is red--Tomoya’s favourite colour--and he finds himself wondering if Masahiro came prepared. Was he planning on asking him out all along? Did he not consider the possibility Tomoya would say no? These things clash and bang in Tomoya’s head in the split-second it takes for Masahiro to buckle the fastenings in, and when he says, “Jeez, you look cute.” all Tomoya can do in return is laugh and say “Quit it!”
It’s different holding onto someone, though. The sensation of Masahiro’s back against his chest is something Tomoya’s never felt before--not with anyone--and along with the familiar sensation of an engine purring beneath his thighs, it makes for quite the combination.
“I didn’t know you rode!” Tomoya shouts around the noise.
“I don’t!” Masahiro tells him, voice cracking towards the end. “I just wanted to impress you!”
Tomoya blushes at that, blushes even harder when Masahiro turns his head back for a split-second to offer him a grin, and then finally grasps himself enough to yell, “Watch the road, you jerk!”, his hands jumping forward to land over Masahiro’s own and steer.
The motion is instinctive; he didn’t catch himself doing it before they landed. But now that they touch skin to skin Tomoya’s breath hitches in his throat, and it gets even more intense when Masahiro takes this opportunity to lean back into him.
Tomoya wishes he could bury his face into something, anything, but the helmet makes that impossible.
Masahiro spreads his fingers out just enough for Tomoya’s to fit between the gaps.
The air smells like the city: the smoke of cars, the various smells of street food, and the ever-present scent of asphalt. But above all that is Masahiro’s cologne, like a blanket, and Tomoya wonders if Masahiro can feel the erratic beat of his heart thumping right against his back.
They ride like this, moving at a leisurely pace straight over streets and turning at corners. It isn’t the rush that Tomoya’s used to--isn’t the taste of the sea and the feel of the wind--but it’s enough for him to smile, enough for him to laugh, enough for him to feel excitement if only because Masahiro’s never ridden a bike before, never even tried, but chose to because it’s something Tomoya loves to do. Something settles in his heart: a stone or a fire or a butterfly, he’s not sure; when they finally stop in front of a patisserie, Tomoya almost feels sorry he has to let go.
But Masahiro holds his hand out to him after he gets off. And Masahiro grins at him, confident and shy all at once. And Tomoya’s embarrassed as all hell--he’s not sure how anyone can look so cute--but how can he say no to that?
Naomi pulls Masahiro’s glasses off and runs away.
“So he’s…” Taichi watches Masahiro gasp and toddle after her, watches as he yells ‘I’m gonna get you!’, watches as Naomi giggles and runs faster and Masahiro doesn’t speed up at all. “… your boyfriend?”
“Sort of?” Tomoya can’t stop smiling, elbows on his thighs and hands on his cheeks as he watches Masahiro go. “I mean, he takes me out on dates sometimes! We don’t really call each other ‘boyfriend’, and mostly we just eat out, and we don’t really kiss or anything like that, but…”
“He’s your boyfriend.” Taichi shoots him a look and Tomoya’s face heats up.
“I… yeah. He is.”
And Taichi lets out a ‘huh’, his arms crossing and his legs crossing at the knee. Metres away from them Masahiro picks up the pace, hands landing on Naomi’s tiny waist and picking her up, and Naomi squeals and screams as he seats her atop his shoulders. Tomoya’s heart quails at the sight: Naomi’s awe, Masahiro’s hands holding hers, the sunlight falling on them just right--it’s picturesque, almost, like the sort of thing people advertise in camera commercials. More than that, though, Tomoya just thinks the sight of his best friend’s kid atop his boyfriend’s shoulders is one of the kindest things he could witness.
Before he realises what his hands are doing he’s moved to snap a picture of it. To his left, Taichi chuckles, and when Tomoya looks at him he has his own phone whipped out, too.
“You ever figure out why he quit the MotoGP?” Taichi asks, tucking the device back into his pocket. Tomoya shakes his head, his arms dropping and his hands back on his lap, and he watches as Masahiro brings Naomi over to a tree. He tip-toes as slowly as he can, reaching his arms up to help the little girl’s fingers brush over a branch, and Naomi giggles as happily as a three year old girl can. She’s probably never felt so tall before.
“We’ve talked a lot,” Tomoya says, fingers twirling his phone in circles, “but never about that, I guess. It just…”
“Stopped mattering the more you got to know him.”
Tomoya laughs, looking down at his phone again, at how he has a purple case around it and how tapping the home button has a picture of a handsome man’s goofy face showing on his lock screen. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Something like that.”
“That’s how people work,” Taichi says with a nod. “You start out finding this one thing that’s cool about them--something attractive, you know?” He turns his body just a little to face Tomoya properly, his hands moving to gesture as he speaks; it looks a little bit like he’s holding invisible eggs in both of them. “Something that makes you want to keep talking. Then you find out more, and more, and this idea you had of them that you thought was brilliant--you realise it was a skeleton all along.
“’cause they’re so much more colourful than that. So much more… interesting.”
Tomoya waits for Taichi to say more, but when he doesn’t continue he remarks, “You have a lot more to say about this than I thought.”
“Shit,” Taichi swears, well away from earshot as far as Naomi’s concerned, “that’s why I stayed as your manager even when you guys fucking sucked.”
Tomoya blinks at that, curiosity winning out as he opens his mouth to ask. Taichi catches him, though, and fixes Tomoya with a glare that has him pressing his lips together instead.
He continues without preamble, “You and Yamaguchi and Leader--you guys had heart. And I’m saying, like, you didn’t back down, you know? You were positive about it, you kept trying even when you failed, you wrote these horrible songs but got so proud of just finishing them--”
“Taichi-kun, please.” Tomoya laughs. Every word Taichi speaks is bittersweet.
And Taichi smiles apologetically. “If I’m being honest, I just became your manager ‘cause I was young and stupid and I thought your pretty faces’d carry you through. And… they didn’t, but…”
“But?”
“Look, Nagase, if my kid and I can hang out in a park with you and your weird boyfriend--who you’ve never kissed--and enjoy it, then I gotta say there’s something about you that makes it hard to not want to be around you. And, sure, you don’t got that good a talent for music--” Tomoya pouts and Taichi holds both his hands up in self-defence. “--but I think with the right push you can pretty much do good at anything you try. Even the band thing.”
Taichi smiles and Tomoya smiles back, but all in all it’s a funny thought. He’s doing well as a racer--much better than he ever did as a musician--and he gets to work with his friends, so it’s not like it’s that bad a chore. ‘The band thing’ is something he pushed in the past, something he moved on from. To go back to it so suddenly sounds stupid now that he’s doing so well.
“That being said--” And Tomoya’s surprised out of his thoughts, because he figured Taichi was done talking, but he seems to have a lot to blab about today. “--you really ought to try and kiss that boy one day. Why the hell haven’t you kissed yet?”
“Taichi-kun!” Tomoya squeaks, hands clumsily smacking Taichi’s arms away.
Taichi grins at the same time he reaches one arm out to brush a fist against Tomoya’s cheek. “Go and get ‘em, you gorilla.”
“Get what?” Masahiro asks as he returns, reaching his hands up to pluck Naomi off his shoulders and put her down. “She wants water, by the way.”
On cue two chubby hands reach out, Naomi perking up with a, “Water!”, and in true fatherly nature Taichi’s unable to resist. At the same time he moves to pick the backpack on the grass up, Masahiro sits by Tomoya’s side, an arm slipping around his shoulders with ease.
Naomi glugs and glugs, apparently thirsty after all that running, and once she’s done she looks over at Masahiro with sparkling eyes. “Can we play?” she asks, nearly dropping her jug entirely if not for Taichi’s hands catching them; Masahiro grins because he can’t resist, and he’s about to say ‘yes’ when Taichi stands up instead.
Tomoya’s eyes widen to plate-size. “Matsu-kun’s gonna play with Naga-kun first, if that’s okay.”
“Oh!” Naomi says, head cocking slightly as her gaze shifts to face the men in question. Masahiro doesn’t seem to mind; his fingertips brush absently over Tomoya’s bicep at the same time Tomoya’s cheeks burn and burn--and burn brighter when he feels his boyfriend looking at him, too.
Even from the corner of his eye, the expression on Masahiro’s face tells Tomoya enough about how much he’s figured out. From behind his glasses his eyes are bright with promise, and he pinches Tomoya’s arm once before looking back down at Naomi’s curious face. “Yeah, Tomo and I wanna hang out a bit. But you can play dragon games with your papa too--right, Kokubun-san?” The formality makes Taichi’s nose crinkle, but he does nod his head.
“Okay…” Naomi murmurs, her lips pursing in a child’s version of a pout, but the moment Taichi grabs her hand and starts to take her along, she brightens like the sun.
And Masahiro, bastard that he is, pulls Tomoya a little closer.
“’Go get ‘em’,” he quotes. “What the hell were you and Kokubun-san talking about?”
“You can call him Taichi, you know,” Tomoya says in a pathetic attempt to change the subject. “Everyone calls him Taichi.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It’s none of your business!”
“But it’s making you blush,” Masahiro points out, and Tomoya opens his mouth and closes it, knowing the red on his cheeks can’t very well be explained as a reaction to the weather. They’re sitting in the shade, after all, and the breeze is really very nice, and Masahiro’s arm is strong and safe and--
The tips of his fingers brush over Tomoya’s jaw, drawing goosebumps. “Are you supposed to be getting me?”
Tomoya’s head turns sharply to look at him, but whatever answer he might’ve had dies in his throat in the wake of Masahiro’s fond smile.
“I… I, uh…”
Almost shyly, Masahiro murmurs, “You think I could get you instead?”
And Tomoya’s about to ask ‘what the hell does that even mean’, but Masahiro leans in and kisses him and words don’t seem all that important any more.
If he’ll be honest about it, Tomoya can’t get enough; that first kiss had only been a gateway. Every time they have some moment of privacy he’s either pulling Masahiro over or leaning in for a kiss himself, and every time Masahiro will either fall into it or meet Tomoya halfway. It might be becoming a problem--when Masahiro slips into his car Tomoya’s pulling him over the gearshift, when it’s raining hard and they’re under a bus stop roof they’re pecking, when they have a private little table in a corner no-one can see their lips are touching and their tongues are meeting and--
Quite frankly, Tomoya should be disgusted at himself. What self-respecting man in his thirties kisses as often as he does in as many places as he can? He feels like a teenager--excited at the prospect of physical affection, even more excited at the promises that come along with it--and the concept of it makes his insides twist. But Masahiro’s mouth is so warm, and kind, and soft, and the only reason he isn’t kissing him right now is because Mariko’s still in the garage with them.
His thigh is jumping, though. His teeth are worrying his lip. And he ends up fumbling so much Masahiro laughs and gives him a little smack on the forehead, telling him maybe he ought to take a break while he does the rest of the work on his bike.
“But--” Tomoya starts, only for Masahiro to shoo him off. So now Tomoya sits in the corner, his hands on his cheeks and his eyes the slightest bit half-lidded, and he watches with some undeniable case of fondness as Masahiro smoothly fits all the pieces of his bike back together again.
Mariko doesn’t take as long as Masahiro does. She’s standing up and craning her neck once she’s gotten Shin’s bike up and finished checking the engine; Masahiro, meanwhile, has yet to reassemble the front of Tomoya’s bike at all.
Mariko catches Masahiro’s attention with a ‘yo, I’m out’, he lifts a hand towards her in acknowledgement, and Tomoya feels an unhealthy mix of ashamed and excited the moment she’s out of the garage and the door closes shut behind her. They’re alone now, he and Masahiro, and given that privacy can only mean one thing--
“’hiro?” Tomoya calls.
There’s a thudding noise as Masahiro’s wrench drops to the floor, and Tomoya barely has enough time to brace himself before he’s pulled out of his seat and two hands are on his cheeks. Masahiro steps and steps and Tomoya’s back presses to concrete; his lips part, a gasp between them, and Masahiro’s happy to fill that space with his tongue.
Some underlying meaning must be here--kissing in the room their stunningly quick friendship started. Tomoya’s hair is longer than it was when they first met, his chin and jaw clean-shaven, but Masahiro’s stubble brushes against Tomoya’s skin and the contrast makes his toes curl in his shoes. Heat, impossibly subtle, blooms in the pit of his stomach, and when he says Masahiro’s name a second time he feels the shift in position that leads to Masahiro settling between Tomoya’s spreading legs.
Tomoya’s arms wrap loosely around Masahiro’s shoulders, Masahiro’s own hands slipping down Tomoya’s front and gripping his hips, and when their kiss breaks it’s just so Masahiro can look up at him and grin, his hands warm and huge and moving over Tomoya’s thighs to lift them.
On instinct he wraps his legs around Masahiro’s waist. The proximity makes Tomoya shiver, and he doesn’t miss the wash of heat over Masahiro’s own face before their lips meet again.
“Oh--!” Tomoya flinches the slightest bit when Masahiro’s teeth sketch over his lip and across his jaw, evolving to full-out shivering when that draws a chuckle from the man holding him up. “G-God, Masahiro, that isn’t funny!”
“It’s a little funny,” Masahiro purrs, mouth warm over the column of Tomoya’s throat. His tongue rolls against it and Tomoya’s thighs jump up, and while on one hand he ought to be grossed out, on the other he’s just glad Masahiro finds him tasty. “Sensitive little kid.”
“Calling me a kid makes this--” They smooch, Tomoya melts, and he almost loses his train of thought in the wake of Masahiro’s lips dressing his chin with affection. “--ah--c-creepy, I was going to say creepy.”
Masahiro laughs. “You just act like a kid, is what I meant.”
“But I’m not a kid,” Tomoya says almost immediately; his fingertips skirt the fascinating lines of Masahiro’s bone structure to draw him closer, though, and get their lips touching once more.
Intimacy. The word for this is intimacy. Masahiro kisses him slow and steady in an essentially empty garage, and Tomoya kisses back because there’s nothing else he’s capable of doing.
“Work,” Masahiro murmurs, the word hot in Tomoya’s mouth.
Tomoya swipes the syllable with his tongue. “What?”
“I have to get back to work.”
“No, you don’t.” Sealed with a kiss, Tomoya relishes the sound of Masahiro’s breath hitching, and when his tongue flicks out he’s pleased to feel Masahiro returning the sentiment with ease.
Unfortunately, he pulls back with a wet sound moments after, groaning into Tomoya’s neck. “Fuck--”
“Here?” Tomoya’s breathless himself, but he wraps his arms tight around Masahiro’s shoulders in a hug. “Really?”
“No, idiot!” Masahiro laughs again, but he does pull back to offer Tomoya a warm smile. “I have to work and you have a race to win.”
“I can’t win if you don’t kiss me.”
“You got first place once,” Masahiro says swiftly, “and all I had to do was call you ‘Tomo’.”
But to his credit, Masahiro leans in to give Tomoya one last peck before pulling away. Tomoya’s feet hit the ground again, his arms slip off, and he resists the mighty urge to pout as Masahiro’s fingertips brush over his cheek and tap over the bone with his thumb.
Then the urge goes away entirely when Masahiro coos, “Now let’s put that bike together so we can kiss more before your race starts.”
The sight before them is one for the ages: Tatsuya at 165 centimetres is standing his ground against Masahiro who’s at a whopping 181.
“This is so stupid!” Taichi says, hiding a grin behind his hand. Tomoya nudges him to shut him up.
“Ready!” Joshima calls. “Let’s have a good match!”
And Tomoya starts to cheer the moment the sumo wrestling starts.
Tatsuya and Joshima, lifeguards extraordinaire, live in a house by the beach they rent. It only works because the owner is their boss and lets them stay free on the condition that some of their pay is cut; neither Tatsuya nor Joshima have any big plans in life, though, so it’s not like they need a lot. And the house comes especially handy when it’s time to celebrate the fact that Land Snail Racing is in the semi-finals.
Joshima met Masahiro once before this occasion at a grocery store--had recognised him from the pictures Tatsuya forced Tomoya to show off that one day and immediately went over to say ‘hello’ like it was normal. Masahiro, ever the charming one, only smiled in return and asked if they’d met before, but all Joshima had to do was say he was friends with Tomoya for any walls Masahiro might’ve put up to be torn down immediately.
Sometimes Tomoya really does wonder about the plausibility of fate; it was thanks to Joshima’s reassurance that Tatsuya let Masahiro come along to their home in the first place.
And now Tomoya cheers as his boyfriend is bodily slammed into sand.
“Go, Gussan, go!” he yells, his hands cupped around his mouth.
“Why aren’t you cheering for me!?” Masahiro yells back, but at this point Tatsuya’s gone into a victory dance beside his fallen body, so it’s not like it makes much of a difference.
Tomoya greets Masahiro with a kiss when he comes over to sit beside him, both his hands on his cheeks. “Nobody beats Gussan, ‘hiro.”
“I can tell.”
Masahiro’s not new to hanging out with Tomoya’s friends, that day with Taichi and Naomi a weighty victory under his belt along with the night spent with Land Snail Racing, but the way he acts with Tomoya’s band friends makes it seem as if he’s known them for years. He barbecues meat over the grill, taking orders like a champ and setting them on a plate that Joshima holds out, laughs at all of Tatsuya’s dirty jokes, and listens as Taichi rambles about his beautiful wife and child. He interacts easily, smoothly, and save for his distress when Tatsuya starts teasing him with a snake he caught in the sand, Masahiro is for all intents and purposes an easily-fitting cog in the machine of what once was JURIA.
The day is filled to bursting with joy--sun and surf and laughter. Masahiro and Tatsuya compete over just about everything, Taichi and Tomoya build castles, and Joshima brings seashells back to decorate them (along with writing little ballads and epics of King Taichi and Sir Tomoya, the Shining Knight). They go swimming, save for Joshima who turns into a merman under Taichi’s expert sand-sculpting hands, and later, when they’re tired and beat and tanned from their fun, Joshima brings out a guitar while Tatsuya sits on a beatbox; Masahiro lights a fire that crackles and reaches for the sky.
It’s a nostalgic thing, seeing Joshima hold a guitar again, but Tomoya doesn’t say this out loud. True to his reputation, however, Taichi points out a “You guys can’t sing.” and gets Tatsuya’s middle finger in response right before bursting into laughter. Joshima scolds Tatsuya for it with a light slap to his wrist, but Tomoya’s laughing at how Tatsuya pouts, at how Joshima’s eyes smile, and how Taichi himself is still laughing; even Masahiro chuckles a little, and without much thought Tomoya presses the smallest kiss to his shoulder.
Still, Joshima starts to play and Tatsuya starts to tap. The song is familiar and old, and while it takes a moment to sink in, Tomoya knows that the look of recognition that flashes across his eyes is the same one Taichi wears. (Masahiro obviously doesn’t know it, but he also doesn’t seem to mind.)
“’Love You Only’?” Taichi claims, crinkling his nose. “Wasn’t that your opening song on the last album? It goes quicker than that.”
“We re-arranged it,” Joshima explains, strums simple and gentle in time with Tatsuya’s thumping. “Made it less childish, more mature. I don’t know why we thought making a pop song was a good idea.”
“Pop is popular,” Tatsuya says.
“Yeah,” Joshima agrees, “but it just wasn’t the JURIA sound, was it?”
Masahiro raises his hand. “What’s the JURIA sound?”
“Dude, we’re not in school,” Taichi teases. “Put your hand down.” So Masahiro does, taking the opportunity to slip his arm around Tomoya’s shoulders and pull him a little tighter.
Tomoya’s cheek thumps onto his shoulder, warm and blushing. “Leader, Gussan, and I wanted to write rock music.”
“Nuh-uh,” Tatsuya pipes up. “That was all you and Shige! I just wanted cash.”
“Well.” Tomoya laughs. “I guess Leader and I wanted to and Gussan’s too cool to want anything. Better?”
“Much.”
“But what’s the JURIA sound?” Masahiro ferrets in.
Joshima strums his guitar a little harder for emphasis. “This, Matsuoka-kun!” And then he returns to an easier pace, leaning to the side and offering Tatsuya a smile. Tatsuya clears his throat and fumbles through a beat, but catches himself after. “This is what we wanted to sound like.”
Masahiro stares. Joshima smiles at him.
“That doesn’t help at all,” Taichi snorts, and Joshima’s shoulders slump at the same time Tatsuya bursts out into laughter. “Oi, Nagase! Sing a little.”
So Tomoya jumps a little, eyes wide. “Eh?”
“The JURIA sound isn’t complete without their vocalist, right?” Taichi offers, and the tone of his voice speaks volumes of how he can’t believe he’s having this conversation at all. “You know how Love You Only goes--wait, does this thing have the same lyrics?”
“Of course it has the same lyrics,” Tatsuya says. “That’s the point of a re-arrange.”
Joshima nods in agreement, then turns to face Tomoya with a smile. “Now you come in.”
Tomoya blinks once more, brain still catching up. “I come in.”
“As in you sing, Nagase,” Taichi says.
“I…” He swallows, momentarily uncertain, but Masahiro gives him a little ruffle to his hair.
“They won’t let it go until you do, Tomo,” he teases, and while Tomoya’s tempted to say you just want to hear me make a fool of myself, he lets out a sigh and smiles up at him because Masahiro’s not necessarily wrong.
It’s been a long while since he last sang for any reason besides showering--a long while since he had Love You Only on the brain. But as Joshima’s fingers shift over the frets and play the opening chord before the lyrics start, Tomoya sings as if on instinct: “I’m so in love with you…”
And it feels… good.
He’s rusty, certainly, and on that note, this isn’t even the Love You Only that JURIA recorded for their last album. It’s slower, and it’s lower, and it fits Tomoya’s range a little better, and it sounds so much like a proper love song now--one that isn’t sung by silly boys with no experience--he’s not sure what to think.
In a way, Tomoya always assumed he threw his old life away. He thought that every memory of it was set aside when he bought his very first Harley, but it comes back with a fresh wave of nostalgia, feeling good in his throat and on his tongue even when his voice cracks a bit.
The fire is warm; the night air is cool. The sand is soft under Tomoya’s toes when he wiggles them, and the smiles of his friends give him power in a way he remembers they always did when he was on stage.
Except now there’s more than Joshima and Tatsuya. Now Taichi isn’t backstage with silent support. And now there’s Masahiro, who grips Tomoya a little tighter as he reaches high notes he hasn’t tried to reach in ages.
The song doesn’t last very long; Tomoya finishes with a final I’m so in love with you before burying his face into Masahiro’s arm. But its meaning isn’t any less poignant--on the contrary, Tomoya thinks he feels relieved.
For so long Love You Only was simply the first song in JURIA’s last album: a memory of failure and what could have been. And while Tatsuya and Joshima have always operated on different wavelengths from Tomoya himself, he thinks he understands the re-arrangement this time--understands what it means to have a JURIA sound and why it’s so important.
Pop music for popularity, the rock music they wanted.
His friends are clapping for him, and Tomoya laughs sheepishly and tries to wave at all of them to shut up.
Still, Taichi manages to sneak in a, “Dude, that sounded so much better than the one on the album.”
It’s a little past three in the morning when they stumble into the guest room of Joshima and Tatsuya’s beach house, Tomoya giggling and Masahiro trying to shush him before they fall into bed.
“I haven’t sang that much in so long,” Tomoya whispers, wrapping his arms around Masahiro’s shoulders at the same time he tilts his head back. Little kisses are pressed to his neck, just enough for Tomoya to squirm and laugh, but Masahiro eventually settles with his face pressing into his chest and his arms curling around Tomoya’s waist.
His voice is low, purring. “You sure? You sounded too good to be inexperienced.”
“You’re just saying that ‘cause we’re dating.”
“True,” Masahiro agrees, lifting himself up and kissing Tomoya’s chin. Tomoya laughs again, but he basks in the attention--smiles in the dim light as he runs his fingers through Masahiro’s hair while Masahiro speaks into his jaw. “But also because your voice is the sweetest thing I’ve heard.”
“I think you’re biased,” Tomoya breathes, tugging Masahiro’s head up properly to look at him.
And Masahiro grins, warm and fond. “I think you’re dumb.”
Then he kisses him, and any argument Tomoya has dies on his tongue.
All the while, they’re smiling. Laughing as they kiss and pull back, as their mouths touch and then break away. There’s shyness there, somewhere, but Tomoya’s arms wrap tighter, surer; on the way, Masahiro’s hands drift to grip the back of Tomoya’s neck and the narrow slice of flesh between the hem of his shorts and the end of his shirt.
“It was really,” Masahiro murmurs past their last kiss, their noses touching, “really nice-sounding.”
Tomoya nuzzles him, face and body warm. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because you don’t believe me.”
They kiss once more, sweet and happy, and Tomoya isn’t surprised when Masahiro manoeuvres them enough for Tomoya to lie atop him. It’s not like they haven’t flirted with the possibility--they’ve kissed long enough, hot enough, for the want for something more to edge towards the surface, but never quite had the guts, the time, the space for it. But now Tomoya’s gasping into Masahiro’s open mouth, his hands curling into his shoulders, and Masahiro’s hands have stroked high enough along his back that it feels like Tomoya’s shirt is going to be pulled off his body.
A flick of his tongue, and then Masahiro’s lying back, his fingertips brushing along the knobs of Tomoya’s spine. “Lift your arms,” he purrs, “little songbird.”
“I’m taller than you!” Tomoya whisper-shouts, but that’s primarily to take away from the fact that his face is on fire. He knows that it’s dark all around them--that they can only barely make each other out in the black--but there’s a significant difference from being naked for Masahiro in fantasy and being naked for him with the man in the room.
Masahiro pecks him out of his stupor. “Yeah,” he agrees, “but you’re also too shy to get your shirt off without me doing it for you.”
“Why do you--” Tomoya makes some indignant noise. “--why do you want me out of my shirt, anyway?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
Yes, he does, but the sound of Masahiro’s laughter is sweet and honest and Tomoya can’t get enough of it.
“You’re a terrible liar, Tomo,” Masahiro says, and whether Tomoya tugs his arms up or not doesn’t seem to matter. His shirt is pulled higher, and higher, and when the garter of it argues against Tomoya’s shoulders, Masahiro only pulls harder until Tomoya’s arms are forced to lift on their own.
The cotton slips up and off, a whisper over Tomoya’s skin and hair. Masahiro tosses it aside, and Tomoya’s not sure if he’s shivering because of the cold or because of the callused hands that brush over exposed flesh.
“Ah--” Tomoya flinches at the touch of a thumb to his nipple, pressing and then circling, but whatever argument he might’ve made is swallowed by the mouth that so insistently starts to kiss him once more.
Masahiro’s tongue moves slowly, sweetly. It’s nothing Tomoya’s not already used to, not by a longshot, but the addition of fingers pressing and squeezing over his skin is enough to get him light-headed. Masahiro touches him as reverently as he treats him; he leaves no stone unturned, no inch of his torso untouched. The ends of his nails, blunt and curved, crawl down Tomoya’s torso and up his back--Tomoya moans, sighs, and feels himself arch into Masahiro’s touch when his palms slide back down to grip his ass.
Tomoya breaks away just to breathe, whimpering the slightest bit when Masahiro’s hands knead and squeeze. His shorts are tightening, the space between his legs heating, and while his first instinct is to lift his hips away, Masahiro presses down enough for their bodies to be flush together.
“’hiro,” Tomoya breathes.
“Yeah.” Masahiro exhales, and they turn just enough for Tomoya’s back to press into the mattress, his legs falling apart and Masahiro fitting right between them. They’ve been like this multiple times, have been locked in arms and legs so many other occasions besides now, but this time when Tomoya’s back arches and his hips press to the bed, Masahiro’s own hips only press lower, and the feel of another cock pressed to his own makes Tomoya keen at the same time Masahiro groans into his jaw.
“’hiro,” Tomoya says again, the name dissolving on his tongue as Masahiro starts to rock against him. “Ah--ah, ‘hiro--”
“Yeah.”
And even though he’s acknowledged--even though Masahiro speaks--they don’t stop moving. Their hips roll, writhe, press and move, and Tomoya clutches into Masahiro’s shirt just for something to hold onto.
And Masahiro kisses him just to moan into his mouth.
It’s an elementary form of relief, rutting against your lover like this, but as far as first times go Tomoya can’t say he’s complaining. They kiss, hands all over, they press and rub and promise, and by the time both their flies are open and Masahiro’s thick fingers grip them both, it doesn’t take much for Tomoya to come--white and sticky and thick over Masahiro’s fist.
Coming back to the track is a little embarrassing. In the one day they’d spent out in the sun both Tomoya and Masahiro have become considerably tan, and Aki points it out with a finger and a laugh on his lips, teasing about romantic getaways and tropical fun.
“We were with friends, Aki-kun,” Tomoya scoffs.
And Aki follows it up with, “Doesn’t mean you guys didn’t fuck.”
Tomoya spits his water out at the same time Shin smacks Aki upside the head, but given Aki’s laughing again, it’s not like any of that really matters. Tomoya’s cheeks burn, his hand rapidly rubbing at his wet mouth, but more than embarrassment it’s more a direct reaction to the memories that burn in his head.
Of Masahiro’s hand, uncurling from them both.
Of Masahiro’s fingers, brushing come over Tomoya’s lips and telling him to suck them clean.
He shakes his head rapidly, furious (as if it’s not his fault he won’t stop remembering), and when he comes back to himself he sees everything’s settled down around him.
“Friends,” is what Shin says as he sits by Tomoya’s side. “You guys have fun, at least?”
Tomoya nods and smiles. He can at least think that much and not want to bash his head in. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we did. We were out with JURIA, you know?”
“Thought you guys broke up?” Shin asks, surprised. Tomoya nods again, taking a proper gulp of water now that Aki isn’t pestering him. “We did,” he affirms, “yeah. A few years back. But we’re still friends, you know. Me, Leader, Gussan, Taichi-kun…”
“And now Matsuoka, huh.”
Tomoya grins sheepishly. “I couldn’t leave him behind.”
“Good,” Shin says, giving Tomoya a pat on the shoulder. “Because if you did, I think he’d have texted me all day moping about it.”
Tomoya laughs as Shin gets back to his feet, saying something about going to check on his bike and Mariko--about how he hopes it’s his turn next to get lucky with his mechanic, and why couldn’t I have been into guys like you, Tom? Regardless, Tomoya shakes his head, watching his friend go for a grand total of three seconds before it hits him--
“Wait, since when’ve you and ‘hiro been talking about me!?”
And Tomoya would’ve run after him too, but Aki grabs his wrist and pulls him back with a little click of his tongue.
“Best you don’t ride that thought,” he says sagely, but the illusion is promptly shattered when he adds, “and ride Matsuoka instead like he wants you to.”
Tomoya sputters. “What!?”
He only has fifteen minutes to try and strangle answers out of Aki before Gonzo separates them both, and even then it’s to remind them they’ve got to roll their bikes out. Needless to say, the images in Tomoya’s head have increased in danger levels, and he’s starting to wonder if exploding on the track really is possible.
Part 3
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