Archive of Our Own ^beta

i. june

It's hot.

It's summer proper, though June is still new, and damp heat drapes itself along Daichi's shoulders like an overeager lover. He's soaked in sunlight and sweat when he straightens up from underneath the hood of the car he's been inspecting for the past half hour, stretches, and breathes out a weighty sigh made heavier still by the pressure of the heat and the stillness of the air.

The black-on-orange crow logo on the front door of the Karasuno auto garage seems to shimmer under the relentless light of the sun. Daichi glances around at his employees--most of whom are in various states of withering from sun exposure--and wonders if it's worth the trouble to call the air conditioning maintenance crew one more time, just to see if they can't come in any earlier than next week. Working outdoors is draining the life from everyone Daichi lays eyes on.

Well, almost everyone, anyway.

Hinata and Kageyama--who are two of the most brilliant and most stress-inducing new hires Daichi's ever taken on--are putting on their usual show of heat-defying exuberance: Kageyama is taking sharp swipes at Hinata with a grease-stained rag, and Hinata, in between side-steps, is shouting about Kageyama being his personal mechanic when he becomes a professional street racer.

 "You can't be a professional street racer, dumbass. Street racing is illegal," Kageyama snaps, whipping the rag at Hinata again.

 "No way," Hinata gasps, as startled as though Kageyama had just told him the earth was not, in fact, round. He turns to Daichi, wide-eyed and pleading, and says, "Is that true, Sawamura-san?"

 Daichi hides a snort in the damp collar of his t-shirt. Suga speaks up for him and says, not unkind, "Sorry, Hinata, but that's the truth."

"How could you possibly not know that?" asks Tsukishima, who's on his way out of the garage at the end of his shift. His glasses are sweat-slick and slide down the bridge of his nose almost every time he blinks, so the look he gives Hinata carries only half the derisive impact he'd likely intended it to have. "There's no way you couldn't know. Tell me you're kidding. "

Yamaguchi--who's been hosing oil off the pavement outside and looks like he's close to wilting under the heat--turns to Tsukishima and says, "I don't think he's kidding, Tsukki…Hinata, did you really not know that? I thought you've always wanted to race."

"I have!" Hinata nearly wails, ducking under Kageyama's arm one last time. Kageyama heaves a grating sigh and gives up, tucking the rag back into his belt as he sits down on the pavement.

 "You can still race, Hinata," Daichi says, placating. "There are plenty of professional circuits in Japan. You'll be able to race almost anywhere--as long as you're fast enough, anyway."

 Hinata blanches a bit at the dig, but that doesn't last long--he balls up his fists at his side, lifts his chin, and says, "It's not about being a professional, Sawamura-san. I want to build the best car Japan's ever seen--and then I want to win every race I enter. That's my goal!"

 "Alright, alright," Daichi says, chuckling. He recognizes that sort of passion, to be sure, feels an echo of it in his own blood--but he knows the value of practicality, of staying grounded, of waiting and wishing and working. "But before you do that, you should probably learn how to change out the oil like you're supposed to be doing. How's that for a start?"

Kageyama barks out a laugh, and Hinata executes what would have been a spectacular flying tackle if Kageyama hadn't rolled away at the last second. And then they're off again, chasing each other around the parking lot with all the energy Daichi can feel seeping from him under the June sky.

Daichi shakes his head, wipes his brow, and turns to Suga, who's eyeing Hinata and Kageyama like just watching them is making him tired. He says, gesturing to the heat haze rising off the metal of the car next to them, "I'm not sure how much business we can handle in this sort of heat. Especially without the air conditioning working properly…"

 "Oh, don't say that," Suga chides, frowning. "I'm sure we're going to have plenty of business this summer! Just you wait and see, Daichi."

 "Right," Daichi says. Suga gives him a look that says he'd give Daichi a solid jab to the ribs if he could summon the energy to lift his arms, and Daichi tries for a little more confidence this time as he rephrases. "You're right. This summer will be a good one."

ii. 

Daichi knows something is going on the minute he steps into the garage on one particular mid-June morning. 

Usually 'something going on' means Kageyama and Hinata are trying to build engines out of scrap metal, or Nishinoya has found the blowtorch again (Daichi doesn't know why they still keep that around the garage, honestly), or someone somewhere is doing something to make Daichi's 'trouble radar' go off. Today, Daichi's trouble radar is silent; today Daichi knows something's off because Takeda, who does accounting and advertising and god-only-knows what else, is currently in the garage, looking entirely too worked up.

Tanaka isn't helping; he's shirtless, as usual, and making sharp and generally vulgar gestures that Daichi thinks are meant to explain something about pistons firing. Takeda is nodding, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked, when Daichi reaches them.

"Daichi-san!" Tanaka says, grinning, "Look, Take-chan came by to--" 

"Put your shirt on, please," Daichi interrupts. "I'm sure you came to work wearing one, right?"

Tanaka looks vaguely put out, but dashes off to do so anyway. Daichi sighs and turns to Takeda, who's pushing his glasses further up on his nose and offering a bright smile.

"Tanaka-kun is very energetic," Takeda says. He's slightly out of breath, which isn't surprising; Tanaka's level of energy is always rather impressive, even now, given the heat.

"You could say that again."

 "In a good way, of course--oh! Is Ukai-kun around? I have some interesting news!"

 "I'm not sure..." Daichi purses his lips, scans the garage. "Ennoshita! Make sure Tanaka's wearing a shirt--and then see if Ukai-san is in the front office, would you?"

 Ennoshita looks up from his paperwork with the same slightly harassed look Daichi himself so often wears, nods, and heads off in the direction Tanaka had gone. For the umpteenth time this week, Daichi is grateful that at least one member of his junior staff has their head on level.

 Ennoshita need not go far, though; he's still manipulating Tanaka into putting on his shirt when Ukai--the current owner of the Karasuno garage (not that you'd guess from looking at him)--stomps into the garage proper.

 "Found him," Ennoshita calls, dry, from the other end of the garage.

 Daichi gives Ennoshita a wave and turns his attention back to Ukai, who's growling, "You called me sixteen times in thirty minutes. I just saw you two hours ago--the hell's going on?"

 "I managed to get in contact with Nekomata-san!" Takeda is grinning ear to ear, and Ukai sort of looks like he's choking. Daichi wonders if he should be worried. "One of his drivers is going to be in the local race this summer, and they agreed to work with our garage!"

 "What?"

Takeda beams, bounces on his toes. "He's here right now, actually."

Ukai makes a noise caught somewhere between pissed off and stunned, and Takeda has to nudge him into movement again. He herds Ukai back through the garage and into the front office and Daichi, wondering what exactly Takeda's gotten them into, follows in their wake.

In the front office, when they arrive, is a man who looks to be around Daichi's age. He's all long legs in well-fitting pants and broad, sharp shoulders; very much that edgy kind of handsome, if Daichi's honest. There's something about him, though--the keen edge of his gaze and the canny little smirk on his face, maybe--that lends him the air of a cleverly-rigged game at the fair. That same something is what makes Daichi bristle when he offers his hand and a faux-genuine smile.

(He has a strong grip, though. Daichi thinks that says something about him.)

"This is Kuroo-kun," Takeda says, with an excited little bob of his head. "He's considering hiring our garage to fix up his car before the--you know--"

"The summer race?"

Takeda's smile is ear-to-ear. "Yes! I'm sure you've heard of the group he's affiliated with--they're called Nekoma--though they haven't worked with our garage in quite some time."

"Always movin' around like a bunch of stray cats," Ukai says, gruff. "The old man who gets 'em their cars used to race with my gramps."

Takeda, at Ukai's shoulder, is a ray of eager enthusiasm; Daichi can't help but smile before thanking him, sincere, and turning to Kuroo, who gives Daichi a quick once-over and a too-bright smile as he gestures outside. 

"The car's out front if you wanna take a look," Kuroo says.

Daichi resists the urge to reply with a somewhat less-than-polite well, that is my job, and follows Kuroo out to the parking lot.

Sitting under the high noon sun, gleaming bright enough to make Daichi squint, is a car so slick even rain wouldn’t stick to it, lipstick red and just as glossy. It's clearly meant for racing--the lines of it scream speed and aerodynamic efficiency--and Daichi approaches it the same way one would a sleeping beast: he keeps a few feet between himself and the humming mass of hot metal and dark glass, listens for the lively purr of the engine. Daichi would say six cylinders, though whatever modifications lie under the hood are anyone's guess.

"Not bad, huh," Kuroo says. He's a few feet away, hand on hip, watching as Daichi walks circles around his car. Daichi wonders if he always seems so smug, or if that's just an unfortunate first impression.

Nonetheless: "Yeah, not bad at all…and you want modifications?"

"More like maintenance and the occasional upgrade if necessary. I'll be driving pretty often over the next few weeks."

 Kuroo's voice drops low and firm, and something about the way he says it--determined, like he's got a goal in mind--piques Daichi's interest, makes him look at Kuroo straight on.

 "Oh?"

 Kuroo's shrug is airy, lighter than his voice would belie. "Practice makes perfect, y'know."

 Interesting, Daichi thinks; he gives the car one last look, circles back around, meets Kuroo's eyes. He can feel it in his gut already: this is going to be interesting. "The race is in August, right?"

 "Yeah." Kuroo's smile spreads slow; he cocks his head, looks between Daichi and his car like he's issuing a challenge. "How 'bout it?"

 "Deal," Daichi says, and when they shake on it Daichi feels the pressure down to his bones.

iii.

It's been a week since Kuroo's first visit, and progress is….slow.

 Slow meaning negligible, and negligible meaning nonexistent; Daichi's spent a solid seven days just thinking about what to do with this sort of situation.

 'This sort of situation' being that Daichi is officially--thanks to some nudging from Takeda and Ukai's blessing--in charge of fixing up Kuroo's car for the race in August, which is all well and good--except for the fact that Daichi's never headed up work on a street racer before. Especially not for an event so big, either. The race commemorates the end of summer and heralds the coming of winter--which means icy roads and frozen-up engines and a general decrease on the number of races possible for the season--and is well on its way to becoming a local tradition. And, like that isn't incentive enough, there's also a prize on the line: an obscene amount of money, the kind of money Daichi doesn't even want to think about because he's sure it'll give him some sort of headache.

 "Are you ever going to stop moping and actually work?"

 Daichi frowns up at Suga, who's armed with an oversized screwdriver and a fresh grease rag. He crosses his arms over his chest and says, firm, "I'm not moping." 

"Then what would you call this?" Suga asks, gesturing expansively with the screwdriver at...well, at everything in his immediate surroundings, really, but mostly at Daichi, who's been sitting at his desk for three hours and hasn't moved once.

 "Thinking."

"Right." There isn't a single ounce of belief in Suga's voice, and Daichi can't fault him for it. "Well, what're you thinking about?"

"Work."

 Suga gives him a you're being difficult look--brows drawn, disappointed frown, the works--and says, "What's the problem, then?" 

"I haven't done much work with this kind of car before," Daichi admits, staring into the murky depths of this morning's now-cold coffee. "I don't….I don't really know where to start."

Suga hums, looks skyward in thought. "It would probably help if we could see Kuroo in action--oh!"

His face is lit up when Daichi looks at him again; it's with a warranted measure of apprehension that Daichi asks, "What?"

 "He said something about a race when he came by the other day. We should go!"

"…what?"

 "A race! Not an organized race or anything. I think it's just him and a few friends. It could be a good experience, though--it'll be fun, and you'll get a chance to see how he uses the car."

 Daichi blinks slow, shakes his head. "...okay. How do you know all of this stuff?"

 "It's called talking." Suga puts his hands on his hips, gives Daichi another one of those looks. "You should try it, Daichi."

 "Alright, alright," Daichi concedes, because he does trust Suga's judgment. "We'll go."

 Suga brandishes the screwdriver again, this time in victory. "Good! Now, if you're ready to get back to work, I think Hinata and Kageyama need help with the tires."

iv.

Now, Daichi's seen plenty of organized races. Hell, when he was younger he'd dreamed of being a racer; it was only natural that a good number of his formative years were spent in front of the television or in the spectator seats lining open-air racing tracks, watching cars fly over pavement like fresh-fired bullets.

 Daichi thought he'd seen it all; but he's never seen anything quite like this.

 This isn't some well-organized spectator sport; this is three cars, a back street just out of reach of the noise and bustle of the city, and a crowd the likes of which--in both size and variety--Daichi has never before seen in one place before. It's the sporadic swell of engines growling; it's heat rising out of tailpipes in waves; it's Daichi's heartbeat tripping over itself as he looks out over the lights and the impending rush of it all.

It's exciting.

 Suga says as much when they get there; he's staring slack-mouthed at sleek cars, pure enthusiasm reflected in the light in his eyes, looking very much the way Daichi feels. Daichi doesn't blame him at all.

 "This is so cool," Suga breathes.

 Daichi nods, too busy marveling to say anything. The atmosphere is washed in awe, and Daichi finds himself wide-eyed, trying to take in everything all at once; though, naturally, as always, the first things to catch his attention are the three cars lined up and primed and waiting on the street.

 They're works of art in their own right, especially the car closest to them. It's Kuroo's; Daichi can tell by the slick black paint job and the smug purr of its engine and the person leaning up against its hood (tall, lanky, distinctly recognizable bedhead). It's a beautiful piece of machinery, Daichi has to admit--no matter how its owner comes off.

 Suga catches him looking that way. He grins, elbows Daichi in the side, and says, "We came here to watch him race. You might as well go talk to him."

 He gives a pointed look to Daichi's arms, which are crossed over his chest; Daichi folds them tighter, purses his lips, and, after a moment of deliberation, heads over to the cars.

 Kuroo glances up once when he sees Daichi coming--and then he looks up again, like he's seeing something out of place, something he can't quite identify. That confusion is gone by the time Daichi reaches him, though; all that's left of it is a smile--welcoming, if not a bit surprised.

 "Hey." Kuroo says, rocking upright off the hood of the car. Daichi watches him straighten up into something a shade nobler than his seemingly customary lazy slump and stretch, arms above his head, movements already fluid, before he gestures to nothing in particular. "How about it? Pretty cool, yeah?"

 Yes is Daichi's instinctive and genuine response; he swallows that down, though, and says something a little less wholly impressed. "Yeah. But aren't these illegal?"

 Kuroo grins, says, "Only if you get caught," and really, Daichi's already got the feeling he shouldn't have expected anything less.

 "How often does that happen?"

 "Hmm…" Kuroo taps his lip, pensive. His eyes light up wicked and bright after a moment of thought. "Bokuto over there--" he points at a midnight black racer studded with first-place-gold detailing, whose engine, even from a distance, is loud enough to rival Kuroo's "--once lost so badly that he quit early and parked in the middle of the street and almost got arrested…and Oikawa actually did get arrested a month ago, but that was just for a noise violation."

 The second car, a few yards away, is bleach-white, here and there streaked with clean mint-green accents; it's on and running, but its engine is quiet as a hush. Daichi raises an eyebrow. "Noise violation?"

 Kuroo laughs. "Yeah. Oikawa's boyfriend--if you ever meet him, don't tell him I called him that--is a cop, so he wouldn't arrest Oikawa for anything that could really get him in trouble. Noise violations, though…"

 "Ah," Daichi says, trying not to sound too nonplussed. "So it happens pretty often."

 "More or less." Kuroo's all smiles and cheer; a little odd, considering he'd just been discussing his friends' arrest records, but Daichi can respect that resilient kind of enthusiasm.

 A ways off, the crowd gathering on the sidelines takes up their volume with new vigor; Daichi spots someone making their way toward the street, head and shoulders twice over above the surrounding spectators.

 "That's Lev," Kuroo says, lifting his chin; "…that's Lev," he repeats, this time long-suffering, as the aforementioned mass of thin limbs disappears briefly below crowd level.

 Lev reappears on hands and knees at the edge of the crowd. He pops to his feet (and only gets tangled up in his own legs once, which earns him an approving noise from Kuroo) and bounces over to Kuroo's car, all mile-long strides and swinging arms, and when he stops just short of them, beaming, Daichi realizes he doesn't even come up to one of Lev's glittery tiger-print shoulders. Lev is three days' worth of slim legs in skintight leather and thick-soled shiny black boots, tall enough that even Kuroo has to tilt his head a fraction to look up at him.

 "Kuroo-san!" Lev chirps, eager, looking like he's barely holding himself back from bouncing on the spot. "Can I ride with you today?"

 Kuroo doesn't answer; instead he raises an eyebrow, gives Lev a quick once-over, plucks at the shoulder of his shirt. "Who dressed you? Yaku never would've let you out of the house in this."

 "Well--"

 "Did you change after you left?"

 Lev lets out a nervous laugh, rubs at the back of his head. "Well, Yaku-san gave me these pants, but the shirt was so plain! And Kozume-san said I should do what I wanted, so…"

 In this moment, Kuroo reminds Daichi of a kindergarten teacher trying not to laugh at something one of their students had done so as not to encourage them: he pinches the bridge of his nose, shakes his head, and says, "You're fine for now, but don't let Yaku catch you wearing that."

 Lev looks down at the sequined tiger-print shirt hanging from his shoulders. "But it's so cool!"

 "Of course it is," Kuroo says, dry. "And no, you can't ride along. You're too tall to fit in the car."

 "I can make myself smaller!"

 "And how would you do that? Besides, you're supposed to be starting the race, remember? That's just as important."

 Lev goes bright all over and straightens up even further (which is sort of concerning, because, really, how tall is he?) before pulling a bright red square of fabric from his back pocket. "I can do that!"

 "That's good to hear," Kuroo says. He reaches up, claps Lev on the shoulder, spins him, gives him a push. "Now, get on the starting line. And don't move until after we've gone past you--if you get hurt, Yaku's gonna kill you and me both."

 "Got it!"

 Daichi watches Lev skip off, glittering threefold in the glare of headlights, to take his place at the starting line: a straight slash drawn in thick yellow paint, run through and through with impatient tire marks. Lev straddles it, unfurls the handkerchief, snaps it open with a sharp flick of his wrist that seems more dangerous than befits the child-wide set of his eyes.

 "Does he not race?" Daichi asks, gesturing in Lev's direction. Kuroo rolls his eyes.

 "Not yet," Kuroo says, "and not for lack of trying. He's a model, if you'd believe it…he came out here to take some pictures at first and ended up sticking around."

 "A model, huh…"

 "He's a good kid." On either side of them, Bokuto and Oikawa are rolling closer to the starting line; Kuroo, in accordance, swings open the door of his own car, throws Daichi a sly sideways glance and a matching smirk. "You wanna ride?"

 There's a part of Daichi--a large one--that wants to know if Kuroo's special skills, beyond racing, include the ability to make anything sound like a poorly veiled innuendo; and there's another part of him, smaller only in the slightest, that wants to say yes, because there's something in the atmosphere--a hint of adrenaline lacing the gasoline-tinted air, maybe--that makes Daichi think getting in that too-slick racer might be a novelty he wants to assess for himself.

 But he's not here for that rush. Not today.

 "I'll watch," Daichi says, gesturing toward the crowd gathering on the sidelines. When he turns that way he catches sight of Suga, who's lifting his hand to wave and grinning like he knows something--or like he's grinning at Kuroo, who's looking over Daichi's head and in Suga's direction.

"That's Sugawara, yeah?"

"Huh?" Kuroo's waving at Suga, and Suga's waving back, and that grin is only getting wider. Damnit. "Ah--yeah, that's him."

 Kuroo turns back to Daichi, still smiling. "Thought he looked familiar."

 "Yeah, well. You'll get used to seeing him around soon enough--look, you should be in your car already, right? I'll get out of your way."

"What, you're not gonna wish me luck?"

 Daichi glances over his shoulder, raises an eyebrow. "D'you need it?"

 Kuroo's smile goes wide, bright, belligerent. His voice is still even, though, and he's all confidence when he says,  "No, but isn't that the thing to say before a race?"

 Daichi understands that. He can appreciate the need for a bit of sentiment, for a sense of commemoration--but the look in Kuroo's eyes reads more like a challenge, and Daichi's never been able to turn one down.

 "Well," Daichi says, glancing down the length of Kuroo's car with deliberate slowness, "how about this: when--if--" and that purposeful slip makes Kuroo's eyes go narrow "--you lose, we'll talk shop over dinner. Your treat."

 Kuroo grins, slides into his car, shuts the door. Daichi raises an eyebrow as Kuroo rolls down the window, leans out, and says, "So you're taking me to dinner when I win?"

 His grin is cocky, competitive, begrudgingly infectious; Daichi can't help but let a shade of the same sneaky expression slip onto his face. "If you win, yes."

 "I'm free Thursday night," Kuroo says, giving Daichi what looks an awful lot like a poorly executed wink. "We can talk details at the finish line."

 Daichi rolls his eyes, says, "Fine. I'll see you there," and turns, sharp, determined not to encourage Kuroo any further. He only makes it about five feet, though, before Kuroo's engine cranks from a purr to a roar--once, twice--and when he looks over his shoulder, Kuroo, still grinning, tosses him a wave before pulling away towards the starting line.

 Suga is waiting when Daichi reaches the edge of the crowd; he's grinning, eyes bright in a way that means absolutely nothing good. When Daichi raises an eyebrow, he says, "You were over there for a while."

 "We were talking," Daichi says, ignoring the intonation in Suga's voice. "Business stuff."

 "I'm sure."

 Daichi's aware he's frowning at nothing in particular, but he can't quite bring himself to stop, even though Suga's laughing at him--nudging him in the side, now, stifling his giggles long enough to say, "Pay attention. You'll miss the start," as he points back towards the street.

 Even from a distance, Lev cuts a striking figure; something sharp has sunk into the lines of him, makes him look less like the wobbling tower he'd been not ten minutes ago and more like a person whose stride could knock someone down to their knees. He's all angles as he raises the handkerchief high above his head and points to each car in turn.

 Three roars, low and thick, rise from the throats of the cars at the starting line.

Lev swings the handkerchief down.

 The cars take off.

--

Kuroo doesn't lose. Not technically.

 "If anyone lost, it was Oikawa."

 Kuroo tilts his head toward the mint-and-white car on the other side of the dingy parking lot a mile and a half from the intersection that had been designated the finish line. Daichi had gotten there just in time to watch Bokuto hop out of his car, whooping at the top of his lungs, and smack both Kuroo and Oikawa on the back as they took to stable land again. Kuroo had traded matching sour glances with Oikawa before shaking Bokuto off; now, after wading through the crowd of spectators either mourning or celebrating the outcomes of their bets, he's leaning against the side of his car and trying to defend his loss to Daichi, who's standing in front of him, arms folded, trying not to laugh. "He came in after both Bokuto and I did."

Daichi's got half a smirk on his lips. "You still lost to Bokuto, though."

 "Barely. He pulled in at the same time I did."

 "And a foot ahead of you," Daichi points out.

 A sigh and a click of tongue behind teeth make Daichi's smirk go wide. "Alright, fine. Second place it is."

 "It was still pretty impressive, though."

 "Yeah, well. Second place is second place." Kuroo shrugs, straightens up, pats the frame of his car as if in consolation. When he looks at Daichi again he's got an eyebrow cocked and the beginning of a smile on his lips. "Though I'll defend myself over dinner, if you were serious about that bet."

 Daichi'd been half-kidding, honestly. He'd made the bet more out of competitive spite than anything; but Kuroo sounds sincere, and Daichi's never turned down a meal--especially not a free one.  

 "You said Thursday, right?" Kuroo nods, and Daichi makes a mental run-through of his weekly schedule. "That's fine. I'm free after work."

 Kuroo nods again, drums his fingers against the frame, swings the car door open. "Good. I'll call you."

 "Fine...wait, how--"

 The engine of Kuroo's car takes up its voice anew, cutting Daichi off mid-sentence; Kuroo is grinning, rakish and cocky, when he says, "Fair warning: I'm a cheap date."

 And then, as though that's an appropriate way to end a conversation, Kuroo slams the door shut, gives the engine a good revving, and takes off.

 Daichi's answering splutter-and-sigh is quiet in the wake of Kuroo's engine. He purses his lips, shakes his head, and heads over to the impromptu winner's circle, wondering how exactly Kuroo had gotten his number.

v.

Thursday rolls around faster than Daichi had expected.  

 Dinner is an easy affair: Kuroo calls him up on thursday afternoon with a "Hey there, Sawamura," and the address of a ramen place Daichi thinks he might've visited once when he was very much drunk and not very much discerning. But free food is free food, and Daichi does have a bet to collect on; he figures, hey, how bad could it be?, and tells Kuroo he'll meet him at eight.

 The shop is about the same as Daichi remembers it, though Kuroo is a new detail; he's waiting when Daichi walks up, still wearing that same leather jacket from a few weeks ago even though the day's heat hasn't yet thinned out under the weight of the night. He looks ridiculous--a little handsome, true, but mostly ridiculous, and Daichi bites back a smile as he stops just short of where Kuroo stands.

 (Briefly, Daichi wonders if by now, with two weeks' worth of acquaintance under their belts, a handshake is still too formal; he decides not, just to be safe, and Kuroo takes his hand with a laugh and the same firm grip he'd had the very first time they met.)

 "How'd you find this place?" Daichi asks as Kuroo gestures toward the restaurant, grin expectant and wide on his face. "It's…"

 "Cozy? Eclectic?"

"…interesting," Daichi supplies, trying not to laugh.

 Kuroo's smile goes wry as he shrugs. "This place is actually pretty close to my apartment. Cheap, quick--"

 "Not eclectic?"

 "And eclectic," Kuroo finishes, giving Daichi a look that falls on him equal parts quelling and playful. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, Sawamura."

 That is, at the most basic level, a pretty good summation of Daichi's outlook on life. It's served him well so far throughout the years; why should his particular brand of optimism let him down now?

 "Alright," Daichi concedes, and lets Kuroo usher him inside, fingers at his elbow. "Besides, it's not like I'm paying anyway, right?"

 Kuroo, just behind him, makes a disgruntled noise, makes Daichi laugh. He says, dry, "Yeah, yeah, rub it in. C'mon, let's get a seat."

 Over the course of the evening, the ramen proves to be better than what Daichi had expected, and Kuroo proves to be three things: much less smooth than he'd come off earlier; very knowledgeable about cars; and a good conversationalist. Daichi's not sure which of these revelations surprises him more, but he isn't complaining; it's nice to talk about things he loves with someone who has more than a passing knowledge about the subject (even if Kuroo does have an absurd fondness for American-made machinery that Daichi can't pinpoint as being genuine or joking). He could talk for hours about this sort of thing--and, tonight, he does.

 (The thing is that Kuroo makes it easy, makes Daichi forget they've only known each other for two weeks. Something about him, once Daichi gets past the smirking and the penchant for provocation, is sort of charming; maybe it's the readiness of his smile, or his quickness to tease, or just the fact that they're both a little tipsy. Regardless, Daichi spends the evening smiling more often than not.)

 (It's not until Daichi gets home--tired, full, and working on a buzz made pleasant from decent alcohol and maybe better-than-decent company--that he realizes they'd hardly talked about business at all.)

vi.

Kuroo's gang--and Daichi uses that term in the least hardcore way possible, because Kuroo's friends are about as intimidating as bunch of hissy cats--get along well with Daichi's garage. Hinata seems to have taken a shine to Kozume (who appears to be both the most adept and the least willing to put up with Kuroo's unique brand of being), and Daichi would swear that Yamamoto (who, when Daichi asked about his occupation, was only said to do heavy lifting, no further elaboration offered) was likely born to meet Nishinoya and Tanaka. Even Yaku, who has something like a magic touch when it comes to designing car frames and a bit of a temper to boot, ends up talking shop with Nishinoya. And it's--nice, sometimes, to see the garage so lively, to have a row of gorgeous cars shimmering in the heat out front, to witness the influx of business as the surrounding community takes note of the new popularity of the Karasuno garage.

It's also a little tiresome.

It's been three weeks since Kuroo's first visit to the garage, and today's visit--the fifth, if Daichi recalls correctly--has not been entirely productive. Yamamoto's pulled up footage of some race on his phone and Nishinoya and Tanaka are whooping over it at maximum volume, while Inuoka, whom Kuroo is attempting to teach to drive with a little more finesse than that of a child playing their first video game, is explaining his last drive to Hinata in complete and exuberant detail. Suga and Yaku are laughing about some strange facial expression Kageyama had made upon being asked to introduce himself properly. All anyone has managed to do was get Kuroo's tires changed--which is, admittedly, what they came to do--but the lack of any further productivity is a bit irksome.

 It's great that everyone is getting along so well, and Daichi doesn't quite mind having a full garage...it's just that--

 "I can barely hear myself think," Daichi grumbles, head in hands where he sits at his desk. He's been staring at the same workup order for the past ten minutes now, and he hasn't managed to write a single thing beyond his own damn name; he chalks it up to the incessant noise and the fact that his 'trouble radar' has been pinging all afternoon.

 The creaking of the chair to Daichi's left tells him Kuroo is leaning back a touch too far--now spinning--now coming to a stop. "Well, we don't have to do this now; we can talk later if you want. You're usually free on Thursdays, right?"

 Daichi lifts his head and his eyebrows in sync. "How did you--"

 "I'm good with details," Kuroo says, shrugging, though he doesn't quite meet Daichi's eyes. "If you'd rather do this some other time, we can meet up for dinner tomorrow. My treat, I suppose, since this--" he waves a hand at the chaos of the garage "--is partially my fault."

 "Partially?"

 The dryness of Daichi's tone makes Kuroo wince; he gives a weak laugh, but relents under Daichi's unimpressed gaze. He says, somewhat abashed, "Alright, it's all my fault."

 And that's…gratifying, definitely--a nice change from the air of faint smugness that's been clinging to him since they first met.

 It's maybe even a little cute.

 Daichi could get used to it--especially if teasing Kuroo is always this entertaining. He gives it a shot now: he tucks the corners of his mouth down, makes his voice drop flat, and says, as disapproving as possible, "You're disrupting my work."

 He manages to keep a straight face for the three seconds it takes for mild embarrassment to settle into the lines of Kuroo's face; when he laughs, Kuroo huffs and turns a faint shade of pink.

 "Alright, alright. I already said I'd buy you dinner--isn't that enough?"

 "As long as I get to pick the place," Daichi says, grinning. His answer is met with a groan made on behalf of Kuroo's wallet; he claps Kuroo hard on the back and says, "I have good taste, don't worry."

 Kuroo says, a touch sour, "That's not what I'm worried about," but doesn't shrug off Daichi's hand.

---

("And where are you going?"

There's a lilt to Suga's voice that rings a bit like a warning bell; Daichi winces and turns, briefly regretting that he'd brought anything nicer than a t-shirt and jeans as a change of clothes for dinner after work.

 "Out," he says. Suga gives him a look, and Daichi picks his words carefully when he elaborates."I'm meeting Kuroo to talk about work."

 "Isn't it a little late for work?"

 "Well…"

 Suga's tone goes sharper. "You'd better not be slacking off during business hours, Daichi!"

 "I'm not! It's just…" Daichi sighs, purses his lips, regroups. "His crew always tags along, and you know how loud Nishinoya and Tanaka and Hinata can be when they're….being themselves...It was impossible to get anything done earlier, so we just rescheduled."

 "Rescheduled."

 "Yes."

 "For dinner."

 "I didn't say--"

 "For dinner."

"…yes."

 Suga doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

Daichi doesn't stomp out of the garage, but it's a near thing.)

vii.

June is the beginning of a work in progress. June is long days spent dodging people running around the garage like children always underfoot; June is sunshine and long days; June is hard work and Nekoma and Kuroo in increasing amounts, until Daichi begins to forget what June is like without them.

 On one of those warm easy days where everything seems to be as it should, Daichi leans back in his chair, puts down his pen, and looks at Kuroo over a list of prospective engine modifications. “What’s this all for, anyway?”

 “My car.” Kuroo gives Daichi a look, like he’s wondering if the heat has gone to Daichi's head. “I thought we were on the same page with that.”

 He’s reclining in his chair, two legs on the floor and arms crossed behind his head, giving Daichi a grin that practically invites him to nudge the chair and see if he can give Kuroo a bit of a scare. Daichi doesn’t, though; instead he rolls his eyes and says, “No, I know that. I meant….how did you end up here, I guess. I’ve heard of this race, but I never knew anyone who’d actually been in it.”

 “Well,” Kuroo says, slow, “I’ve wanted to race since I was a kid. All of my video games were racing games, and I always had toy cars growing up….I was born for this sort of thing, y’know?”

 Daichi snorts, and Kuroo rolls his eyes. The slight tilt of his head is a quiet concession; he looks up at the ceiling, purses his lips, and adds, “I’d always wanted to run my own group, maybe get a couple of other people to race with me….Nekomata-san is the one who brought my group together, though. He gave me the first car I ever won a race in.” A chuckle, a shrug, a glance that skips from Daichi and into the corner of the room. “Winning this race...it just feels like something I should do.”

 And maybe this is what’s hidden under the snark and the teasing and the lightheartedness that Kuroo wears like a second skin: sincerity running deep like an untapped well, a vein of something warm and close and genuine that makes Daichi look at Kuroo like he’s seeing him for the first time again.

 (Though, once he does, Daichi sort of wishes he hadn’t. He thinks he likes the Kuroo that talks about racing the way people talk about dreams and smiles at his car like it’s something to be treasured; he likes the Kuroo that teases Hinata and seems a little taken aback by the vaguely menacing way Suga handles tools; he likes the Kuroo that gives him understated smiles and bumps their knees together when they sit at the same desk to talk shop.)

 (He likes Kuroo, and whether that’s good or bad remains to be seen.)

viii.

"Come out to the garage."

 They're out for dinner at Daichi's favorite ramen place, which--after several visits and no lack of argument--has been deemed superior to the cheap place around the corner from Kuroo's apartment, and has therefore become their designated Thursday-night haunt. Kuroo complains about both the distance and the slight hike in price, sure, but he still sits next to Daichi at the counter, still bumps their knees together whenever he swivels too far in his seat to say something, and--most importantly--still rolls his eyes and waves off Daichi's semi-genuine attempts to pay for his meal on at least half of their visits.

 This visit is one of those times; Kuroo had tapped his back pocket right when they'd walked in and said, "I'm pretty sure you paid last time. Can't have everyone here thinking I'm broke, yeah?"

 "You didn't look respectable to begin with," Daichi had teased, grinning; Kuroo had just rolled his eyes and pushed Daichi toward the counter.

 They'd spent twenty minutes in relative quiet, the way they usually do when they first start eating; now Kuroo's bracing his chin on his hand, waiting, and Daichi's wondering if the heat of the shop had gone to Kuroo's head or if he'd just heard wrong.

 "What," Daichi starts, but his mouth is mostly full and Kuroo gives him a look, so he pauses and swallows before beginning again. "What do you mean? You're out at the garage at least once a week now."

 "I meant my garage," Kuroo clarifies. "I figure it'd be a good experience--y'know, see how the other half lives and all that, whatever."

 For a brief and jarring moment, Daichi remembers the first time he'd been asked to meet his high school girlfriend's parents; he recalls, with startling vibrancy, the tightness in his stomach and the faint feeling of apprehension. The memory is fleeting, though the feeling lingers, and it makes Daichi jolt, makes him flush warm and press his lips tight to keep a straight face.

 "Sure," he says, swiping at his mouth. "Uh, when do you want me to come over?"

 "You free this weekend?"

 "Yeah."

 "Great." Kuroo gives him a half-smile, quirks a brow. "I'll pick you up on Saturday. How's seven sound?"

 Daichi's stomach does a neat little flip, which can't mean anything good. "Seven's great."

 Kuroo's smile goes full. Through the thin haze of steam he looks content, genuinely so, and Daichi's stomach transitions smoothly from basic flips into rather ambitious somersaults as Kuroo says, "Good. I'll make sure you have a good time--you do know what fun is, right?"

Daichi's first instinct is to snap right back at him, but Kuroo has the nerve to pair that jab with a wink and-- god, it's got to be one of the most poorly executed winks Daichi's ever seen, but the somersaults turn into a full-on floor routine and Daichi thinks: oh, no.

 "Relax, Sawamura." Kuroo knocks his free hand against Daichi's, grins, says, "It was a joke--oh, man, don't tell me you've never heard of a joke before? Look, it's this thing called humor--"

 "Alright, alright," Daichi interrupts, exasperated, resisting the urge to elbow Kuroo in the side. "Shut up and eat before I finish that for you."

 Kuroo looks sorely tempted to make some smart-ass comment--but Daichi's finally worked up a proper scowl, so he just huffs, murmurs, "Okay, jeez," and goes back to his bowl.

 And that's convenient: that quick turn of Kuroo's head, the way he refocuses like he hadn't just extended Daichi what feels an awful lot like an informal invitation to go on a date; it means he doesn't see the way Daichi's eyes linger on him for a moment too long before he turns away.

---

Saturday evening finds Daichi on the couch, flipping idly through television channels. His dog, Souta, lies where Daichi's feet would be were they not tucked underneath himself for that exact reason--late summer heat means Souta sheds enough fur to knit cat-sized sweaters round the clock--and Daichi reaches down to pet him sometimes when jabbing at buttons on the remote isn't enough to keep himself occupied anymore.

 It's seven o'clock, and Daichi is trying to convince himself he's not sitting around just waiting for Kuroo to pick him up--which would be easier to do if he hadn't put on his 'presentable' jeans (the nice pair, the ones without stains or tears, the ones he's been told make his ass look great), gotten dressed about an hour too early, and checked himself out in the bathroom mirror at least three times before relegating himself to the couch.The fact that Daichi nearly jumps off the couch when a noise from the street makes Souta spring to his feet and bolt for the front door doesn't do much to prove his case either.

 In an attempt to prove he's not nearly as excitable as is his dog, Daichi waits at least a minute before he follows. When he does, he finds Souta pacing in front of the door, whining, ears twitching to pick up the sounds of a car door slamming shut on the street.

 It's not nerves that make Daichi duck back into the bathroom to check his hair for the absolute last time, and it's certainly not eagerness that makes Daichi shove his feet into his shoes and slip out of his apartment before Kuroo even has the chance to knock; it's just...a preemptive measure, to make sure Souta doesn't get past him and run outside, that's all.

 Kuroo's halfway down the hall when Daichi steps out.

 Daichi falters for a brief second as he remembers that yes, actually, it is standard protocol to wait inside one's house until one's date actually knocks. This isn't a date, though--so Daichi, cheeks burning, shrugs off Kuroo's stare and heads down the hallway. 

 He has time for three deep breaths before he reaches Kuroo; he spends that quick interlude trying to will away both the blush on his cheeks and the butterflies beating against his ribs. Neither of them concede to Daichi's willpower, though, and isn't that just perfect? He's going to end up embarrassing himself in front of Kuroo, of all people; Kuroo, who--

 --who takes him to dinner every Thursday night. Kuroo, with whom Daichi's spent enough time to recognize the scent of his cologne (why is it so thick tonight, what the hell). Kuroo, with whom he's spent hours elbow-deep in engine parts, who helps Daichi wrangle his charges when the garage falls into chaos, who makes Daichi laugh more than he'd like to admit. 

 Things are easy between them. They have been for a while now. 

 Daichi's voice is even and warm when he says, "Hi."

---

The ride over to Kuroo's garage is uneventful.

 Kuroo is a good driver. He handles the car well, makes smooth turns and smoother stops, sticks close enough to the speed limit to make Daichi let go of the overhead handle and relax into his seat after a few minutes.

 But, truth be told, Daichi pays more attention to the shape of his fingers as they curl around the steering wheel than anything else.

--

Kuroo's garage (which proves to be less of a garage and more of a hangout spot with garage capabilities) is buzzing when Daichi steps out of the car and follows Kuroo to the front door. It's brightly lit--especially the black-on-red neon sign just above the door, bearing a cat design that would seem tackier if Daichi's own garage weren't stamped with a crow logo--and clearly very much occupied, judging by the full row of cars lined up neatly outside. Among their number are the two other cars from the race Daichi'd gone to watch a few weeks ago; he recognizes them even at a glance, though they look much less alive with their engines cut and their rumble quieted. 

 Kuroo catches him looking and chuckles. "Bokuto and Oikawa are always hanging out here. I probably should've warned you."

 "That's not very encouraging," Daichi notes, eyes still on the slick gleam of Bokuto's car as Kuroo leads him past it. 

 "They're not all that bad...well, Oikawa is, anyway." Kuroo grins. Daichi can't tell if he's kidding. "You'll have fun. I told you I'd show you a good time, didn't I?"

 "That's what I'm worried about," Daichi says, dry, but he follows Kuroo into the depths of the garage anyway, towards the sound of laughter.

 This Saturday night is a little more hectic than what Daichi's used to, even though they all end up just sitting around in an office that looks more like an overly extravagant break room than anywhere one would do work. That's in part due to the following: the fact that Bokuto has a penchant for accidentally segueing into inappropriate topics, that Oikawa has a penchant for purposefully segueing into inappropriate topics, and that Kuroo is something of a practiced troublemaker. Between the three of them Daichi is kept either laughing or cringing or sighing nonstop, which is….different, yes, but Daichi's having fun. In retrospect, he's glad he agreed to come out here with Kuroo.

 Toward the end of the night, Kuroo, who's spent all night pressed up against Daichi's side, arm draped ever-so-casually along the back of the couch, leans close to be heard over the noise and asks, "You wanna see something cool?"

 "Ah..." Intentional or not--and Daichi doesn't know which one he should hope for--Kuroo's lips had nearly brushed the shell of Daichi's ear when he'd posed his question. The resulting shiver throws Daichi a bit off-balance, makes him pause before he says, "Sure."

 'Something cool' is in the corner of the garage under a dusty tarp, far away from the cackling and the bad jokes still filtering from under the door to the office. Daichi gives Kuroo and the tarp matching skeptical looks, but Kuroo is undeterred.

 "Have a little faith, Sawamura," he says, and pulls the tarp away with an over-exaggerated flourish.

 The tarp flutters to the floor, and Daichi lets out an involuntary, appreciative "oh".

 "Told you," Kuroo says, sounding more proud than smug. Daichi can't be bothered to argue; instead he takes the high road and keeps quiet, crouches down to get a better look at the gorgeous little fastback now glimmering under the overhead lights.

 The car is impressive, damn near beautiful: all long sleek lines, the edges of it as smooth as a soft breeze, black paint still untouched by rust. The chrome detailing carries that extra bit of elbow-greased shine, and the tires are freshly filled, and it's--

 "It's incredible."

 The smugness doesn't cover up the hint of genuine pride in Kuroo's voice when he comes to a stop behind Daichi and says, "Not half bad, huh."

 Daichi nods, stands. "What's the engine like?"

 "Nothing too special," Kuroo tells him, shrugging. He ducks into the car, pops the latch on the hood, leans up against the frame as Daichi pushes the hood up all the way to take a look around. "Pretty standard. Six cylinders. I've had it since high school."

 Daichi, otherwise lost for words, says, "Wow."

 Kuroo laughs. "I thought you'd like it."

 "I do…hey, hold on." The satisfaction in Kuroo's voice registers at last, and Daichi turns, gives Kuroo a look. "Did you bring me out here just to see this?"

 The tops of Kuroo's cheeks are pink. That's really all the answer Daichi needs.

 "What's wrong with that?" Kuroo grumbles. "You liked it, didn't you?"

 Daichi goes just as warm as Kuroo looks. He's a touch embarrassed, to be sure, but something sweet and fond takes up an insistent flutter-rhythm in his chest, makes him laugh, makes him smile. Daichi says, "Yeah, I did," and then, sincere: "Thank you, Kuroo."

Kuroo--well. Kuroo doesn't say anything at all.

 And sure, that stupid gooey smile is still stuck to Daichi's lips, but he doesn't think that's any reason for Kuroo to be staring at him the way he is now: a little wide-eyed, lips tight, color blooming in shades of rose across the bridge of his nose. It's maybe sort of--oh, hell. It's high time Daichi admits he thinks it's cute.

 It's satisfying, too; Daichi doesn't think he's seen Kuroo this quiet in weeks. He allows himself a moment to revel in oddly fond smugness before he bites down on his bottom lip to quell his smile and says, "What?"

 Kuroo snaps himself back into focus with a shake of his head, forces a smile and a nervous little laugh to match. "Nothing, it's just…ah, it's getting late, isn't it?"

 If it is, Daichi hasn't noticed; but when he checks his watch, Kuroo proves to be right. It's coming up on eleven o'clock somehow, and for the first time that night Daichi remembers he has work the next day...meaning he has to get up in about six hours. Daichi sighs. "Dammit."

 "What, is it past your bedtime already?" 

 "Yes, actually, and you're not funny."

 "I beg to differ," Kuroo says, sidestepping neatly when Daichi throws a half-hearted jab his way. He's still smiling, though the pink has nearly faded from his cheeks, when he says, "Let me take you home."

 And just like that, tension swells up between them, as though that one phrase had been one more drop of water in a too-full glass; Daichi blinks up at Kuroo, once, twice, slow, and Kuroo holds his gaze the way one would catch something delicate when it falls.

 In that split second, Daichi's heart stumbles over its own too-quick rhythm, makes him go as hot as though he'd been standing in high noon sun for hours; but it lasts only that split second, and then Kuroo is backpedaling, tripping over his own words as he tries to speak.

 "Back to your house, I mean--ah, shit…" One of Kuroo's hands is on his hip; he's got the other pressed over his face like if he pretends not to be here for long enough it'll be as though he never said anything at all. "Let's just ignore that, yeah?"

 Daichi swallows hard, finds his voice again, chooses his words carefully. "Yeah," he says, though he knows already he'll remember those words in Kuroo's voice for a long while. "You can drop me off at my apartment."

--

(Kuroo does take him home; he drops Daichi off at his own apartment, gets out of the car to lean against it and watch Daichi walk to his front door. Daichi waves him off with a smile, and goes to bed that night thinking: maybe, someday.)