Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tokyo is heartless, but it is alive nonetheless.

The streets are dancing. Each lane tangles with the next, lapping over and dipping under to create an intricate nervous system, humming with activity and the unique kind of chaos that could only belong to cities. It webs out, pulsing, irregular and unrestrained. There is no centre, no singular point of intersection which says, ‘ I am here and you need me ’. Roads simply go everywhere and nowhere, buzzing and relentless but with no clear destination in sight. The only interruptions come from the skyscrapers shooting up to dizzying heights, the light from billboards and projections tumbling and swooping down through empty air. The city, itself, is a blur of colour and sound which has tamed itself to become a place.

Jeno supposes it makes sense, then, that Tokyo should be host to one of the most unrestrained sports he knows of. Street racing — the concept of it, at least — relies on speed and godless defiance of reasonable physics. The colours are secondary, but every racer wants a motif. Something people will point at and say, ‘ look. I know that design. I know who this is. ’ And Jeno… Jeno is in Tokyo, falling through the cracks of a failed art degree, and who can blame him, when he crash lands on the very asphalt that creates Tokyo’s burnt rubber nervous system. 

“I want something on my car.”

The boy (yes, he’s just a boy, Jeno doesn’t know who he’s trying to fool with his squared stance and raised chin. Like that isn’t what Jeno sees every time in the mirror, that same restless rebellion) is new. He has to be new. A shock of blue hair and complicated eyeliner wrapping around the darkest eyes Jeno’s ever seen does nothing to dispel the underlying air of uncertainty. Perhaps he isn’t new to the speed or the adrenaline rush, but he’s new to Tokyo.

“Everybody wants something on their car,” Jeno counters. 

Want isn’t good enough. Not for him, not for Tokyo. You don’t toss thousands at a stylised hunk of metal because you want to, don’t risk the falling afoul of the authorities because you want to, don’t flirt with the reaper because you want to. Jeno has seen the racers, seen the way they wear his designs like armour. Some are arrogant, some scarily honest beneath neon jackets and the stench of alcohol. They’d all have you believe they do it for kicks, because they can. The truth is that they need to do it. They need the squeal of tyres and roaring of the engines, if only to feel something that isn’t polluted oxygen and the pressure of life in Tokyo’s purgatory.

The boy inhales sharply, lips pursed. Jeno can see the glint of a piercing. A lip ring, subtle in a way most racers don’t understand. He imagines a chain linking it to the gauge in the boy’s ear, and then wonders why he cares.

“It’s my first race,” the boy finally admits, like Jeno didn’t already know, “and I— look, no offence, but you’re not the first person I’ve gone to.”

(Jeno isn’t offended. He’s not. Well, actually—)

“You should probably work on your persuasion skills…”

“Uh, J...aemin . Jaemin .”

“Jaemin, most artists want to design a rookie’s car so they can claim they were there first,” Jeno points out, voice slow and calculating in the way Taeyong says makes him sound much older than he is. Going by the way Jaemin narrows his eyes, his brother was somewhat wrong. Maybe it’s because Jaemin has picked up on how Jeno is acting like he’s a kid when there’s no way they have more than a year between them. 

“So?” Jaemin fidgets with the shoulder of his t-shirt — Hatsune Miku , Jeno’s brain notes as it apathetically files its nails and stores the information away for later — before he drops his hand and shoves it into his pocket.

“So, why are you wasting your time asking me ?”

Jeno watches as Jaemin scrambles for an answer. The purplish light coming in from the massive windows dyes his skin pink, only highlighting the downward slope of his nose and determined set of his jaw. There’s a question sitting faux-innocently on the glossed expanse of his lower lip, and Jeno watches as Jaemin visibly wonders if Jeno will accept it as an answer. Jeno should’ve known Jaemin would be an anomaly when the boy came to his actual art studio instead of the garage.

“You’re trans,” Jaemin finally blurts out, and Jeno’s eyebrows take a trip to orbit the sun, “sorry. I shouldn’t just say that, but— I don’t know. I just thought, I guess, that you’d… get it? Get me . And that you’d be able to— to make something out of it.”

Jeno works with spray cans and thick brushes and tape. He works with things under his control. He works with a binder around his torso and birth control tablets taken regularly. He does not work with racers who think they’re above him, what with having genetics and biology on their side.

He won’t work with Jaemin, but for vastly different reasons. Not yet.

Jeno lets his stare peel away from Jaemin, choosing instead to study the city sprawl outside the window. The art studio is high up enough to offer him the vivid strokes of glaring store signs and the spilled ink of back alleys without letting him wander too far down, into the greyish chaos of pickpockets and violence which served as an ugly mosaic of blood red and pitch black near the bottom of the canvas. Once upon a time, Jeno didn’t know Tokyo. Didn’t see it as home, no more than Incheon. Then again, he hadn’t really known himself.

“Do you know Haruka Miyauchi?”

Jaemin startles, but rights himself in record time. 

“Miya? Yeah. They offered—”

“Get Miya to do it,” Jeno interrupts, lip quirking up at Jaemin’s offended bristle as his answer gets kneecapped. “Win your first race, then come back to me.”

Jeno can see it on Jaemin’s face. He’s an easy read, even after all Jeno’s time away from Korea. There’s an openness there that Tokyo will absolutely devour, unless Jaemin grows his own armoured network like the view of the streets from the sky. Jeno doesn’t doubt that he will. He also doesn’t doubt that he’ll go to Miya, and Miya will shrug and say, ‘yeah, no bother’ because they’re weak to the new ones.

And they’ll know why Jeno won’t put his art on Jaemin’s car.

It’s Jaemin’s responsibility to make a name for himself, without the luminous accents of Jeno’s spray paint overshadowing it.

“Fine.” Is Jaemin’s curt response. He squares his shoulders, heavy combat booms squeaking against polished tile as he leaves. No goodbye, no handshake. Such is the attitude on the streets. Jeno watches him flip a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses over his eyes, considers the night sky outside and then decides it's really not his business. The glasses are a statement, probably. 

Jeno isn’t there to watch Jaemin’s first race. It’s not a personal thing; Jeno rarely goes, partially because Taeyong gets nervous about late nights in streets too jaded for the cops to find in a rush, partially because he… likes getting proper sleep. In the end, he finds out from Miya (who found out from Sana who found out from Doyoung who found out from Momo who found out from Rui who found out from—) that Jaemin won. 

He doesn’t visit Jeno.

Technically, Japan wasn’t Jeno’s initial plan. It hadn’t even factored into his (admittedly abysmal) hypothetical life course. In the end, he wound up in Tokyo because Taeyong had just been broken up with and their parents weren’t exactly delighted with their life choices and, in Taeyong’s words, ‘ different city, better life ’. Only instinctive respect kept Jeno from bashing his brother’s head in due to stress. It was supposed to be a fresh start, new enough to keep their interest but not so different that it threw them off completely.

“What… are you doing?” Taeyong approached Jeno not unlike how one would approach a feral cat. 

Their apartment was a small one, officially listed as a cosy 1R. Clearly, the advertisers hadn’t considered a teenager and a young adult when they addressed the potential clientele. The studio-like area managed to have the space for living, sleeping, cooking whilst having absolutely no room whatsoever. Perhaps Jeno should have given it more credit. After all, they had all necessary facilities and it was affordable . Still…

“Nothing,” Jeno snapped, wrestling with the cables connecting his laptop to his tablet. A mug was sacrificed in the mini war as he used a little too much force to tug the charger plug out of a nest of other, identical fucking leads. 

They both grimaced at the resulting crash. 

“...nothing,” Jeno echoed, a little quieter. 

“That’s not nothing ,” Taeyong remarked, hands on his hips as he cocked his head to the side. Jeno reckoned he looked like their mother when he did that. Taeyong seemed to realise that, because he dropped his stance immediately. The sigh he heaved out ricocheted half-heartedly off the damp — since when were they damp? Seriously? — walls. “Jeno, you can talk to me. I didn’t haul us to a whole new city just for you to decide to take a vow of silence.”

The laptop screen was slowly pushed down, Taeyong’s hand resting firmly on the closed lid. He was crouched down in front of Jeno, which probably hurt like hell since Taeyong didn’t exactly like going to the gym and Jeno was sitting cross-legged on their futon.

“When were you gonna tell me you got fired?” Jeno countered, arms crossed. He was being childish — hell, he felt childish, and the self-awareness made him cringe inside — but he was nineteen (or was that eighteen, in Japan?)  and everything kinda sucked. He felt he was allowed to be a little petulant. Just a little.

“Well, when were you gonna tell me about dropping out?” Taeyong’s eyes narrowed and Jeno’s eyes narrowed right back at him. Righteous little shit. He hated when Taeyong went all reasonable adult on him. 

“I did tell you. In a text message.” 

“You told me a month later and only because I asked why you weren’t working on anything.”

“It’s not like you actually noticed how I was always around all of a sudden, is it?”

“Jeno—”

Okay, the thing was: Jeno was being very, very unfair to Taeyong. Taeyong, who had decided to help him leave without a single complaint. Taeyong, who single-handedly organised appointments to help Jeno transition, no questions asked. However (and this isn’t really an excuse, but it’s nice to have context), art school was a fucking nightmare and only sort of because they absolutely couldn’t afford it. In Jeno’s eyes, it was only a matter of time before he said ‘screw it’ and let go of it entirely. He would have told Taeyong about dropping out eventually. Taeyong would probably have told Jeno about getting fired… after getting a new job, but specifics weren’t important. 

But, to reiterate an earlier point, Jeno wasn’t a proper adult yet and life still kinda sucked and the guilt from making things hard for Taeyong hadn’t really sunk in deep enough. So! Instead of being nice and reasonable and mature, Jeno got the fuck up and walked out.

To give him credit, Taeyong did try to stop him. It just so happened that Jeno was used to sidestepping obstacles.

Jeno ran until he didn’t. After a while, he didn’t need blurred shop signs and the hum of a language he wasn’t yet fluent in to remind him that this was— everything was unfamiliar. New. It wasn’t like back home, when he would have to run for ages before he hit something he didn’t recognise. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders raised and defensive. Unnamed backstreets and narrow alleys slowly widened out into districts and grids upon grids of brand-name stores, high rises arching up into a fathomless void. They seemed to coil over him, shielding him from whatever the sky might show him. He appreciated the sentiment, but he reckoned he wouldn’t mind a little glimpse of actual nature.

Eventually, even the apparently infinite number of buildings had to bend to the whims of the network of roads. Jeno found himself beneath the cocoon of an underpass he didn’t recognise. Not… that it said much, since there was an awful lot he didn’t recognise about Tokyo.

Still.

It was the joyous shout of engines which harnessed his attention, willing him closer to the spectacle in the middle. Rows upon rows of sports cars he couldn’t name were humming, raring for a fight—

Not a fight, a race . 

Jeno had heard of the street racing culture, as illegal as it was intoxicating. However, hearing about something rarely holds a candle to the moment you actually see it in action. The line-up was a mockery of a rainbow, bold pinks and vivacious yellows sitting alongside deep reds and shades of blue so dark they matched the night sky. Jeno let out the enamoured breath he’d been holding, eyes fixed on the sheer multitude of cars. For the record, cars were not his thing. He couldn’t drive and Taeyong’s driving scared the shit out of him — no offence to Taeyong — and he couldn’t tell a Ferrari from a Fisker. The actual models went in one ear and out the other. What Jeno cared about was the designs.

Each car hosted a tattoo of fluid colours and jagged edges. Some spelled out names, others were equally as colourful in their language as they mocked authority and the other racers alike. Some were emblazoned with ethereal creatures like dragons and phoenixes, others boasted prints of Hello Kitty and vaguely popular anime girls.

“Hey! I know you!” Someone hooted, slinging a lanky arm around Jeno’s shoulders. Despite the noise from cars and at least four stereos that were playing vastly different genres, Jeno could make out their words easily. “We had a class together!”

Jeno’s class (well, when he’d actually gone) had been small enough, but not so small as to actually help him identify the person talking to him. He managed to crane his neck to the side, brows furrowed as he tried to match unruly red hair and diamond choker to a name.

“You’re, uh…” Jeno fumbled for a moment, “K... Kim...” 

“Calm down, it’s just Doyoung. He/him,” Doyoung grinned, and Jeno was quite alarmed by the resemblance to the cheshire cat — not the one from the Disney movie, but the one stencilled across the hood of a nearby fluorescent green car. “Lee Jeno, right? Didn’t expect to see you around here.”

It wasn’t a question, because Doyoung never needed to ask. Jeno could recall that much, at the very least. Jeno wasn’t not an enigma, but it seemed that the two other people who knew everything about him were his brother and an omniscient South Korean street racer, who had been in one (one!) class with him. Cool.

“I was curious,” and it’s not a lie, “it’s— the volume— I didn’t come here on purpose.”

“I’m telling you now, you’re never gonna be able to stay away,” Doyoung paused to gesture wildly, nearly smacking a girl’s visor off her head, “fuck, sorry! Anyway, it’s vibey. You got a car?”

Jeno squinted. Did it look like he had a car? If so, it would be nice to know he had the energy of someone who wasn’t living off second-hand smoke fumes and stale ramen.

“I… no. I don’t.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

(Well, that was nice whilst it lasted).

Doyoung offered him another grin, like he’d seen where his thoughts had headed and found it necessary to set him back on the right track. Jeno didn’t find that completely unrealistic, what with Doyoung’s so-far-unfailing ability to just… read him like, what, a book?

“Actually,” Doyoung continued, unfazed by Jeno’s internal yelling, “you could probably help me out.”

Jeno considered the pros and cons of assisting an incredibly intuitive racer who happened to be heavily involved in an incredibly illegal scene. Like any sane person, he nodded. 

Doyoung clapped his hands in something which was either a cheer or a minor seizure before he spun round to wave a figure over. They were dressed head-to-toe in bright pink, pleated skirt bouncing alongside twin ponytails as they ran over. Jeno wasn’t sure what the text on their crop-top said, but it was easy enough to guess the general message, what with the snarling mouth graphic printed behind the words. Hands settled on their hips, pitch black acrylics wrinkling the fabric.

“The fuck do you want? I told you—”

“Sakura, meet Jeno! Jeno, meet Sakura. Sakura, Jeno can redesign the art on your car.”

Later on, Jeno would find out that Sakura’s car had been painted by her ex-girlfriend, who would be racing against her from then onwards. She was a little desperate to find someone who could make her car look ‘absolutely baller’ (her own words) before the next race. Doyoung explained that there were always more cars than artists willing to risk their name being attached to the one car caught by the cops. He also explained that Sakura would pay Jeno. A one-time thing, no big deal, not a fuss.

Jeno would agree without a second thought.

(And it would not be a one-time thing ).

But that was later . At that moment, the only thing he could think to say was an intelligent, “huh?”

The squeal of tires against tarmac sets the background noise for the next time Jeno meets Jaemin. There’s an odd tension in the air, one that Jeno can’t quite place. His nostrils are clogged with the stench of burning rubber and cheap perfume and he thinks, yeah. This is it . He doesn’t know most of the people there, but he recognises nearly every design. As he should, considering they’re his own. He still doesn’t attend a lot of the races, not for any particular reason other than knowing how they end every time. 

Jaemin’s at the centre of attention, fingers curling around a bottle of god-knows-what in a fashion far too delicate for a guy who has literally just broken several driving laws. His head is tilted back, the effulgent strobe lighting bouncing off the silvery dragon tattoo wrapped around his neck. It reminds Jeno of a collar, a little. No, it’s more like a choker. He doesn’t think Jaemin is the type of person to be leashed. Wind-tousled hair, a maniacal purple colour, curls around his face, giving him an ironically angelic look. Jeno doesn’t stop to think about the holographic jacket, or the brilliant white combat boots, or the endless number of rings. He doesn’t . And it’s not because he’s afraid of Jaemin’s objective… attractiveness, or because of the fact Jaemin seems to hold the very core of Tokyo in his stride.

It’s because Jaemin, somehow, in the time between his failed attempt at getting Jeno’s designs on his car and this very moment, has become one of the top racers in the country. Continent, maybe. Doyoung wasn’t very clear when he was relaying the information. Jeno might have a thing for competence, yes, but getting involved with someone like Jaemin could be… look, it just wasn’t something he could justify to himself. Which was fine. He could admire the caramel topography of Jaemin’s hands from a distance.

Robert Burns once said, “the best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft a-gley.” Jeno does not know who Robert Burns is, nor does he know what the fuck that means. He thinks the general gist is that something will always go wrong. He would have expected nothing less from the (pretty tumultuous) hand fate has dealt him. He’s feeling very poetic today. Could be dehydration.

On the note of plans going astray—

“Jeno,” Jaemin says, and he has a vivid hallucination of a mouse turning into a man turning into thin air. He doesn’t even know how Jaemin crossed over to him so quickly, weaving through the inebriated crowd without Jeno noticing a single movement. He’s so much brighter, this close up, backlit against too many colours to count. He dangles a can of off-brand soda in front of Jeno, lip ring knocked crooked when he smiles.

“Jaemin,” Jeno echoes, wrapping a hand around the offered can. There are imprints in the condensation from where Jaemin was holding it, water droplets sliding through the gap between the aluminium and Jeno’s skin. “Not celebrating your win?”

“Oh, I’m gonna,” Jaemin’s cocky smirk could start a war. He’s a Helen of Troy in his own right, though Jeno doesn’t know if Tokyo is in the business of launching ships. “You looked lonely, though. Thought I’d come and say hi.”

Somewhere, Doyoung is shooting Jeno a hysterical grin. He can almost see it, the presence is so strong. In an uncharacteristic (oh, who is he kidding) moment of spitefulness, Jeno hopes Taeyong never agrees to another date. Taeyong is a hopeless romantic though, so his hopes will probably go unrealised. A shame.

“What, is winning getting too repetitive?” Jeno snorts, almost draining the can in his attempt to break up Jaemin’s staring. He’s got contacts in — an almost-luminescent blue — and they burn like dry ice against Jeno’s skin.

“You know it never could—” he’s interrupted by an increase in the shouting as a petite, black-haired boy stands on the hood of a car to yell at someone else. “Is that Renjun? Holy shit. Anyway, maybe you don’t know. You don’t race, do you?”

“Don’t have a car.”

“That’s not why you don’t race.”

The blunt statement is enough to pull a laugh from Jeno and he’s— well, he’s charmed, despite himself, by Jaemin’s unrelenting frankness. It reminds him, a little, of when Jaemin had first wandered into his art studio. He’s more settled in his own skin now, Jeno can see it in the confident set of his shoulders.

“You’re right.” Jeno punctuates his confession with a little shrug, as if he’s asking ‘ what can you do about it?’ because Jeno isn’t a racer now or ever.

“Not gonna tell me why?” Jaemin’s tone is light, teasing, but his eyes narrow. He’s a magpie, fixated on the gleam of forbidden treasure. Smart enough to know that he’s not allowed, flighty enough to not give a damn.

“Is it something you need to know?” 

Jeno runs a finger along the rim of his can, collecting water droplets and flicking them at Jaemin with a helpless smile. The tension in Jaemin’s muscles seems to slide away with the water, a sheepish half-grin giving way to the boy Jeno first met.

“I’m overstepping,” is what he says. Jeno doesn’t deny it.

They lapse into as much a silence as they can, what with the staticky bass and incessant yelling. Someone is shouting about shots. Jeno kinda hopes they mean alcohol, but his expectations are comically low and the bar is literally in hell.

“Miya did a good job with your car,” Jeno comments, offhand. He can’t see it at the moment, but he can remember the way streetlights bounced off luminescent silver strokes, clean and clinical as they wrapped around the metallic sheen of the exterior. A crisp design, one of Miya’s best works. It’s a little too restrained, though, collared in a way he doesn’t think Jaemin could ever be.

“They did,” Jaemin agrees, mouth parting as he considers the terrible thing he wants to say. Jeno grimaces preemptively. There’s a tiny flash of pink as Jaemin runs his tongue over his top lip. “Jeno—”

“Jaemin—”

Jeno cringes at Jaemin’s wheeze of amusement, gesturing vaguely for him to speak first. Jaemin nods his thanks, barely pausing to search for the right words before he launches into his tirade.

“Look, Miya’s great. Miya’s art is great. Fuck, I would’ve dropped out of my first race in sheer embarrassment if their design wasn’t on my car. So, like, you gotta understand I’m not dissing Miya. Like, in any way. Yeah?”

“...Yeah.” 

“So, you know,” Jaemin points at himself, brows raised, “number one racer in Tokyo! In Japan ! Motherfuckers know they can’t catch up to me.”

He shifts forward, hands tucked neatly in his pockets, all ice blue eyes and violet locks and Jeno’s breath catches in his throat as Jaemin’s gaze shifts from searching to intense . One sleeve of his jacket slides down his shoulder when he lifts a hand to run his fingers under Jeno’s chin, guiding it upwards.

“I can pay you,” Jaemin continues, like Jeno doesn’t already know, “you don’t need to worry about that.”

“You—” Jeno swallows the lump in his throat. Jaemin hasn’t moved a centimetre, fingers still resting delicately on Jeno’s chin, Jeno’s jawline, so close he can feel the coolness of the rings. “You haven’t actually asked me anything, yet.”

Jaemin grins, Jeno’s eyes following the slant of the lip ring.

“You’re already an artist. A fucking amazing one at that,” Jaemin shrugs a shoulder, “I’m just wondering if you’re interested in becoming my artist.”

“Are you asking me on a date or offering me a job?” Jeno wonders, thanking whatever deity is up there when his voice doesn’t crack.

“A job, mostly,” Jaemin admits, but he rakes his eyes up and down Jeno’s figure, expression one of exaggerated consideration, “I wouldn’t be opposed to a date, though.”

The clumsy proposition is enough for Jeno’s brain to finally come back online. He scoffs, batting away Jaemin’s arm and reaching out to fix the sliding jacket sleeve. Jaemin lets him, an entertained smile playing across his lips.

“Your persuasion skills have improved,” Jeno says, “just not enough.”

Jaemin takes the rejection in stride, still smiling good-naturedly. Which is, you know, awful, because Jeno can’t even be annoyed about Jaemin being a massive dickhead. He’s just— he’s attractive and respectful. There’s no reason for Jeno to have turned him down again, no reason apart from his own morbid desire to play a (slightly immature) game of chase. He has a feeling they both know it.

“Maybe next time,” Jaemin winks, sticking out his tongue and disappearing back into the party as if he’d never left.

Next time.

There’s an unspoken rule amongst racers, one that stands out even on the lawless streets where they roam. You don’t ask about the day job. If the sun is still up, you don’t know them. Common sense, really — deniability, should some unlucky bastard get caught out. Jeno might not be a racer, but he’s not an exception to the code. The only person he would ever acknowledge on the street is Doyoung. For one, they were classmates. Secondly, he thinks Doyoung and Taeyong are still an item. He could be wrong. They’ve been very on-and-off lately, which is absolutely none of his business except it is. They were planning to meet up at a popular cafe, which is why Jeno is lurking in the bookshop next door.

It’s a nice bookshop. Peaceful, with an understated colour scheme and lofi music playing from slightly dated speakers. He wouldn’t be opposed to coming back. It’s oddly quaint, considering the dizzying modernism of Tokyo, and Jeno finds himself endeared by the plants on the windowsill and randomly placed armchairs. He doesn’t have much time to really explore, because he’s just remembered what people say about seeing a racer off the streets— 

“Jeno?” Jaemin breathes out, a deer in headlights.

Without the contacts and the chains, Jaemin looks his age. The eyes that make contact with Jeno’s are a dark brown, offset by the fading purple hair and the equally dark roots coming through. His shirt collar is high enough to hide the tattoo, oversized sweater sleeves curving up across fingers Jeno has never seen without jewellery. It’s the softest Jeno has ever seen Jaemin, but it doesn’t feel— it’s not real. Not him . Jeno doesn’t feel like he knows Jaemin any better than he did before seeing him so out of his element.

“Hey,” he replies, as neutral as the beige tones of the counterspace. There's a stack of books beside the cash register where Jaemin stands. The book at the very top is Japanese, but a couple of the books underneath have English titles. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Guess I could say the same for you, but you do seem the… artsy type.”

“Wow,” Jeno deadpans, wholly unimpressed by Jaemin’s barely stifled snickering, “wonder what made you come to that conclusion.”

“My teachers called me a child prodigy.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. They also called me wasted potential.”

Jeno snorts, an unflattering sound but they’re not high on secondhand adrenaline (or… firsthand, for Jaemin), nor is their backdrop modded cars and neon lights. Jeno figures there’s no real reason to be as guarded, as on-edge, not here.

“You’re not the only one,” he comments and watches Jaemin shift his weight at the tiny revelation offered to him. He’s cute like this, Jeno will confess, when he’s searching for an opening — anything to make Jeno more human. Jeno wouldn’t pretend to know what it’s like, risking your life nearly every night, all because you want the money or the glory or the rush. He doesn’t make a habit out of befriending the racers he works with. He doesn’t think he’ll start now, when he sees how Jaemin holds himself like he’s just escaped the weight of the world. Racers aren’t obligated to be saints, but Jaemin— Jaemin’s young . And, okay, Jeno’s only, like, a year older, sure. But, Jeno doesn’t have people betting on whether he’ll end up in a wreck before the morning.

“Didn’t expect you to work here,” Jeno continues, resting his elbows on the counter. “Number one racer in Japan. How much do you even earn a night?”

Jaemin scrunches up his nose, expression suitably embarrassed. Jeno and Taeyong are hardly struggling the way they used to, but Jeno knows anything he makes from his designs is way less than what Jaemin makes nearly daily.

“About 1,400,000 yen?” Jaemin guesses.

“Fuck off.”

There’s an unspoken rule amongst racers, one that stands out even on the lawless streets where they roam. You don’t ask about the day job, and you don’t give them a reason to ask about yours. Technically, this should extend to the other way around, but Jaemin is infuriatingly unorthodox and Jeno has a crush. All bets are off. Jeno knows what Jaemin is about to ask before Jaemin even opens his mouth.

“Don’t suppose that’s enough to persuade you, though.”

And, hm, maybe Jeno miscalculated. He forgot about Jaemin’s habit of not asking .

“You got that part right, at the very least.”

Jaemin sighs loudly, over exaggerated and over dramatic. He slumps across the slim frame of the counter, squishing his cheeks in his hands as he stares imploringly up at Jeno. Jeno takes a step back, rolling his eyes without any aggression behind the action. There’s a bell above the door which Jeno has only just noticed, because it rings loud and clear. Jaemin jerks back into place with the admirable reflexes required of someone who street races for a living and works in retail.

The newest customers are already talking quietly amongst themselves, and Jaemin doesn’t outright tell Jeno to stop loitering near the till, so he stays. Jaemin’s eyes only follow the pair for a couple of moments, before his attention is fully focused on Jeno once more. Jeno would be flattered, if— no, there’s no ‘if’. What’s he going to tell Jaemin? To leave him alone? Absolutely not.

“ Jeno …” Jaemin whines, volume a little lower than the exuberant one-notch-away-from-yelling tone he usually adopts. “Why?”

Jeno laughs, shaking his head.

“What if I just don’t feel like it?” He points out, “I’m a busy person.”

Jaemin sticks out his tongue, then ducks his head when a customer ventures over to a nearby armchair. Jeno barely restrains his disbelieving huff of amusement. 

“Well, is that why? Is it because you’re too busy?” Jaemin looks sheepish again, like it’s just dawned on him that people exist outside of his sphere. Like, not in an egotistical, ‘king of the world’ way, but in a ‘holy shit, I’m not the only conscious person walking the planet’. Jeno gets it. 

“...No, but the idea was there.”

Jaemin looks like he wants to hit Jeno and the only thing stopping him is the fact that he’s still on his shift and there’s probably some rules regarding customer welfare. That’s cool, Jeno would deserve it. He’s grinning, one of those infuriating, shit-eating grins, and Jaemin looks remarkably unimpressed.

“I felt so bad for, like, thirty seconds. That was cruel.”

Jeno maybe, kind of, possibly, does not have many friends in Japan. He didn’t have many of them in South Korea, either, but that was beside the point and talking about it makes Taeyong sad. It’s a personal preference, really, and he’s not against meeting new people. Most of the time, there are just… multitudes of things he’d rather do instead. He maintains pretty friendly relationships with the majority of his clients (as well as he can, at least). Also, he’s not lonely . So, all in all, there’s no reason why the easy chatter with Jaemin should make him feel so— light. Like there was never anything to worry about in the first place. Like he’s not— there’s always going to be some lingering isolation from everyone else, Jeno knows, but it feels less so, with Jaemin. That’s a lot to think about.

Jeno’s phone buzzes, screen lighting up to show him a message from Taeyong. He won’t be back for a while, but he wants Jeno to be back at their apartment because otherwise he’ll have locked himself out. Jeno briefly considers letting Taeyong perish outside before deciding he might as well be on his way. Jaemin watches him deliberate over a reply with thinly-veiled curiosity and Jeno pushes his face to the side with his finger.

“Gotta go, but it was— I liked talking to you.”

“Alright,” Jaemin smiles, and Jeno sees a flash of the street-racing daredevil he’s almost familiar with, “see you when I see you!”

“Sure, sure. See you when I see you.”

Jeno doesn’t realise he’s smiling (a soft, fragile thing), before he bumps into someone on the street and it gets wiped off in lieu of embarrassed apologies. He does stop to buy a cheap notepad, lined and everything. The face he doodles in it as he makes his way home is a familiar one.

Jeno still isn’t used to Doyoung’s grin and they’re both aware of it. There’s something slightly unnerving about how he wears it so easily, in a city that could eat him alive. With that said, Jeno doubts there’s anything capable of taking Doyoung down. He’s partially convinced that the guy has supernatural abilities — there’s nothing normal about the way he can read other people like they’re the billboards latched onto every skyscraper in Tokyo. It took Jeno weeks to find out that Doyoung originally hailed from Osaka. Doyoung guessed Jeno’s weight, shoe size and star sign in under an hour. So, yeah. Doyoung’s a little… a lot. Right now, he’s lying on the floor of Taeyong’s room and watching as Jeno searches for a shirt he knows is here.

“Heard you’re making friends,” Doyoung comments. If it was anyone else, Jeno would think it was an offhand comment, some half-assed smalltalk. Regrettably, this is Doyoung. It’s never that simple. 

“Oh?” Jeno hums, scrunching up his nose at the mess of clothes in the hamper. It used to be cleaner when all they had was a tiny 1R. Taeyong has become complacent in their current 2LDK, what with having more space to himself. Fair enough. He could still be a little tidier, though.

“Jaemin seems very interested in you,” Doyoung continues, as if Jeno hadn’t said a word, “good for you. What’s it like, knowing that one of the top racers in Tokyo is practically ride or die for you?”

“ The top racer,” Jeno corrects before he can stop himself, rolling his eyes at Doyoung’s cackling. “It’s not like that, anyway. He’s just trying to commission me.”

“As he should,” Doyoung nods sagely, though the motion against the ground messes up his ponytail, “stop letting your commitment issues be the reason you avoid him, though.”

“Hello? The fuck? I don’t— what .”

“I’m serious, like, I get that you don’t like opening up because, y’know, the mortifying ordeal of being known is kryptonite to every gay person ever. But, Jaemin’s a good kid. I’m not saying you should propose to him, but painting a fucking car won’t ruin your life. Plus, having more friends means third wheeling with us less.”

Doyoung pushes himself off the floor, brushing down his skirt with a delicate flick of the wrist. Jeno stares, somewhat aghast, as Doyoung fixes his hair like this was a normal conversation to have in the middle of the day. Jeno isn’t against diving into deep topics, but usually stuff like that happened at, what, 3am?

“I’ve got nothing against Jaemin,” Jeno says, because it’s true, “I just don’t get why .”

Doyoung inhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose as if Jeno has offended him personally — maybe he has — and gestures to the floor. His mouth is pursed into a thin line, and he flops back onto the ground with an exasperated huff. Jeno wonders if this is it, if this is the day Kim Doyoung finally takes him out and hides his body in a construction site for unsolved murder podcasts to gossip about in a couple years.

“Sit down,” Doyoung instructs, leaving no room for argument. He’s also not leaving a lot of room on the floor, but Jeno doesn’t bring that up. “Why the fuck are you like this? You’ve got no issue with admitting that you don’t have anything against Jaemin, you’ve got no issue with admitting that you quite like him, but we’re still going around in circles. Do you know why?”

The question is so abrupt, it takes Jeno a couple moments to process.

“Uh…”

“ Because ,” Doyoung pushes onwards, growing more agitated by the second, “you are, for some bullshit reason, scared that he’ll magically lose interest in you. Give him a bit more credit, Jeno.”

Well. This is absolutely fine. Jeno had not been expecting to get dragged to filth today, but he supposes he should’ve known. It’s not like Doyoung’s wrong, either. Having the heart of the issue put so bluntly is slightly embarrassing, considering how long he’s been dragging his feet, but life’s a bitch and so is Doyoung. In a loving, feminist way. Doyoung’s now watching him with almost-sympathy, so Jeno supposes he can retract that statement.

“His first race nearly killed him,” Doyoung hums, face betraying nothing as Jeno flinches. He’s used to it, most likely. Racers get into accidents all the time—

(Jaemin’s younger than Jeno. He was younger still, when he took part).

—and there’s not much else to be said about it. Jeno doesn’t stop to think about how it would feel to have your life written off as a random car wreck, reduced to a license plate and a time.

“I didn’t know.”

“I know. I wouldn’t expect that — not many people talk about it, especially since he’s doing so well now. I’m just letting you know that Jaemin isn’t an absolute dick who would drop you in under ten seconds. He’s also not that different from you, but you already knew that.”

There are a lot of things Jeno doesn’t know. For example, how Doyoung became a near-permanent fixture in his life, or how Taeyong put up with Jeno when he was going through another gender crisis which nearly brought them back to South Korea. He also doesn’t know Pythagoras' Theorem, for what it’s worth. The point is, what Jeno does know is that he’s not that old, he can still be immature and irrational and he jumps to conclusions without considering the distance covered. Ignoring Doyoung’s words would be pretty fucking stupid, since it isn’t like Jeno can counter them with anything substantial. 

Doyoung snaps his fingers in front of Jeno’s face, rolling his eyes whilst something knowing hides behind feigned annoyance.

“Talk to him.”

“You’re so annoying. How does Taeyong put up with you?”

“ Well …” Doyoung’s tongue flicks across his lips as he drags the word out. Jeno cringes, waving his hands rapidly and shaking his head.

“Forget it. Shut up. Don’t want to know. Thanks for the advice, I’ll be going!”

He stumbles to his feet, ignoring Doyoung’s maniacal laughing as he slides the door shut behind him. Taeyong is sitting with his laptop balanced on his knees, and Jeno can’t reply to his questioning stare with much more than a, “please tell your boyfriend to stop harassing me. I’m a baby. He can’t do that.”

“Jeno, you’re a legal adult. Barely, but still.”

“Is nobody on my side?”

“...Um, no. No, not really.”

“ Taeyong .”

The Jaemin who shows up at his art studio is not quite the wiry teen who tried to overcompensate, nor is it the racing prodigy who wears victory as often as that fucking bomber jacket. Jeno sees some strange mix of the two, the softness that clung onto the Jaemin from the bookshop still lingering. Somewhere. He supposes it's all about the environment. Jaemin exists in his own chiaroscuro, contrast after contrast after contrast. Underneath neon lights, he looks feral. Dangerous. Alongside the gentle flickering of residential street lamps, Jeno thinks he’d look younger. More approachable, maybe. Bathed in the industrial glow of Jeno’s studio, Jaemin looks like an unfinished masterpiece, like Pygmalion got distracted and left. It’s unrealistic, Jeno thinks, because he doesn’t think any artist could lose focus if Jaemin was their muse. He should know. There’s a 100 yen notepad burning through his back pocket. 

The issue, really, is that there’s so much of Jaemin . There’s a gravitas surrounding him and Jeno thinks he doesn’t even realise. There’s no one, true version of him. The Jaemin he had first met, the Jaemin at the race, the Jaemin at the bookstore. They’re all undeniably him , in their humour and mannerisms and in the way they seem to constantly be at the centre of— well, of everything. Jeno could talk on and on about individuality complexes and character archetypes (he’s subjected more than one person to this rant, for sure) but he’d be lying through his teeth if he called Jaemin anything less than the main fucking character. God. Doyoung would make fun of him for years if he could hear him.

“What made you change your mind?” Jaemin asks, immediate and eager. He’s not all dressed up, but there’s something sparkly on his eyelids and cheeks which make him look ethereal. Even as he talks, Jeno finds himself staring at glossy lips, at the choker which barely covers the tattoo he’s seen before, at the way the collar of Jaemin’s t-shirt shifts as he gestures, low enough to slide over a shoulder. Always the shoulder.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Jeno retorts, flicking through the photos Jaemin had handed him of an insanely flashy car. “Could always change my mind again, though.”

“You wouldn’t dare ,” Jaemin gasps, flinging a hand over his face in mock-dismay, only to whack himself in the nose with a heavy-looking ring, “fuck! Anyway, you’re kidding, yeah?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Jeno shrugs, ignoring Jaemin’s continuing words of affront, “do you have photos of Miya’s past work?”

“Um… yeah, I think so…? Why?”

Jeno is a nice person, so he doesn’t say ‘so I know what not to do’. The way Jaemin laughs informs him that his poker face is terrible, but it’s a nice laugh, so he lets it go. Actually, it’s a really nice laugh, and Jeno feels like someone’s just punched him in the gut. This is getting ridiculous. A quick smile crosses Jeno’s face, diffusing into a frown as he flicks through the blurry shots in Jaemin’s camera roll. Where the photos of the new car are clean and crisp, these are shaky and careless — an afterthought. Jeno decides not to comment on it. And then changes his mind. He’s a Taurus sun, he’s all about being realistic and stuff, according to Doyoung.

“No wonder you don’t do your own art,” He hums, giving Jaemin his phone back, “you suck at photography.”

“Thanks for showing me, Jaemin,” Jaemin huffs, “I appreciate the effort, Jaemin. I’m glad you chose me, Jaemin, even if I shot you down several times—”

“Didn’t I choose you, in the end?”

Jaemin’s mouth opens, but all he does is shut it again with a strange sort of tension in his brow — not enough to manipulate the muscles into a frown, but Jeno is oddly aware of how he’s not exactly smiling , either. Jaemin tilts his head, running his tongue over his teeth before the moment passes and the pressure eases. 

“Yeah, you did.”

Jeno can’t work without noise. There’s a window thrown open, letting in the endless chatter from the people walking past and muffled — but no less cacophonous — traffic in the distance. There aren’t many animals in the area, just a couple cats meowing idly from someone else’s balcony. Taeyong bought him a shitty radio when he first got the studio, a staticky thing with fucked up volume options and a propensity for shutting down randomly. He’d said it reminded him of Jeno, which was so out of pocket that Jeno had gutted the thing and installed a functioning speaker system in its shell. When Taeyong had found out, he’d just said it was even more like Jeno. Currently, it’s playing one of those love songs that aren’t really love songs. Jeno thinks it's by Mitski. He makes a mental note to change the playlist to something that doesn’t feel like a breakdown in an empty room. 

He coughs, lightly.

“Do you have any ideas of your own?” He asks, gesturing vaguely to the haphazardly placed chairs which function both as, well, chairs but also something he can draw when he doesn’t have any other ideas. Again, Taurus. All about that… pragmatism… or something. Jaemin shrugs.

“Go wild. Is this entire seat covered in Richard Siken quotes?” Jaemin asks Jeno with far too much incredulity in his voice. Jeno’s gay , what was he expecting? 

To be fair, he’d nearly chosen Oscar Wilde, and then Richard Siken had said something like ‘sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine’ and what was Jeno meant to do? Also, there’s something to be said about how the arm Jaemin’s hand is resting on reads ‘you’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.’

Anyway. 

Jeno is not one for leather jackets and neon shades, not like Jaemin or Doyoung or even Taeyong. He lives comfortably in his large sweaters and button-up shirts and his jeans which echo his own perpetual distress— that is to say, very obviously stressed but not torn all the way through. If anything, Jeno looks like the one who should work in a bookstore, and yet— and yet . Taeyong calls him the artsy type. Artsy and academic. Jeno considers himself neither , and he thinks he has the upper hand in the debate because his failure to stick at university should count as evidence. He has a feeling Jaemin wouldn’t take his side, but that’s probably because they look so different, side by side. And yet— and yet — they’re… not the same. Obviously. But they’re similar .

“Would you prefer Ocean Vuong?” Jeno counters, because he doesn’t think he’s artsy and academic but he does like his queercoded poetry.

“I don’t— who? I, uh, poetry isn’t my thing. Or prose, I guess.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“Ha ha .”

Jaemin throws his feet up and rests them on the stool in front of him. So disrespectful. Jeno should kick him out, really, just for the sake of sending on a message. He’s not sure what the message would actually say. That’s hardly the point. He glances away, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Jaemin watches the motion with a tilted head, fingers tracing the words across the wood, all about boys who spit blood and inhale water and breathe fire. The line closest to Jaemin’s hand says ‘he was pointing at the moon’ and Jaemin’s wrist covers the rest of the quote but Jeno already knows how it ends— 

“Someday,” Jaemin says, and Jeno knows they aren’t the same now because Jaemin does not hesitate the way Jeno does, like he needs to choose his words, and why should he? Jaemin has never needed to pause because the universe pauses for Jaemin, “someday.”

“Someday?” Jeno raises an eyebrow with an air of composure he didn’t think he could maintain.

“Someday, I’d like to kiss you. Just to know what it feels like.”

It’s unfair. It’s so unfair. Jeno stares at Jaemin and Jaemin stares at Jeno. He’s waiting for a ‘just kidding’ that never comes because Jaemin doesn’t hesitate because Jaemin says what he means, and that might be the worst part. Once, when he was younger, Jeno’s dad had thrown him into the deep end of a swimming pool and Jeno hadn’t fully learned how to float and for a while, his consciousness was narrowed down into the burn of chlorine in his eyes and lungs and then Taeyong had fished him out and Jeno thought he could see oxygen. Later, Taeyong asked Jeno what it had felt like and Jeno didn’t know because he was at the age where everything just felt the way it felt and he had nothing to compare it with and sometimes, things don’t need to feel like other things. Right now, though Jeno thinks he gets it. He knows what he would compare those seconds of weightlessness to, if he could go back to answer Taeyong’s question. Not everything feels like something else, but Jaemin’s admission feels too much like drowning and he doesn’t— Jeno hasn’t a clue what he’s meant to do with that information. It’s ridiculous, stupid, idiotic. All Jaemin had said was that he’d like to kiss Jeno. Jeno might be blowing this out of proportion.

(He knows he’s not).

Jeno must have bitten his lip. His mouth tastes coppery. 

“What do you think it would feel like?” He rasps, a little frantic.

Jaemin isn’t wearing contacts, but his stare is no less intense for it. He’s not tense, not wired like Jeno is, but he’s not relaxed. His knuckles are starting to whiten, fingers flexing across the wooden arm of the chair. Maybe Jeno was wrong, before, when his brain conjured up the sensation of weightlessness. Jaemin’s gravitational pull is crushing . Not forceful, no, but insistent. Relentless. Jeno thinks about the screech of tyres and bellowing of engines, and the racers pinned back in their seats because the wind is harsh and unforgiving; Jaemin is all of these things and none of them. They say the most dangerous alcohol is the type that’s mixed with something so sweet, you don’t even realise how strong it is. Jaemin is hardly sweet , yet Jeno still feels somewhat intoxicated.

“The same way your art studio feels,” is the answer Jaemin settles on, “like you.”

“What do you mean?”

The question is redundant in the sense that Jeno knows the answer. The art studio isn’t really that big, but it seems to hold so much. The colours are understated, but colour explodes from every corner if you care to look at the half-empty canvases and the projects that Jeno never stops starting. Jeno used to get in trouble at school because his essays always looked short but contained too much information and he seems to live his life the same way. His art studio is organised chaos, and Jeno feels more than just kind of raw at the thought of Jaemin recognising that. 

“You know what I mean,” Jaemin smiles. Smirks? No, it’s a smile. A small, private one. 

“You’re right,” Jeno acquiesces, “I think I meant to ask why .”

Jaemin pats the chair, eyes lighting up with a secretive joy. Jeno feels like he’s in someone else’s body, like he’s been tugged out of reality and shoved in but the angle was wrong and now he’s half-dreaming. 

“You’re in a car with a beautiful boy,” Jaemin recites, eyes trailing across the chair to find the winding words, “and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling—”

“But he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for,” Jeno finishes. He knows the quote by heart, would know it in his sleep, will know it on his deathbed. Knew it long before he understood why he wanted to hollow out his chest and tuck the odd mix of consonants and vowels behind his ribs for safekeeping.

“You’re not in love with me, Jaemin,” Jeno snorts, despite himself.

“Do I need to be in love? C’mon, poetry boy. Don’t fail me now.”

Jaemin gets to his feet, plucking the photos of his car out of Jeno’s hands with another miniscule smile. He fixes his shirt, runs a perfunctory hand through his hair. The corner of his mouth shines with smudged gloss from when he’d pulled a face at Jeno. Jeno, for the record, is still untethered and trying to figure out when Jaemin had the ‘ oh ’ moment— if he even had one. Jeno wouldn’t put it past him if he’d just decided that he wanted to kiss Jeno without needing to take a second to consider it. Jeno picks apart everything he knows about Jaemin, starting from the brash introduction and making his way through endless wins and quiet bookstores and blurry photos and— okay. He gets it. Maybe.

Everytime he looked at Jaemin, Jaemin looked back.

Jeno won’t lie and say he knows what Jaemin sees, when he stares at him with unfaltering decisiveness. Half the time, Jeno doesn’t even recognise himself in the mirror, which is not something he wants to analyse, now or ever. He guesses there must be something worth looking at. He— they— for what it’s worth, he knows Jaemin as well as Jaemin knows him, and that’s… not a lot. Does it have to be? Is there a rulebook for this?

“I’ll let you think about the designs. You don’t need to check in with me.” I trust you .

“Right. Yeah, I’ll— I’ll send you directions to the garage. It’s usually open, you can text me if it’s not.”

“Thanks, it shouldn't take me long to drop my car off, anyway.”

Jeno nods, watching Jaemin shove his hands in his pockets as he makes his way towards the door, pausing briefly to read the angry graffiti scrawled across the yellowing white.

“Think about what I said.”

It’s quite bold of Jaemin to assume Jeno won’t think about it for the rest of his life, however long that is.

Jeno hasn’t seen Jaemin in a while, now that he thinks about it. He’s made progress on his design, something wild and unhinged. Usually, at this stage, he’d check back in with the owner of the car, but Jaemin had specifically said he didn’t need to. Besides, Jeno’s not exactly sure how he would reach out to him. Yes, he has Jaemin’s number, but he’s… reluctant, for lack of a better word, to use it. It could be that his reticence stems from an inherent unwillingness to acknowledge the conversation they’d had back at the studio, but— he’s definitely overthinking it. 

Between working on Jaemin’s car, a couple other projects (mostly so he doesn’t burn himself out) and over-analysing what Jaemin had said to him, Jeno hasn’t really been focusing about what’s going on around him. Current affairs, and all that. His mistake, honestly, because when Doyoung asks him if he has any plans, he can’t think up a plausible excuse.

“Thought so,” Doyoung grins, unbearably smug, “which means you can come to the race tonight!”

“You do not understand the extent of which I cannot do that, actually,” Jeno groans, checking his phone to see if Taeyong would be back soon. There were no new messages, so he resigned himself to his face — that is, Doyoung’s particular brand of well-meaning harassment and possibly unethical therapy practices. 

“Are you sure about that?” Doyoung coos, spinning around in a desk chair that Jeno was pretty sure was meant to be in his room.

“Don’t look at me like that. I just don’t feel like it.”

For a brief moment, the only sounds to be heard were the whirring of Taeyong’s laptop and the white noise from the street outside. Doyoung snorted, derisive as ever.

“And this has nothing to do with one Na Jaemin.”

“Knock it off.”

“No.”

Jeno will never get over the fact that Doyoung is Taeyong’s age (so, like, four or five years older if Jeno is doing the maths right, which is highly unlikely) but acts so differently . Everything he did had the same impact as a tsunami, and he wasn’t one to apologise for it, either.

“Even if it wasn’t about him, you do realise that you have friends outside of your brother, me, and certain clients. Like, you’re aware of that, right?”

Jeno figures the only way to convey how he feels about that question is to take a long sip of his water. Doyoung scoffs. Clearly, neither of them are really in the mood for this conversation, but they’re both stubborn people by nature. Doyoung would push a ‘pull’ door until it listened and Jeno gets annoyed over the smallest things because sometimes he forgets he doesn’t actually have to conform to traditional gender expressions. So.

“I am, yes,” Jeno mutters. He’s got a couple friends who race, like Renjun and Chenle, but that doesn’t mean he goes out of his way to watch them. Usually, they’re all happy enough to get a coffee and pretend they’re perfectly normal people. Which they basically are, when you consider the bigger picture. It’s Tokyo! Jeno’s sure there are stranger friend groups, even if theirs happens to consist of two pretty-much-delinquents and an ex-art student.

“I’m not exactly giving you an option here.”

“You’re such a dick . Like I said, I just don’t feel like it. I’m not vibing.”

“You should know by now that I take nothing you say at face value.”

“Thanks?”

Doyoung groans, kicking out a leg to stop the chair from rotating. He overshoots and has to pause to untangle the safety pins in his fishnets  from each other, which marks this as the first time Jeno has ever seen Doyoung misjudge an action. He purses his lips, hands folded like a cheesy movie villain. The only difference being that Doyoung could probably take over the world if he happened to wake up one morning and just felt like it. 

“Right,” Doyoung says, with a dramatic roll of his eyes, “I’ll see you there.”

“You literally won’t,” Jeno flails, exasperated, “this is what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

It would be wrong to talk about Doyoung having the audacity. Doyoung is the audacity. Jeno can only watch as he smiles, smug as ever, and gets to his feet with all the grace of a panther. Doyoung tucks a strand of hair behind a pierced ear, looking Jeno up and down with an appraising sort of stare. It’s the look of someone who knows they’ve won the argument before it’s even had a chance to kick off. Jeno hates it, slightly. 

“Yes, I will. Also, you should dress a little… nicer .”

Doyoung is a menace, so nicer consists of a tight-fitting crop top, a pair of high waisted shorts that Jeno didn’t realise he owned, and the combat boots which Taeyong constantly threatens to throw in the trash. He supposes it isn't all that bad — the whole ensemble is black, minus the puffy, bubblegum pink jacket which Doyoung may have shoplifted. Jeno isn’t going to think too hard about it. 

(“Aw, you almost look like a racer!” Doyoung cooed, carefully avoiding painted hearts as he squished and prodded at Jeno’s cheeks.

“What do you mean by almost ?”

“You’re too much of a loser to actually be one.”)

Anyway, it’s a little out of what he would consider his comfort zone , but he doesn’t feel weird about the outfit. He’ll consider that a win. Despite his badgering… and his persistent nature... and his generally obnoxious persona… Doyoung wouldn’t have made Jeno do anything he definitely didn’t want to do. Probably.

The low, ominous rumbling of expensive engines is the first thing Jeno registers. Whilst the main hub of activity tends to shift as the authorities close in, a couple things remain consistent. One of those things is the heavy thrum of an obscene bassline, the actual words of the song inaudible over drunken laughter and revving cars. The glare of headlights cuts through cloudy neon reflections, a bandage over a day old bruise. Jeno inhales and immediately regrets it. The air is clogged with the heady scent of alcohol and a couple less socially acceptable vices. Street racing isn’t about the aesthetic as much as it is about the rush, but Jeno would argue that they go hand-in-hand. Racers want to feel good, want to look good whilst they achieve that.

There are several coolers littered around the gaping mouth of the road, some still filled and others with barely any cans left. Jeno makes his way over to one of the less sad looking ones, not at all surprised when he finds that most of the beverages are of the non-alcoholic nature. He’s crouched down beside the cooler, poking through it and ignoring the scratch of tarmac against his knees when a hand comes down on his shoulder.

He doesn’t startle. He doesn’t . Shut up.

Jeno huffs out a breath, pushing himself up from his awkward sprawl. He ends up rolling onto his back, uneven ground scraping against the palms of his hands from where he balances on them. He’s not all that surprised to see Jaemin’s wolfish grin beaming down at him, one hand outstretched to help Jeno up. He takes it, grateful, calloused palm against calloused palm. Jaemin pulls, keeps pulling until Jeno stands chest-to-chest with him.

“Hey!” Jaemin laughs, rosy cheeks exacerbated by an influx of red lighting— shit .

Jaemin notices at the same time Jeno does, which is a small miracle in the sense that neither of them hesitate before they’re taking off in a dead sprint. They’re both laughing, possibly because they have a fucking death wish, the sound ricocheting off brick walls and getting swallowed up by the warning sirens of police cars. Jaemin hasn’t let go of Jeno’s hand, yet, the grip only growing tighter as he pulls him into alleyways, zig-zagging and doubling back and careening past corners until the deafening wails fade into the buzz of the city. They’re both heaving for breath; Jeno’s lungs haven’t burned like this since forever. Of course, the one race he decides to show up at gets busted. It wouldn’t be Jeno’s life, otherwise.

The alley they’re tucked away in is narrow, barely more than a line in the sand between a grimy corner shop and cheap apartments. The street lights flicker off-beat, clashing with the flashing ‘open’ sign in the nearby store window. Jaemin has Jeno pressed against the brick wall, shadows dancing over flushed cheeks. The roughness of the brick behind him barely registers through the material of his jacket. There’s hardly room to breathe, but Jeno is more than a little reluctant to ask Jaemin to move. If they’re somehow found, they’re both fucked— they don’t have enough room to move quickly, and the alley is a dead-end. Jeno finds that he doesn’t really give a shit. Jaemin exhales, something ragged and relieved, and leans back against the opposite wall. Even with that, they have mere centimetres between them.

“So,” Jeno hums, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, “you win again tonight?”

Jaemin looks baffled for a few moments, before he chokes out a laugh. He shifts his weight, fingerless leather gloves rustling as he brings his arms up to cage Jeno, leaning into his space. His eyes are bright, almost luminescent despite the darkness of the alleyway. Jeno can see each rise and fall of his chest, can feel the thudding of his heart as if it was his own.

“You know I did,” Jaemin grins. The confidence in his voice could be mistaken for arrogance, if Jaemin’s talent wasn’t simply a fact. Jaemin wasn’t bragging. How could he, when everyone else was so aware of the level he was playing at?

The two of them are the same height, or near enough, but Jaemin still has to use two fingers to guide Jeno’s chin as he leans in.

“Is this ‘someday’?” Jeno questions, breathier than he expected himself to sound.

“Maybe, yeah, depends,” Jaemin’s smile is a softer, almost nervous thing. There’s no sign of the cocky grin, but Jeno has the distinct feeling it won’t be gone for long. “Is that okay?”

Jeno’s ‘yes’ gets swallowed by the insistent press of a mouth against his own, demanding and yielding all at once, in a way only Jaemin could achieve. Jeno’s eyes flutter closed, tension he hadn’t even addressed flooding out of his frame. Jaemin tastes vaguely sugary, though the specifics fly out of Jeno’s head when Jaemin tugs playfully at his bottom lip, not quite gentle and not yet a proper bite. His hands curl into bright red locks, pulling Jaemin impossibly closer. Jaemin complies, a leg nudged in between Jeno’s as he rests most of his weight on top of him. Jeno can feel the jagged brick at his back a little more keenly, now, but it only grounds him as Jaemin licks into his mouth, the kiss growing messy. It should be illegal, how in sync they are. Someone whines, desperate and helpless — Jeno thinks it might be him — and when they finally break apart (they didn’t pace their breathing terribly well), Jaemin’s eyes are heavily lidded and Jeno’s gasping for air. 

There’s a prominent blush dusted across Jaemin’s cheeks, one that Jeno knows must be mirrored on his own. A couple moments pass, the pair refusing to make eye contact.

Jeno can’t help it.

He giggles into the silence, lets it grow into a proper laugh. Jaemin stares at him with incredulity, but Jeno’s been told that his smile is infectious and Jaemin is hardly immune — he can see the way Jaemin’s lips are pressed together to suppress another grin, emphasised by the smeared lipstick.

“You’re just…” Jaemin huffs, burying his head in the crook of Jeno’s neck, “the cutest ever. You don’t even realise.”

Jeno hums, noncommittal, as he plays with Jaemin’s hair. The red actually doesn’t clash that badly with Jeno’s jacket. He can feel the warmth of Jaemin’s sigh against his neck.

“I’m serious!” Jaemin continues, “you’re so— god . Baby.”

“Baby?” Jeno questions, one brow arched despite his raging blush.

“Yeah, I mean— is that okay? Can I say that? I just— I’ve wanted to be able to call you that for a while. I just think it suits. If it’s not okay, I can stop.”

Jeno’s fairly sure Jaemin’s ears are bright red, almost matching his hair. It’s ridiculously adorable, considering Jaemin had just kissed him within an inch of his life. Let it be known that Jeno would, possibly, allow Jaemin to call him anything. Well, within reason.

“Am I just ‘baby’?” Jeno wonders, gaze fixed on the boy in front of him, “or am I your baby?”

“Shit, Jeno,” Jaemin whines, prompting a teasing snicker from Jeno, “you’re your own damn person, but I won’t argue with you, if that’s what you want .”

It is, in fact, what Jeno wants. He says as much, and watches as Jaemin melts into an incoherent, babbling mess because of it.

Not everyone likes the dizzying scent of spray paint, and rightly so, but Jeno finds he doesn’t really mind it. Maybe he’s just accustomed to it, at this point. Still, he’s not an idiot. He knows when to stop and clear his head (and air the garage out, damn). He’s almost certain that he’ll only be using spray paints for a couple more sessions before he moves onto detail work. It’s the most tedious part of any commission, and he’s more than used to the smell clinging to him for days afterwards.

Taeyong, on the other hand, can’t stand it. They don’t argue a lot, and this is no exception, but Jeno is fairly used to more than a few passive aggressive comments on the headache-inducing stench following him around. 

It’s a little surprising, then, when Jeno turns around and sees Taeyong poking around the garage. There’s no sense of urgency, just genuine curiosity… which is weird, since Taeyong has always made it clear that the day he ventures into the garage will be the day he drops dead. Jeno isn’t exactly eager to watch that happen, so he appraises Taeyong with a tilted head and waits for his brother to say something. Patience is a virtue, he knows this, but Taeyong has either not realised that Jeno’s waiting for him or he’s just taking his sweet time to figure out what he wants to say. Both scenarios are very likely. 

Jeno coughs into his hand and Taeyong drops the brush he was fiddling with.

The thing about Taeyong is that he’s definitely got more sense than Jeno and Doyoung combined, but that isn’t saying much. Their similarities begin and end with their ostracisation from the rest of their family— Taeyong wears his heart on his sleeve where Jeno would literally rather die than acknowledge he has feelings, Taeyong shoulders his burdens silently where Jeno picks the dramatic route. Still, there’s something to be said about brotherly bonds and all that bullshit.

“Is something wrong?” Jeno ventures, clasping his hands awkwardly and pursing his lips. 

Taeyong looks rather startled at the suggestion, picking the brush up and setting it back down on the rickety desk.

“No! God, no, everything’s fine,” Taeyong hastily fills the silence, waving his hands, “nothing’s burning down. Yet. I told Doyoung he was in charge of dinner, though…”

“Why would you do that,” Jeno interrupts, tone flat. 

“I know, I know. That’s not the point. He’s trying his best.”

Bullshit , Jeno thinks. He doesn’t say it out loud, because Taeyong is likely to clip him around the ears for it. Some habits die hard.

“Look,” Taeyong continues, rolling his eyes when Jeno closes his eyes, “I actually wanted to ask you something vaguely related to Doyoung.”

The way he pauses makes Jeno pause in response, eyes searching Taeyong’s guarded expression in a way that could only be described as suspicion . Jeno does not like where this is going. He isn’t above locking Taeyong out if it means he doesn’t have to be subjected to anything relating to his brother’s love life. He hears enough sordid details from Doyoung, thank you very much.

“Related to Doyoung, how ?”

“Well, you know! You’ve met Doyoung—”

“Unfortunately.”

“Don’t be a dick. I just want to know when I get to meet this racer of yours.”

There’s a lot to sift through, there. Like how Taeyong referred to Jaemin as his racer. Jeno is so, so glad he wasn’t drinking anything. There’s no way this isn’t Doyoung’s fault. Against better judgement, his gaze slides to the flashy car beside him, all bright colours and bold strokes. Taeyong follows his look, studying the car with raised eyebrows and an expression which says everything . Jeno hates when he does that. He cringes at the knowing smirk Taeyong offers him, ducking off to the side and fetching two bottles of water. He tosses one at Taeyong, who barely catches it.

He’s not sure what to tell Taeyong. He’s not a fool enough to think that Taeyong hasn’t picked up on how often Jeno’s been leaving, sneaking out at random times and knocking several things over in the process. Jaemin isn’t a secret , but there’s something about sneaking kisses in alleyways and staring at the cloudy midnight sky from balconies and quick sketches in cheap notebooks that Jeno wants to keep to himself. Maybe it’s unfair, because when Doyoung and Taeyong finally decided to label themselves as something more than just friends, Jeno was the first to know. Then again,  Jeno and Jaemin are different people and experiences aren’t universal and— 

“There’s no rush,” Taeyong comments, eyes fixed on the contents of the plastic bottle in his hands, “I’m cool for whenever. I’d just… I would like to meet him, at some point, since he obviously makes you happy.”

And that… was not something Jeno expected to hear. Taeyong seems unaware of how he’s just punched the air from Jeno’s lungs, continuing as if he hadn’t heard his spluttering.

“You weren’t miserable before, I guess, but I— you didn’t have a focus, either, not since the… art. And I don’t mean the degree,” Taeyong says. He  sets the bottle down, but continues fiddling with the cap, “I wasn’t sure how to bring it up with you, if you would have even told me the truth— don’t look at me like that. You’re the king of emotional repression. I’m just saying, you’ve seemed more driven, recently. Maybe it’s nothing to do with Jaemin at all. I, uh, I’m glad. Whatever it is. I’m glad you found it.”

Jeno swallows around the lump in his throat, blinking rapidly. He mirrors Taeyong’s earlier motions, setting the water bottle down on the ground before he does something ridiculous but also sort of understandable, like dropping it. 

“Oh,” Jeno chokes out, chewing on his bottom lip, “oh. Okay. Um… Cool! Thank you.”

Taeyong shrugs, but at least he’s polite enough to act as if he’s not stifling a laugh at Jeno’s complete inability to respond. Jeno supposes he shouldn’t be that surprised; Taeyong has always been able to handle Jeno better than Jeno could handle himself, much as he would like to pretend otherwise. Whilst he mightn’t owe Taeyong his life (and Taeyong would vehemently disagree if Jeno even suggested it), they’re both incredibly aware of where Jeno would be without his brother. Even if he snores loud enough to be heard through the walls of their respective bedrooms. Anyway! Jeno is not crying, but he totally could if he wanted to.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to say anything back,” Taeyong assures him, sounding faintly amused, “just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“Yeah,” Jeno manages, “yeah, uh, do you… do you wanna see my concept designs for the car? Since you’re here, and all. I haven’t really been able to show anyone yet, y’know, because of who it belongs to. Just… I mean, you said you wanted to meet him, and this isn’t the same thing, I— I don’t know where I’m going with this.”

So, maybe Jeno was thrown more off-kilter than he originally thought. Sue him.

“You are a walking disaster, please be quiet and show me the designs.”

Well, he can do that. He chooses to not call Taeyong out on the proud smile he sends his way when Jeno starts going through each page. That’s quite enough emotion to last him for a week. Not that he’s averse to the validation.

(He doesn’t think the warm feeling will fade anytime soon). 

Jeno once heard of a story that went like this: a Chinese painter was incomprehensibly talented, famous for his renditions of dragons — dragons so lifelike, there was hardly a soul who didn’t know who he was. However, he never painted the eyes of his dragons, for fear that they would come to life and escape. Now, the dragon on Jaemin’s car has fully intact eyes, but Jeno doesn’t think it’ll be fleeing into the night sky anytime soon. Maybe it knows, somehow, that it won’t need to fly with Jaemin behind the wheel. The garage lights are cold, but the car gleams with a liveliness it hadn’t had before, reds and blues and silvers sliding across shining aluminium. The dragon’s body snakes around the frame, head resting on the hood with a challenging glint in its eyes. Jeno had toyed with the idea of adding chains, but decided against it. Nothing about Jaemin needed to be restrained.

He turns around when he hears the distinct clicking. He’s just in time to see Jaemin sauntering in, swinging his keys around a finger. Jeno turns back around, head tilted as he scrutinises his own work.

“You’re late,” He informs his boyfriend, rather cheerfully for someone who has had far too much time to overthink.

“ Baby ,” Jaemin whines, and Jeno really shouldn’t have admitted how the pet name made him feel because now Jaemin won’t quit, “it wasn’t on purpose. I got held up at work.”

He sidles up behind Jeno, wrapping his arms around him and balancing his chin on Jeno’s shoulder. He’s close enough to see Jeno’s fond smile, close enough to see how Jeno is entirely incapable of even pretending to be annoyed. Jaemin kisses a line up to Jeno’s jaw, grinning into the tanned skin as Jeno attempts to bat him away.

“Funny, since you don’t even need that job.”

“Well,” Jaemin hums. Jeno can feel him shrug against his back, “it gives me something to do when I’m not having a scandalous affair with death.”

“Oh, well, at least you’re honest about your side relationships.”

It isn’t lost on Jeno, how Jaemin hasn’t looked anywhere near the car yet. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for — permission? A literal green light? — but Jeno’s growing more than a little antsy, as much as he likes their back-and-forths (there was one memorable occasion where they’d scandalised an old lady at the bookstore, discussing the ethics of cannibalism versus the physical downsides). The situation with Jaemin is different from Jeno’s other clients, and not just because he likes to spam Jeno’s messages with heart emojis and hold his hand. For one thing, Jaemin hasn’t seen the car since it first showed up at the garage. Second of all, Jaemin had put literally all his trust in Jeno. Most clients liked to have input, which was fine, since it made Jeno’s job so much easier. Jaemin? Jaemin had given Jeno a blank canvas and complete freedom. Jeno sometimes wondered if that’s how Jaemin approached his own life. Probably.

“Can I see it?” Jaemin asks, bright as ever. One of his eyes is cracked open, peering up at Jeno. He’s still nestled comfortably in the crook of Jeno’s neck, but that barely hides his excited little grin. He’s drumming little patterns on Jeno’s stomach, where his sweater meets his tennis skirt. Jeno privately thinks that it’s like Jaemin’s frame is simply too small to contain all his enthusiasm. Cute. 

“I never said you couldn’t look, did I?”

“Yeah, but,” Jaemin gestures vaguely, “I wanted it to be a surprise ! You’ve been working hard! It’s a big deal— no, don’t interrupt me, I’m right— it’s a huge deal because it’s my favourite car and you’re my favourite person. Humour me, here.”

“Okay, okay,” Jeno laughs, turning around in Jaemin’s arms and pecking his forehead, “it’s a big deal. You can see it. I’m giving you permission, or whatever.”

“ Or whatever ,” Jaemin echoes, though the derisive sentiment gets a little lost when he looks past Jeno and sees the car itself.

Jeno should’ve had the sense to take out his phone and record, because Jaemin’s reaction is priceless . Deep brown eyes are comically wide, glossy lips parted in awe. He’s frozen in spot, the frantic glancing of his eyes being his only movement. Is he breathing? Jeno is about to ask, when Jaemin’s limbs start moving again. He darts around the car, taking in every stencilled line, every flick and flourish which intertwined to become one encompassing design. Jeno hadn’t held back with the colours he used — he never did — but there was method in the madness. He liked to tell himself, anyway. There was something inherently Jaemin in the bold saturation of the hues. Jaemin was not one to hold back, and who was Jeno to rob him of that statement?

“You’re very quiet,” Jeno remarks, biting his lip. 

Jaemin stops his dashing around, oversized button-up swishing theatrically as he pivots on his heel. Without a single word of warning, he rushes over and pulls Jeno into a hug— hold on, no, he lifts Jeno in his arms, mindful of the hem of his skirt, and spins him around until they’re dizzy and out of breath. The wide grin on Jaemin’s face would have been answer enough, really. It doesn’t fade, not even when he has to set Jeno down again. 

“It’s fucking amazing. You’re amazing. Holy shit ,” Jaemin points at the car, then tugs Jeno into another hug. The rest of his words are muffled in the thick fabric of Jeno’s sweater, but he can still hear him say, “I knew you were a fucking phenomenal artist, I’ve literally seen your art all over the fucking city, but— damn .”

He sounds so out of breath, so lost for words, Jeno can only laugh and card his fingers through vivid cerulean hair. 

“I’m glad you don’t hate it,” is what he says. And then, quieter, “thanks for trusting me with it.”

“Don’t h— Jeno.” Jaemin disentangles himself, hands clasped firmly on Jeno’s shoulders and posture squared, “come with me.”

“What.”

“ Come with me . We’re going on a drive.”

The fiery determination is back in Jaemin’s eyes, keys swinging around a confident finger and lips upturned in a cocky smile. Jaemin leans back against the car, ripped-jean clad legs stretched out in front of him and his other hand tucked into the pocket of his leather jacket. 

“...baby,” Jaemin adds, and Jeno couldn’t say no even if he wanted to.

Jeno isn’t a racer, but the sensation of the wind ruffling his hair and burning through his lungs is practically intoxicating. Racing has never been his thing, but he can see why it’s Jaemin’s. Behind the wheel, Jaemin is a god at his own temple, confidence emanating from the most simple movements. When he catches Jeno staring, he winks playfully and squeezes his thigh. Jeno chooses to blame his flushed cheeks on the wind, and he merely sticks his tongue out in response, turning away to watch the city fly past them.

Tokyo might be a heartless city, but Jeno’s own heartbeat pounds relentlessly, blood rushing in his ears, and he thinks that more than makes up for it.

“What are you thinking about?” Jaemin calls over.

Jeno’s eyes track the way Jaemin’s sunglasses push his hair free from his forehead, the ease with which he sits in the driver’s seat, the way his slender fingers tap the edge of the steering wheel, the hand on Jeno’s own thigh. Jeno’s an artist; it’s in his nature to think about as much as he can, all the time. His work, his personal life, himself. And, more regularly, Jaemin. 

Jeno reaches down, takes Jaemin’s hand in his own and intertwines their fingers over the gear shift.

“Nothing,” he replies, his grin matching Jaemin’s, “just keep driving.”