Archive of Our Own ^beta

They're on the chairlift to the red slopes when Camie asks, "What's he like?"

The question comes out of nowhere. Shouto stares at her as he asks, "Who?"

Camie knocks her skis against his board as she says, "You know. Your teammate."

Shouto leans backward and sighs. "I don't know what he's like. I haven't met him yet."

Camie hums, then asks, "Is he fast?"

Bakugou Katsuki is a lot of things: 2012 Asia-Pacific F4 champion, a string of karting championships before that, and an Acura development driver. Their one and only ever since they revived the project in 2010. Tensei explains to Shouto that there are people who think Katsuki's going to be the biggest thing to ever come out of Japan. Shouto doesn't think much of it at first. There's a next biggest thing every year in this sport.

Katuski is fast though. It shows in testing, where he's on par with Shouto's times with only a fraction of the experience around the same track. It shows at the first race of the season, when Katsuki robs Shouto at the first corner at Circuit Paul Ricard. Shouto gets him back, but not without having to fight for every inch of track. By the end of the feature race, Shouto's deformed his drink tube from how much he's been gnawing on it.

And because Shouto recognises good racing when he sees it, he goes to Katsuki at parc ferme and extends a hand. “Nice drive,” he tells Katsuki, and means it. 

Katsuki’s hair is a wild, sweat-damp mess in the sunshine. His eyes are piercing too, carving a hot line from Shouto’s hand, up his arm, up to meet his gaze. At the time, Shouto thinks it’s an intensity that lingers from the race. Later, he’s going to realise it never stops feeling like this. 

Katsuki grins and shakes Shouto’s hand. “I’ll get you next time,” he says.

Shouto's never been friends with his teammates before Katsuki, so he's not expecting it to be any different now. If anything, he's anticipating another season of passing dead time in the shared driver room by catching up with schoolwork and clearing more levels of a cat-themed bubble shooter game on his phone in companiable silence.

Shouto's not expecting Katsuki to barge in, kick the door shut, and approach him demanding, "You got SkySports?"

Shouto looks up at him, frowning. He still hasn't worked out if Katsuki's English vocabulary is very limited, or if he's just rude. "Yeah. Why?"

Katsuki makes a hand it over motion. "Moto GP quali's starting."

If it had been any other sport, Shouto probably would've told him to fuck off. But he watches Moto GP too, although he'd been meaning to save it for after the race weekend this time. So, Shouto tells Katsuki to sit down, and he swipes through his phone to pull up the livestream. Q1 has just started. They're racing in Spain this week.

"Who do you support?" Shouto asks as he props up his phone against his water bottle on the table.

Katsuki shrugs and answers, "AMR, always." He leans forward to up the volume of the broadcast a touch. Both of them sit back, silent, watching the broadcast for a moment. Shouto keeps staring at his brother's shortened name, TOD, in the timing table. Then, Katsuki asks, "What about you?"

Shouto probably should've lied, but — "My brother." He points, to Touya, and his purple and blue helment. "I started watching for him."

At first, Katsuki doesn't say anything. He just looks at Shouto, like he's an irritating problem that he's trying to solve. Then, he turns back to watch the screen. "Huh." is all he says.

For a few peaceful weeks, they get along fine. They take turns texting one another about Moto GP and F1 results (read: mocking the other when their team has a bad result), and otherwise stay out of each other's way when they turning up to the factory to do testing and sit in team meetings about set-up. In that time, they have lunch together once, where Katsuki complains about the shitty British food his boarding school serves and forgets the English word for cafeteria. Shouto's still pretending his Japanese is worse than it actually is, so they just sit in silence as Katsuki glares at the wall and tries to recall the correct vocabulary.

On the drive home, Tensei, Shouto's manager, asks him how he's getting along with Katsuki. He'd seen them earlier in the break room. "What do you guys talk about?"

Shouto tells him it's mostly about racing, since Katsuki seems to have prioritised learning racing vocabulary more than anything else.

Tensei looks confused when he hears this. "You're speaking in English only?"

"Yeah."

"You, uh, he doesn't know you can speak Japanese?"

Shouto shrugs. "He never asked."

Tensei laughs, a little defeated. Then mutters something about how kids are weird.

When Shouto loses to Katsuki in the feature race at the A1 Ring, he starts to think he can't stand losing to Katsuki most of all people. Not only because it's making for a very tight competition between them, but also because Katsuki's just an insufferable race winner. A punches-the-air, jumps-off-the car kind of guy. When his helmet comes off, he won't stop running his mouth about so-and-so's shitty driving and how he totally destroyed Shouto with his slipstreaming down the main straight. He keeps telling Shouto to eat shit and it makes Shouto want to punch him. Shouto's convinced that Katsuki doesn't know what humility is.

On the podium, Shouto listens to the Japanese national anthem and longs for the peace of the flight home. Until the music changes, and Shouto has to get out of his own head and shake the stupid bottle of carbonated apple juice (half the drivers in FREC are still underage) and make nice with Katsuki. Looking up, he sees Katsuki leap off the top step of the podium. Lips pulled into a wide, toothy smile, eyes scrunched up with laughter. Golden and haloed with his wild hair and the afternoon sun. 

And then Katsuki sprays the sparkling apple juice straight into Shouto’s eyes, cackling as he goes. 

They're sharing a ride to Vienna Airport this time, so Shouto's waiting with Katsuki in the car park for Tensei to pick them up when a phone rings. Katsuki's phone, it turns out, when he answers in Japanese, "What is it, hag?" The words are abrasive, but his voice isn't.

Shouto stays leaned against the wall, staring dead ahead as Katsuki talks to his mum. He can feel himself spiral into panic, realising that he's going to hear every word of this conversation that Katsuki fully doesn't expect Shouto to follow. If Katsuki ever finds out about this he's going to be dead.

Shouto really tries to tune out. He digs into his pocket for his phone, and scrolls socials, texts Camie, who doesn't reply, and checks his emails. It doesn't really work. Shouto still hears Katsuki grumble about the shit weather and how airport security's going to take too long and how it's not Tsunagu's job to attend every race of his, calm down, woman.

And: "Sorry, I asked. They won't pay for the flight back. I already told you, they wouldn't do it. I can save up to fly back after the season's over —"

Shouto doesn't pity Katsuki for this. He's not the only kid with big dreams who's had to spend time apart from family. But it's an odd reminder that actually, they're probably a lot alike.

Shouto's behind Katsuki in the security line, which is four layers deep. Even though they've got a solid ten minutes before they reach a scanner, Katsuki's already got a clear plastic bag of his liquids in his hand. It makes him think about Katsuki's phone call that he shouldn't have overheard, which makes him wonder about Katsuki's summer plans, which then makes Shouto feel sorry for him, and consider inviting him to the villa in Nice, which results in him asking, "How's your break looking?"

Katsuki's gaze snaps over to him for a moment, then back ahead. "Don't know. I'm staying at school." he says.

"You like it there?"

Somehow, it's this question that seems to irritate Katsuki. He shuts his eyes for a moment, like it's giving him a headache. "You like asking dumb questions?"

Shouto gets the message. They spend the next five minutes in a stuffy silence, inching closer to the security machines and the frazzled looking airport staff. In the end, Shouto doesn't tell Katsuki about his own summer plans, which involve hanging out at the family summer house in Nice and then spending a weekend with Camie in Amalfi holiday house. Fuck you, Shouto thinks mildly. If Katsuki's going to have a shit attitude, he can spend his break in a damp boarding school dormitory instead of hearing out Shouto's offer to spend it in on the balmy Mediterranean coast.

Camie has been throwing a weekend birthday bash every August for as long as Shouto can remember. This includes when they were barely out of nappies and it was Camie's parents hosting a weekend-long event for their four-year-old daughter. Shouto remembers the photos. There were at least two F1 team principals in attendance.

Of course, Camie's birthday parties are a little different now. Less ponies and dessert tables, more designer bags and underage drinking. When Shouto emerges from his room wearing last night's linen shirt and a pair of swim shorts, every step is a battle because he’s somehow hungry and nauseous at the same time, and he’s still light-headed.

He assesses the evidence of the last night as he makes his way down the stairs. Somebody's silk scarf is draped over a marble statue. Pool towels draped over the dining room chairs. Wine glasses with lip marks and fingerprints lining a windowsill.

Rubbing one eye, Shouto steps into the kitchen, bare feet tacky against the tile. He opens two cabinets before finding a glass, and fills it from the tap. As he drinks, he wanders over to the window to tug open the window. He can see Camie’s stupid courtyard and fountain from here, and three empty wine bottles. One of them is lying in the fountain.

“You’re up?”

Shouto jumps and hits his head on the side of a cabinet. “Fuck,” he hisses, clamping his free hand to his head.

“Fuck, fuck,” Camie echoes as she rushes over to him, “Sorry.”

Shouto waves her away before leaning back against the stove. Camie settles beside him. For a moment, they’re still, staring out into the blue shadows of the Amalfi home. Listening to the quiet murmur of the Mediterranean in the distance. Then, they start to giggle.

“What a mess,” Camie says, shaking her head. "How's your head?"

"Fine. Better than Theo."

Camie gasps, "Oh my god, you saw? She vomited in my sink!"

They find bread and butter in the pantry, and eat standing up, spilling crumbs over the counter. Camie tells Shouto about how Theo’s actually not so bad, and neither are Bella and Lila. Shouto agrees, they were nice when they were pouring champagne down his throat. Camie warns him not to keep it up. He’s an athlete, remember. “Just this once,” she tells him, waving a warning finger as they comb through the house, picking up the most incriminating pieces ahead of Camie’s parents arriving. “You’re gonna be fighting right up to the end of the season right?”

“Probably,” Shouto answers, “he’s good.”

She remembers the question he’s answering. All the way back in January. Of course she does. Camie grins as they step out into the courtyard, the morning sunshine lighting up her blue eyes, catching on her flyaways, on her lashes. She smiles the same as when she was a kid, just with neater, plucked eyebrows. “But you’re better,” she tells him. Not a question.

It's on Shouto's mind before gets into the car at Imola. Better. He needs to be better than his teammate. Better than the rest of the grid. So far, he and Katsuki are almost even on points. He doesn't really believe that Katsuki's better, but he's the one with the spot in a development program, and people in high places tapping him to go far. Shouto's still paying for his drive after a second-place finish in British F4.

So Shouto beats Katsuki off the starting line on Sunday, and he places his car perfectly, to make it so Katsuki can't find enough room inside and outside, and it spooks the team so much they radio five times to tell him to race clean, as if this isn't the best driving he's managed against Katsuki all season.

Shouto’s completely in control as he starts the last lap, flat on the throttle as he heads down the start straight. He sees Katsuki dart out to his right in the mirrors, and they’ve done this so many times now this season, Shouto doesn’t doubt for a moment that he leaves enough room —

“Fuck! My right –” 

“Shouto,” his race engineer is in his ear, calm, “Focus. You’re still good.” 

Which – yes, Shouto is. He’d felt a jolt, but the car had carried on without issue. His speed is still good. But Katsuki has fallen away. “Is Bakugou –” 

“He’s okay. Keep pushing. One lap.”

Considering Katsuki had to drag himself to the finish line with a puncture, fifth is a great result. However, Shouto had finished first, so he’s also sure that Katsuki wants to kill him. Just, he wasn’t quite expecting him to try in the middle of parc ferme.

“What the fuck was that.”

Shouto turns slowly, still a little dazed. He’s holding his helmet and his sweaty balaclava in his hands. His face feels clammy, still damp in fresh air. “Say again,” he answers.

“What. The fuck. Was that move,” Katsuki grits out, “You moved into my line.”

Some of the other drivers are starting to turn their way. Shouto keeps his eyes on Katsuki. Pulls in a deep breath before he speaks. “I don’t think so,” Shouto answers. He was sure when he was in the car. He has to trust that feeling. “I was ahead anyway –”

At this, Katsuki bristles. “Doesn’t matter,” he snaps, “you need to leave room –”

“I left room,” Shouto hisses. Distantly, he’s aware of people watching. Other drivers. Race officials. Their team.

“Yeah, until you thought you’d give me a nudge –”

“It’s not my fault you got used to other guys backing off when you get aggressive with them. I’m better than that.”

It’s only when Katsuki’s staring at him, silent, that Shouto realises he’d spoken in Japanese. Fuck. And a heartbeat later, Katsuki’s shoved into his space. There’s a burst of sound, of movement. People are yelling at them to stop, but it’s too late – Katsuki’s already got a fistful of Shouto’s collar, and Shouto’s got his hands on Katsuki’s shoulders, trying to shove him off. Katsuki’s almost yelling at him, “Fucking say that again. When have I ever raced dirty with you? When?”

Shouto bites off his retort as Katsuki lets go of him with a shove. He stumbles back, and someone catches his shoulder. A few of the other drivers – Shouto spots the green of the Ketsu Juniors and the red of FK Racing – are holding them back.

One of the race officials has stepped in. “Cut it out, both of you,” he says, looking between them. “Another word, and I’m going to have to send you to the stewards.”

As the day is waning, Shouto meets Katsuki at the back of the garage. Both of them have changed into fresh team polos and track pants. The team boss is still going through something with the logistics staff and one of the mechanics. That leaves the two of them to wait for their turn to get chewed out, leaned up against the back wall. Katsuki hasn’t looked at Shouto properly this whole time.

“I went too far,” Shouto admits. His head pounds. His neck flushes warm.

“You’re a cunt,” Katsuki says, and Shouto supposes he’s forgiven.

“Big word.”

Katsuki threatens to kill him for that, but he laughs as he does. They both do.

The Tuesday night before they're due to fly to Barcelona, Shouto asks Katsuki if he plays the F1 game. Katsuki gets on the phone with him and says the game is shit, for a whole host of reasons that he enumerates in rapid Japanese. Katsuki bitches about the inputs and how the developers must have been lazy, giving the cars all the same stats across all the tracks even though there should be set-up changes to suit different tracks. Or they should’ve added it as a feature. And the driver graphics are weird and gross-looking. Still, Katsuki has the game. "Yes, let's race the stupid shitty fake cars," Katsuki says, and Shouto has to mute to snort laughter.

They've been able to talk more since they banged wheels at Imola. It means that Shouto's been able to notice more about Katsuki. Like how in Japanese, Katsuki is more precise about his feelings. As in, how he feels about recent news of Horch F1 Team’s driver signings, about how the FREC car drives in comparison to the F4 car, and the quality of the competition in said Asia-Pacific F4 series (total shit). “Even now,” Katsuki continues, “I thought FREC would be more competitive. I know guys back home who are better.”

“But they’re not here,” Shouto says.

“No. It’s expensive. Did you know that?"

Shouto doesn't miss the dig, and knowing the kind of guy Katsuki is, it's intentional. It's meant to sting. And Shouto's not built to just take it. "Rich coming from you, Acura's golden boy."

“Oh,” Katsuki says, "You wanna go there? Rich boy," he mocks, "Mr pay driver."

In response, Shouto casually T-bones Katsuki straight into the barriers. The game makes noises and flashes red, telling them they’re going the wrong way.

“Wow, that really is a sore spot.”

“Yeah,” Shouto says, as he reverses the car on screen. They’ve never talked about it, and Shouto thinks they never will. If anything, Katsuki should be able to put the pieces together himself.

They start a new race, and as they click through the loading screens, Katsuki says he’s going to beat Shouto in this, as well as the last three races on the calendar. “Make you pay another year in F3,” he mocks.

“Maybe I’ll DNF both of us,” Shouto says, deadpan.

As the game loads them onto the starting grid, Katsuki says, “You won’t. You’re too good of a driver for that.”

Shouto thinks he can see it. Katsuki’s lazy grin as he shakes his head at the screen. The warmth there, if he only he could peel back all the distance between them and take a look. Shouto watches the five lights on the screen turn on, and he hopes that Katsuki will always think that of him. Good driver.

Everything goes wrong at Barcelona. The flight is delayed, and Shouto has to wait an hour at the backed up luggage carousel because his priority-tagged luggage does not get unloaded first like it's supposed to. The hotel keeps issuing him a key card that doesn’t work for longer than six hours, so he finds himself back at the check-in desk approximately twice a day, asking them to please fix his damn card. And to top it all off, there's a line item highlighted in his itinerary that he's been dreading: DAD VISITING TEAM.

Shouto's known about it for a whole week. That's a whole week he's had to brace. To fidget on the plane and to bite and tear up the inside of his cheek and lips. His mouth is bloody by the time he gets to the track on Saturday.

He puts it on pole, and his dad is waiting for him at the parc ferme barriers. Arms reaching for him, to hug him, clap him on the back. Shouto leans in, stiff, eyes cast off to the side. He's aware of the cameras aimed their way. He forgets sometimes. His dad is Enji. Todoroki Enji, one time F1 world champion. The cameras love this. Shouto tries to breathe. Tries to get through it. Keeps holding onto his helmet with one hand, like its a buoy.

On Sunday, Shouto gets pre-occupied trying to keep Katsuki from diving down the inside of turn one, and lets Ketsu Racing's Neito overtake the both of them around the outside.

He finishes fifth. He doesn't stay to watch the podium celebrations, even though Katsuki had ended up finishing second. Tensei walks with him back towards the garage, and tells him that his dad is waiting there. "But you don't have to," Tensei says.

Shouto really does appreciate it. Tensei tries to get between them. He's trying to do his job. Manage Shouto, including his mental state. "It's fine," Shouto tells him as he tugs off his helmet, then his balaclava. "I'll go talk to him."

These days, it's a coin flip, which one he'll get. Dad, or Enji. He's hoping for the latter. It's more productive that way.

Later, Shouto drags himself to the restaurant where the team is having dinner. He’s late, late enough that the food has already arrived and that everyone calls out to him when he walks through the front doors, gesturing to the empty seat they saved. It smells incredible. Like the tang of the sea and the heat of spices and warm, golden butter. Shouto squeezes past the three mechanics on his side of the garage, and finds his seat, between Katsuki and his race engineer.

Later in the dinner, the team boss winds around the table and puts a hand on Shouto’s shoulder. Shouto stares up at him, this crinkly-eyed Japanese man who the team’s named after. “You okay?” he asks.

Shouto blinks. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

In Japanese, Nezu says, “I know what your old man is like.”

So, Shouto plays it off. He has to. Smile. Up to his eyes. Voice light. “I’m fine. Thanks for checking.”

Nezu takes him at his word, then announces his departure and that he’s paid the bill. The table cheers. One of Katsuki’s mechanics whistles. Katsuki though, watches Shouto. When he asks what that was about, Shouto waves him away. Says it’s nothing.

It’s been a while since they’ve had rain this bad. Shouto’s trying to remember the last time he was at a race weekend where they’d delayed sessions on account of the rain. Definitely back in British F4. Shouto remembers spending the wait holed up at the back of the garage, dozing against the wall with his helmet on the floor between his knees. His teammates were doing their own thing, laughing at some in-joke Shouto wasn’t privy to. They did that a lot, now that he’s thinking about it.

Right now, Shouto’s posted up at the entrance of the garage, watching the rain come down in heavy sheets across the pitlane. The spray hits his shoes, and splatters on his umbrella, and the awning overhead.

"This really gonna clear?" Katsuki asks in English, stepping up beside him, ducking under the golf umbrella Shouto's holding.

Shouto shrugs and adjusts the umbrella so it is held straight over both of them. "Radar says so apparently. What? You're shit in the wet?”

“I’m fucking great in the rain, screw you,” Katsuki bites back.

They fall back into this habit, swiping at each other, taunting and mocking. It's actually gotten worse, since Katsuki has the option of doing it in two languages now. But it's odd. Shouto doesn't notice the sting much anymore. Is this what it's like? When you're friends? Shouto knows now, that Katsuki doesn't really mean all of the shit he says.

It probably means he can say something real sometimes too. He's not posturing when he answers Katsuki's provocations with, "Yeah, I'm good in the rain." Katsuki picks up on it immediately - how serious he is. He stops completely when Shouto says that. Staring at him. Gives him this small pocket of space and time to be honest. Shouto takes it. "My dad made sure of it."

They look away as another strong gust of wind blows the rain higher onto their pants. More rain pummels the umbrella, the ground around them. Katsuki says, "Your dad seems nuts."

"Yeah," Shouto says, and laughs. "Yeah. I fucking hate him."

Shouto knows he doesn't need to spell it out for Katsuki, because there's only one way to get good at driving in the wet. You just do it, until you stop crashing.

Shouto doesn't need to explain to Katsuki, that the year his father retired from F1, he had Shouto driving test sessions in pouring rain until he could barely feel his hands. Shouto still remembers that sensation, or the lack of — how stiff his hands were, how numb his back was, chilled by cold and shaken stiff by the vibrations of the car. The look on his dad’s face when they ended a session early, with Shouto’s car stalled in the gravel trap.

All of it is muscle memory as Shouto drives through the spray of the Rosso Superteam car ahead of him. The FREC car is an entirely different beast from the F4 car, but some things don’t change, at least not by much. The feel of wet tyres. The sound of them against the wet track. The cold, seeping through his race suit. His balaclava is damp, clinging to his skin. The rain on his visor. The grey look of the sky. The muffled crunch of gravel as a car disappears from his wing mirrors. The touch of grip off the racing line. Just enough for Shouto to take the inside line around Arrabbiata around one, two cars, until he's clear of the field.

Nothing but track ahead of him. The air is empty of spray. Shouto wins the feature race at Mugello.

Heading into the season finale, Shouto's been doing his best to follow Tensei's advice about keeping to routine and not freaking the fuck out. He's been doing schoolwork, and going to the gym the same amount. Nothing crazy. He does all his warm ups and stretches in the exact order he always does them.

Only, Shouto keeps dreaming about Monza, even though he’s never tested there before. The rush, the blur of green as he tears down the track. He keeps waking up, unsure if he’s won or lost or where he’d placed. 

Because it's the end of the season, everyone is there. It turns out that Bakugou's manager, Tsunagu and Tensei are friendly from when they briefly overlapped in F1, so they end up carpooling from Milan, with the managers sitting up front while Shouto and Katsuki sit in the back and take turns showing each other cool video clips from the last few F1 and Moto GP races.

It's strange, Shouto observes. A lot of people would prefer Katsuki to win — would bet money on him probably, to steal the championship out from under Shouto. He's got the better story, being this once in a generation golden boy coming from a non-racing background, and non-millionaire parents who had to scrounge to help get him here. As for Shouto, a lot of people would love for him to go down as a rich kid with all the opportunities and advantages of his racing pedigree who still choked. 

Shouto does wonder if Katsuki thinks that about him. If he's envious, or feels that it's unfair. Shouto gets it. That he would think those things. It’d be naive to think otherwise. But Katsuki never says anything about it. Never calls him undeserving, never makes a snide comment, even after his mediocre performance at Barcelona. Instead, they lean into the middle of the backseat of the hire car and watch Amajiki Tamaki's onboard for the Italian Grand Prix this year, and talk about how cool it is, that he's going almost double the speed they'll be doing this weekend. Shouto thinks Monza's awesome. He can't wait to drive it. He might hit a top speed for this season.

Katsuki makes disapproving noises because he doesn’t like Scuderia Vitale and all the Italian nonsense that goes along with Monza, the temple of speed, all that bullshit. He thinks they’re overhyped, look at their shitty junior team in FREC, and how they’re losing right now in F1, so who cares. He says all that, but still, Katsuki agrees that Monza is cool, because it’s fast. 

Shouto thinks about all that on Saturday, as he pulls on his balaclava and then tugs on the helmet. Wonders how it is that it’s taken so long for him to find a friend in this sport, where supposedly everybody’s got the same love for racing and the same dream.

When Shouto clicks his steering wheel into place and the team lets him out of the pits to start his first qualifying run, he thinks about how lucky he's been this season, getting to race Katsuki. How he kind of wants to do it over and over again, all the way up to F1. 

On Sunday, Shouto lines up at the front of the grid. He’s better off the line, quicker to get to turn one. Shouto sees a red car in his mirrors all the way around the first lap. By the time they’re on lap ten, it’s the blue Nezu Racing car, emblazoned with the red UA logo on the nose. Katsuki, in second.

Shouto crosses the finish line having led every lap. Katsuki’s in his mirrors. He yells, first for himself, for his first championship in a real car, in his rookie year. Then, as his radio crackles with his team’s cheering and clapping and chanting, Shouto calls back to them, saying that he’s so grateful, he’s had the best team, and that he’s loved racing all season. He doesn’t want to stop, ever.