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Shouto's first summer in Faenza arrives in the valley over a weekend, turning the earth dry and the roof tiles hot. The guys at the factory say that it's come early this year. They're all coping, leaving bowls of ice water out for their dogs and watering the rosemary plants after dark. Shouto doesn't have any living things to tend to besides himself, but he thinks about getting air conditioning installed, and doesn't get around to it. Instead, Shouto runs the ceiling fan in the evenings, lying beneath it with all the windows thrown open, linen sheets kicked to the side.
Camie's been asking him if he's coming down south for the break. She's got the Amalfi house to herself again. But they could go to Nice too, if his house is free. Either way, Camie says she's got someone to introduce Shouto to. The guy knows nothing about racing, it'll be fun.
Shouto hasn't really been thinking about that. He's not really sure if it's because he's been busy, or if he hasn't got the room for that kind of thing. He tells Camie that, tapping with his thumbs in the blue-toned light of his phone, turned over on his side in bed. I don't know if I'm looking, he tells her in a blue text bubble. It seems a little unfair too, since he'd moved to Faenza at the start of the year. He doesn't know where he'll be next year, or the year after that. It's been hard enough to keep friends close, let alone somebody more.
im not saying u shld date him, Camie shoots back. just kiss him or smth itll b fun
Shouto wonders about that. If he has it in him. If he might want someone like that.
At the station, Shouto almost doesn't recognise Katsuki. It's only when he's a couple metres away that Shouto registers it's him, dressed in a snug black T-shirt and dark blue track pants. Katsuki waves a hand over Shouto's eyes as he approaches, mocking, "Where you lookin'?"
"My bad," Shouto says, "didn't see you."
"Tch. You never notice shit."
Only, Shouto does notice. Maybe he's not quick to, but he does notice — Katsuki's hair, grown longer, enough to cover his ears, the trim shape of his waist, revealed by the casual wear. The drawstrings on his pants are undone. Shouto notices, and he doesn't know what to do about it.
So he keeps moving. Carrying on, waving Katsuki over to the waiting taxi, sitting painfully still in the hot seats, hovering in sweaty silence as the card reader processes the fare. By the time Shouto's unlocking the door to his apartment, they've covered all the famliar ground. The team, how's school, and the last Moto GP race. What's left feels uncertain. Shouto feels a little like they're stepping into something new, but he's not sure what to call it exactly. They're friends, he knows that, but this feels different. Just, new, since it's the first time they've hung out like this.
"Isn't it strange?" Shouto asks, as he twists the lock, then the handle.
"What is?"
Shouto steps in first, holding the door as he starts to toe off his own shoes. "First time you've been at mine."
Katsuki dismisses it. "You live far."
"I lived in London last year."
"We weren't that kind of friendly."
It's disarming to hear Katsuki say it out loud. Shouto lets the door swing shut. He feels rooted in place for a moment, leaning up against the wall of the entryway as Katsuki tugs off his sneakers. He can't help himself. "And we are now?"
It's funny how disgruntled Katsuki looks to be making this admission. And Shouto hadn't even forced him into it. It's a trap of his own making. "Sure," Katsuki allows, "You gonna give me a tour now?"
The tour lasts all of three minutes. The hallway where Shouto puts his shoes. The kitchen and the set of four old burners. Shouto doesn't have a dining table. He eats sitting on the floor, leaned over the coffee table. It feels like home that way. And the south western light that comes through the balcony doors is warm in the evenings. His bedroom, with the ceiling fan still spinning. A loose corner of a poster lifts, warping the front wing of the 2013 Horch car.
Their last stop is the bathroom-slash-laundry. Shouto's never had to shower next to a washing machine until he'd moved here, but this is part of the privilege of being a part of the Vitale driver academy. Katsuki doesn't bat an eyelid, but he points out the scent diffuser Shouto has sitting on the toilet. "I should get one of those. I have to share a toilet that smells like piss."
Shouto grins at that. Katsuki tells him it's not fucking funny, stop it.
Shouto's shared meals with Katsuki before. A lot of them, last year when they were teammates. Leaned over takeaway boxes in the shared driver's room on race weekends, half-eaten at their computers while plugged into a game from opposite ends of London. But that was last year.
Now, they're knocking toes under rickety folding table of a trattoria, pouring water for each other, condensation dripping onto the tacky surface of the table. Katsuki's not hungry. "It's too fucking hot," he complains.
Shouto orders the signature antipasti, the tagliatelle, grilled tomatoes, and a panna cotta for dessert. Katsuki orders the tortellini and asks Shouto if he's going to eat all that.
"Yeah," Shouto answers, deadly serious, "I'm making the most of the break."
Katsuki just shakes his head, looking like he's tired of having to put up with Shouto. Even though he hasn't had the privilege for the past half year.
The antipasti plate comes not long after, laden with bread and sliced meats and pickles that spill over the edges. And it's easy then, for Shouto to pick at the prosciutto and olives and tell Katsuki everything he hadn't known he'd been wanting to tell him. About how the food here is so good, but it's torture because he can't eat anything. How he gets along with his team, but he gets tired after a day at the factory, digging deep to keep up with the Italian. And it's been weird, transitioning to being homeschooled on the UK curriculum. He misses having people to copy homework from.
Katsuki scoffs at that. "School's not that hard," he says.
"Yeah, I know," Shouto agrees. "It's more about the people I guess. School friends," he clarifies. He's kind of joking when he asks Katsuki, "You have those?" but he's serious too. He hopes Katsuki does, not just in Tokyo. In London too.
"Yeah," Katsuki answers, "I got those."
"What are they like?" Shouto's not sure where he's going with this. He's just talking. Just catching up. It's what friends do, right? Maybe he's looking for proof of something.
Katsuki runs a hand back through his hair as he sighs, looking for the words. "Rich, spoilt," he starts, counting on his fingers, "Loud, and fucking annoying. Same as you," he says, without even a hint of venom. His voice is all warm, all fond. Shouto wants to play it in his head over and over again. Hopes he can remember the sight — Katsuki, swathed in the shade of the trattoria awning. Katsuki, with cheeks turned blush-pink by the heat or the moment, trying to hide behind the palm he scrubs over his eyes.
God, Shouto's hungry.
They drift from lunch into the streets, crossing diagonally across intersections to duck into the slanting shade, hiding from the sun. Shouto's supposed to be showing Katsuki around, but he hasn't thought too hard about what's good here. Instead, Shouto shows Katsuki the places he's gotten to know. The sprawling piazza and the baking hot ground. Sitting on the chain fence circling the fountain. They walk two blocks and swing left into a gelateria Shouto's only tried twice. But he's lingered at the doorway more than that, peering into the illuminated display, trying to read the labels. Katsuki makes uninterested noises, but relents in the end when Shouto holds out a paddlepop stick with a sample of the hazelnut gelato.
They eat out of cups, leaned up against the wall of the store. Shouto's scoop melts faster than he'd expected. He has to lick it off his fingers, and Katsuki says it's nasty.
They try each other's flavours. Well, Shouto offers his to Katsuki's, then asks to try Katsuki's own, just to test his limits.
"Piss off," Katsuki tells him, but he's still holding out his cup of lemon sorbet.
So Shouto takes. He scrapes it off the wooden spoon with his teeth, and lets the tart and sweet sorbet melt against the roof of his mouth. "It's cold," he says.
"'Course it is."
They stay there, hovering, suspended. Still, skin tacky against the exposed brick wall. Shouto wonders where they go from here.
Katsuki asks, "Where's next?"
Next, because Shouto's not much of a tour guide, is the narrow shopping street that houses clothing boutiques and a dentist and a realtor and his favourite deli. It's busy today, and they have to walk single-file to dodge oncoming passers-by. Katsuki almost walks past the narrow glass frontage of the deli and Shouto has to grab him by the shoulder and haul him back. "In here," he says, pushing the door open with his shoulder and jangling the bell as he steps into the cool space.
Inside, Shouto points out the different drying meats, suspended by string, wrinkled by age and salt. Katsuki asks to try the bresaola, so Shouto buys some. That, and two hundred grams of prosciutto di parma, screw Katsuki's protests.
They carry it down the street, past the fashion boutiques lined with fluttering white linen, past the home decor store that wafts lavendar and sandalwood as they pass the door. Shouto tells Katsuki they have to cross and turn right to get to the bus stop, and Katsuki walks the whole way squinting in the glare because he'd forgotten to bring sunglasses.
"You'll get wrinkles if you keep that up," Shouto observes.
"I'll still look better than you," Katsuki counters.
They stand at the bus stop, talking about nothing, texting one-handed in pauses and lulls, then discussing logistics. Shouto's got a futon in the cupboard from when he first moved here that Katsuki can use. What time does Katsuki need to leave tomorrow? Katsuki's checking his train tickets when they get interrupted by the bus arriving.
They shuffle on and stand on the way home, swaying as it rocks over the uneven road out of the historic centre of town. Katsuki says something about his boarding time.
Shouto doesn't hear it. He's distracted, staring out at the yellow blur of the town they're passing. The way the sun glints off parked cars and moving bicycles. The glint of gold when it catches in Katsuki's hair.
Getting up the three sets of stairs is harder than it should be. Shouto all but collapses into his apartment as he twists the lock open. Katsuki is eager to get inside too, even if the apartment is only a degree or two cooler than it is outside.
Inside, Shouto puts the meat into the fridge, then offers Katsuki orange juice. They stand for a moment like that, Shouto leaned against the fridge, and Katsuki against the sink, gulping the pulpy, sweet juice from mugs. Everything slows. Outside, a bird caws. The light is orange through the sunshade roller blinds.
Katsuki snaps his fingers at him, summoning Shouto's gaze. He points at the sim rig Shouto has set up in the middle of the living room in place of a TV. "Can I see your set up?"
Of course. Shouto leaves his mug on the counter as he crosses the room. This is a shared thing. And it's such a comfort, Shouto notices, that Katsuki gets it. He bends down to power on the system, and hops into the familiar seat to show Katsuki the set up on his steering wheel. It's custom so it's close to what they have on the Rosso Team F3 car.
"Can I try?"
"Yeah, sure," Shouto says, giving up the seat easily. He crosses around, leaning on the back of it to watch Katsuki log into his online sim racing account, then join a lobby. It's strange. Shouto's used to doing this, with Katsuki on the phone, and him alone in this room, in this seat. But now, Katsuki's here. Only one thing has changed, but everything feels different.
Of course it feels different, now that Shouto's leaning over the back, reaching to point out the settings on the screen for Katsuki to adjust. He's got a different view. It's a brand new one, getting to see Katsuki race this close.
Shouto stands and watches as Katsuki sends a rally car through a winding dirt track in Sweden. He doesn't want to interrupt him, but Katsuki speaks first. "These screens are nice," he says after four laps. He's wrestling the car around the hairpin, and the view of the track spins across the curved monitors.
"Yeah," Shouto says, "I think you need the peripheral vision."
"No kidding. I gotta get this."
Katsuki talks through the next quick left and right turns, almost snapping the wheel back and forth with how quick he's going. He's marvelling at the view. He asks if Shouto gets headaches from it. Sometimes, if he clocks in a really long session, but that's on him. Katsuki agrees, and Shouto marvels as he beats two cars by braking deep into the next right-hander.
Shouto watches one race, then another, and another before he wanders away to finish his mug of orange juice and grab a book he'd been trying to get through. The apartment fills with the low sound of the simulated race — the hum and whine of the rally car engine, the grit and texture of the road against the wheels.
They pass the last of hottest part of the day silently like this, with Shouto splayed out on the floor, trying to crack chapter two of Shuzenji's autobiography while Katsuki hunkers down at Shouto's sim rig. The light spilling across the walls turns from orange to red. Katsuki only takes a break to get an ice pack. Well, he was going to make one, out of a sandwich bag and ice cubes before Shouto found him the blue gel ice pack sitting in his freezer.
Katsuki gleefully puts it on his head, moulding it to sit flat as he settles back into the seat. It looks funny enough that Shouto thinks to take a photo.
They don't eat until hours later. Neither of them have an appetite until the sky starts to blush purple, and a cool breeze picks up. Shouto doesn't even have the energy to cook. Instead, he unpacks the meats while Katsuki finds his way through the kitchen to slice some tomatoes into segments and dress them with olive oil and salt and pepper.
Shouto suggests that they eat on the balcony. It's cooler now, as the sun sets. The whole valley-town transforms, swathed by the blue shadows of the surrounding hills.
Dinner is a meandering thing. Shouto doubles back inside for water, then to fetch a loaf of bread. He forgets the bread knife, so they tear at it with their hands. Between bites, they talk, a little about nothing, a lot about racing. Not so much about what they're doing right now, but what could be. The stuff they were raised on. The legendary championship run of Toshinori Yagi. The contentious modern era that saw rising stars in Kaina Tsutsumi and Keigo Takami. The start of an underdog fairytale in Rumi Usagiyama. She's Katsuki's favourite driver on the current grid.
"What about of all time?" Shouto asks.
Katsuki doesn't even need to think about it. "Toshinori. Greatest of all time."
Shouto gets it. Most kids racing right now idolise him. All their dreams are forged in his image. All his early victories in a worse car. His record-breaking championships of total dominance. "Yeah," Shouto says, "I get that. You angling for a drive at Peak?" It's the American outfit that Toshinori raced with.
Katsuki keeps looking forward, out over the blurry evening view of Faenza. He's backlit by the lamplight of the apartment behind them. Orange outline of the back of his neck. The slope of his shoulders. "No," Katsuki says, "I owe the Yuuei guys."
Shouto doesn't really believe in owing. But he swallows the reflex down. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Katsuki repeats. "I would've never gotten this far without them. And it would be cooler."
Shouto thinks about it. Yuuei Racing is a new name in F1. They're buying out an ailing British team, but everyone looking in doesn't expect much. You can't paper over a struggling outfit and expect results the next season. But success is a long game. Championships get built over a years. Even a decade. And Shouto knows Katsuki. "Yeah," Shouto agrees, "That would be cool."
They pick at their plates until the sky is dark. Faenza flickers on before them. Windows light up in yellow. Streetlights buzz orange. The night is purple, then indigo. Katsuki stretches in his seat, then cracks his neck before he stands. He makes to collect their plates and glasses, and Shouto is suddenly playing catch up. Trying to be a good host. "Just leave it," he tries to say, only Katsuki waves him off.
"You don't tell me what to do," Katsuki protests, and makes for the kitchen sink.
Shouto shakes his head and surrenders to it. He picks up after them, setting the chairs right, sliding the flyscreen doors closed and rolling the blinds down. He marvels at this situation. That Katsuki's here, in quiet, stuffy Faenza. Sure, Katsuki's said that he's here to bum a free overnight stay and to capitalise on the cheap weekday high speed rail fare, but Shouto thinks that really, he's here because they're friends.
And Shouto doesn't have it in him to say the words, but he knows it's true, that he's missed him. And Shouto knows what Katsuki would say. That there's nothing to miss. That they race each other on weekends in foreign places, what does it matter that they're on different teams now. But Shouto's been thinking that the friendship is everything off track.
It's that he can spend a day with Katsuki, and see past his prickly exterior. Sure, Katsuki's got a rough way of talking and a big head since way too many people rightfully tell him that he's fast, but Shouto also doesn't know anybody who works harder than Katsuki. And Shouto's noticed the tender parts too. That Katsuki loves his parents and never knows how to say it in words. That he's sensitive about money. And even though Katsuki's been beating Shouto all season in F3, he hasn't been lording it over him today.
Shouto wants more. He's had it all today — killing time on a summer day, spilling crumbs on the table, bitching about the heat, at each other. Shouto wishes it was something he could make real. Something he could get his hands on. Make a fist and hang onto.
When Shouto gets out of the shower, he spots Katsuki lying on the couch. As he pads over, quiet, he finds that he's asleep, thumb lodged in Shouto's book. One part of Shouto wonders which chapter Katsuki's up to, and whether his bookmark is still in place. The rest of him feels stuck, is stuck, staring.
Shouto stares at the shape of him, curled to one side, sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead. His shirt is rucked up over his stomach. The skin there is pale. Shouto stares, and wonders if anyone else has ever seen Katsuki this way. Whether there's anybody who's allowed to. Is he?
Silent, breath held, Shouto sinks to his knees. He could reach out and touch. Could find out — how soft is it, the exposed skin at his hip. The tender flesh of his upper thigh. How thin is the skin at his pulse?
Shouto swallows, thick. This is Katsuki, he tries to remember. They were teammates. They're friends. They sim race from opposite sides of the continent. They send each other links to highlights of the latest F1 races before they get copyright striked. Katsuki's idol is Toshinori, same as Shouto's.
On track, they're each other's biggest competition. So it's not like that, between them. It probably can't be. "Hey," Shouto says, "wake up."