Chapter Text
The smell of exhaust was heavy in the air and Shiro breathed it all in like he could drown in it. It was hard to deny it, he’d missed this. There was an electricity in the air, the crowd amped up with anticipation and adrenaline among who knew what else. They were like a living thing, barely contained and spilling out into the street. They laughed and shouted, sharp noises punctuated by smashing glass and excited shrieks, feeding on their own energy as they pushed closer. Even Shiro was buzzing, a faint and welcome hum in the back of his head courtesy of a nearly empty flask. Just enough to relax him and make it easier to leave his apartment. It had been a while since he’d actually enjoyed the experience.
The therapist at the veteran’s hospital had told him that he should get a hobby. It had been the last time he’d bothered to go to his appointments. Knitting or yoga wasn’t going to help, he was tired of pretending that it would. She’d said that the pain was all in his mind, but she wasn’t the one who woke up every night screaming as the ghost of nerves that weren’t there anymore burned with agony, reaching out with a hand that was nothing but metal and wires. It had been years since Shiro had been able to sleep. Most days, he could barely leave the house.
But there was something about being here in the street with the crowd jostling around him that made his pulse beat just that much harder and a bitter smile curl around his lips. He’d missed this feeling.
“Next race in one minute, clear the track!” Some girl in tiny shorts yelled into a megaphone and the crowd rumbled, pushing back to the sides of the street to give the racers room. There were no safety barriers in an illegal street race and no one wanted to be the first casualty of the night.
That’s what the drivers were for.
They might have denied it, but there was an edge of bloodthirstiness that Shiro could feel in the crowd. They wanted fast cars and ugly crashes, demanding entertainment from drivers who seemed like they were purposely flaunting their mortality.
With a line up like this, they were guaranteed a show.
The rumble of an engine was as good as a handshake, and after a few weeks, Shiro recognized this one like it had called out to him. A sleek, polished hovercraft pulled up to the starting line. Red with black and white accents, classic and understated, and all too tame compared to the monster under its hood. The driver called himself Red, not the most original name, he shared it with about five other schmoes in the line up, but none of them drove like him. None of them even came close.
A daredevil with a death wish was a dime a dozen, but Red flew like he wanted to prove the impossible wrong. Shiro thought about that too much. It was dangerous. His mind had a way of going to places he didn’t want to follow.
Red’s competitors pulled up beside him, more suped up monsters, bloated with illegal mods. Sometimes Shiro remembered their names. Sometimes he couldn’t even remember to stay on the sidewalk. It didn’t matter. The heat from their engines was close enough to spill over his shoes, he tasted sweat on his skin, the bitter acrid burn of gasoline so thick he could taste it, and it felt like he was floating. He kept a hand on the inside of his leather jacket, fingering across the jagged cotton of a hidden symbol, and the feel of it drowned out everything else, even as the crowd roared and Tiny Shorts got in front of the cars, slipping off her top to wave like a checkered flag.
This would be a multi-story race around the city, the route more of a suggestion than a requirement, and hijacked billboards flashed it on screens that normally yelled pricey advertisements. The floating signs were all around the block. Sometimes Shiro remembered to watch for them. They were always the first to be shot down if the police felt like doing their jobs.
He laughed out loud at that, but no one in the crowd seemed to care. The countdown had started, and Tiny Shorts was rolling her hips to each second.
Three.
Two.
One.
The crowd went wild.
Down Mainstreet, then through Jackson. Red took an early lead, dragging his hovercraft over parked cars, metal screeching until his closest opponent rammed into him with enough force to change his direction in a flash of sparks. Red moved with skill, taking a hard left and tilting his craft on its side so he could race between the walls of an alley, and the audience ate it up. Shiro screamed with them.
He could see himself behind the wheel of that beast, heart strained and beating to his machines purr. Smooth metal by his thighs. Leathers beneath his seat. His hands tight around a steering wheel, the sky blurring past, massive and indomitable, never kind but maybe, maybe forgiving.
For a moment, Shiro felt like he was flying again.
He closed his eyes to savor the feeling, imagining the gravity pulling on his body and the way his stomach would lurch as they pulled unnecessarily loops and rolls during training. They always earned themselves a lecture from their commanding officers, but it was worth it for the moment of freedom, pushing the very boundaries of the atmosphere and so close to the stars that Shiro felt like he could touch them.
His arm throbbed with a phantom ache and Shiro jerked, falling into the crowd. Someone shoved at him, and again until he regained enough of his coordination to stand. Bile lingered in the back of his throat.
That was too long ago. He lost himself in the thrill of the race instead, it was a safer place to hide than his memories. The racers sideswiped each other, one hoverbike spinning out and slamming into a traffic pole hard enough to send it crashing to the ground. Sparks flew as people rushed to help pull the driver out of the wreck, but the race never slowed. It was the risk they were all willing to take and Shiro couldn’t tear his eyes away from them.
They screamed down the street, blasting their thrusters to gain altitude and race along the side of buildings. Red was in the lead, pushing his machine to its limits and getting close enough to the edge of the billboards that the paint scrapped from the side of his hoverbike. There was barely any room to maneuver and one mistake would spell disaster, but he flew with precision that left the crowd breathless. When he finally clipped the edge of a building on the last turn and spun out control, everyone gasped. He crossed the finish line, metal scraping along the asphalt and leaving deep grooves in the road before smashing into an embankment. Shiro was running before he even realized he’d started moving.
Stone and metal crumbled and bent, spilling down the hood of his hoverbike. Thick smoke pillars wafted out from under dented metal, and Shiro’s last clear thought was that it was a terrible parking space. Then he was ripping open the driver’s safety harness, the rest of the audience pressing against him, eager to be the first to see tragedy. But when Shiro reached for him, Red reached back.
The racer emerged from his wreckage, sweaty bangs plastered to his head, his cheeks flushed with color and eyes feverish bright.
“Don’t need your help, hero,” he growled, elbowing his way past Shiro on unsteady legs, but he was smiling, looking out towards the finish line instead of his adoring public. His victory was replayed on larger than life screens, and when he raised a hand, the crowd cheered. They wanted Red as much as they wanted to see him torn apart, and were willing to risk his caustic ire for a chance to take as much as they could.
The swarm gained momentum, dragging Shiro in, and he let it, embarrassed and annoyed but numb enough not to care. Sirens were blaring, announcing the next race, and Shiro tilted his head back, downing what was left of his flask, and he didn’t care. The sound of screeching tires and crumpling steel echoed through his head, but he refused to not care at all.
Just like every other night he’d been there and he almost felt alive.
Shiro didn’t go home immediately. Shiro couldn’t find home. The memories of the last race were still ringing in his ears, the sound of sirens two blocks away. Fire trucks and ambulances after and the police who were never fast enough. Shiro wasn’t sure how he got away. Too much was disjointed, uneasy, but his side was throbbing, and his mouth burned with the contents of his stomach. The patch sewn on the inside of his jacket was peeling and torn, an embroidered pair of funny sunglasses from another time, but Shiro hadn’t stopped picking at it. The sun had come to call by the time he dragged himself to his apartment.
It wasn’t good, but it was better.
He let the door swing close behind him and tripped over a mound of unwashed clothes in the middle of the floor before throwing himself down on the couch with a groan. The bed was just too far away to find and the pillows on the couch were soft enough for now. He reached for his flask, but the bottle was empty and Shiro threw it to the other side of the room with a muttered curse.
What a night! The steady hum of excitement still buzzed through his veins. The racers had been so daring, the machines so sleek and beautiful. He would have given almost anything to have a chance to get close and see under the hood. Back in the Garrison, he had spent whatever downtime on the weekends he could manage to eke out tinkering with the engines to make them go faster. Matt had always protested, but what were friends for if not for getting into trouble together?
God, Shiro missed him.
The engineer had survived the accident that had cost Shiro his arm, but they hadn’t seen each other in years. It was too hard to face what had happened and worse, it was hard to face someone who was still able to live out their dream of space while Shiro was grounded on permanent disability. It wasn’t fair.
His phone hummed and Shiro fumbled for it, staring blearily at the screen, trying to focus his eyes on the words.
Hey baby, missing you.
What are you doing tonight?
Hit me up.
They’d been sent at different times last night, when Shiro couldn’t care to notice. He snorted and let the phone slip from his fingers. Not now. Not tonight. Not ever again, Shiro promised like the last five times. The last message had been sent just over an hour ago. Shiro didn’t want to think about it, but the longer he stayed conscious, he would.
I know where to find you.
The world lurched beneath him, swaying so violently, Shiro wasn’t sure where he was anymore, but flying. Flying he could be sure of, maybe. Flying had been the only time he’d ever felt real, and if he could never reach the stars then maybe, maybe he could fly fast enough to escape them.
“How about I get you a block of swiss cheese to drive? That way the holes are supposed to be there, and if you punch a few more in it, no one’ll notice.” Hunk scoffed, throwing down an oily rag on what had been a perfectly functional hoverbike less than a day ago. He picked it up just as quickly, like he was worried that the bike wouldn’t be able to survive even that much, even if it was less bike and more junk heap right now. He was a big man, but he was light on his toes, and moved around his workspace with grace that could have only come from familiarity, making distressed tutting noises as he inspected what the tow truck had dragged in today. “Did you drive it into a wall, Keith?”
“Not head on.”
Keith had the decency to sound apologetic, even if nothing would stop him from going out and doing it all over again. He wasn’t Red here, not in the light of day, and not in the company of the man who let him fly. Hunk was nothing short of genius, and he was one of the few people who cared to know Keith’s name. Keith could count them all on one hand.
“I won.” He liked this bike, too. It had lasted him months.
“This doesn’t look like winning.” Hunk grumbled darkly.
“Maybe you just don’t know what winning looks like.” Keith said with his arms folded, trying to hide his grin. It didn’t work and Hunk snorted, popping the hood open. Metal screeched against metal as the twisted hood fought him, but Hunk pried it open and sighed.
“I don’t know why I keep helping you build these things if you just smash them to piece. All my hard work! It used to be a really pretty engine.”
“Because the prize pays for all the repairs and keeps our business going?” Keith hopped up on one of the shop’s stools and started flipping through the open notebooks on the workbench. “Besides, if the races weren’t exciting enough, they wouldn’t pay so much and she survived the last couple.”
“So much, he says, as if it barely covers the expenses.” Hunk grumbled, but they’d had this argument a thousand times before. They’d build and repair, somehow pulling the hoverbike back into racing shape just so Keith could smash it all up again before the next race. One of these days, Hunk was sure that Keith wasn’t going to walk away from the wreck, but his friend never wanted to hear the lecture. All he could do was make sure the car was sturdy enough to try and bring Keith back in one piece. “Hey! You’re going to get ink on those, don’t touch.”
Keith made a show of wiping his hands on his stained jeans before flipping through the pages. “Is this some upgrade you’re designing? These look pretty intense!”
The engineer snatched the notebooks out of Keith’s hands with a scowl that was more embarrassed than angry. “It’s just something I’ve been working on, it’s not ready yet.”
“Come on, let me see it?” Keith wheedled and Hunk finally relented, too tempted to get Keith’s opinion. The designs were still rough, but Keith could see the genius behind them. It was the reason he’d first brought Hunk into the shop with him despite the fact he had never been good at working with others. The engineer was overly friendly and almost aggressively compassionate, both traits Keith was trying to learn how to deal with, but his creativity couldn’t be denied. He knew how to look at scattered pieces, whether in the kitchen or in the garage, rearranging them in a way no one else could see. Hunk might have been nervous and skittish about his ideas, but with Keith had given him enough trust to start building and had never once been disappointed.
An obnoxiously chipper bell rang through the garage, and they both looked up before exchanging glances. They catered to a specific sort of clientele for most of their business, and it was not one that usually dropped by when the sun was still up. Hunk went to the door first. It was probably for the best. He left Keith watching from behind his junk heap of a bike as Hunk entertained their customer. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a tuft of white curled over his brow and an ugly scar, he was the sort of person that should have been hard to forget. It was a testament to how hard Keith had crashed that it took him so long to recognize the stranger.
“I heard you guys, uh, did custom jobs here.”
Keith closed his hood with a snap.
“Well look, it’s the big damn hero.”
Across from him, Hunk let out a sound of distressed annoyance, and Keith didn’t know if it was because he was riling up a customer or because Hunk was worried about how much more abuse his bike could take. It was worth it either way. Broad shoulders turned towards him, lazy at first like nothing out of his leather jacket could bother him, until he saw Keith and froze. It was satisfying to know he had no trouble recognizing Keith.
Details of the previous night were hazy at best. The race was bright lights and blood on his teeth, and it ended with soft skin and too much heat, but somewhere in the middle, Keith was being pulled as if towards the Heavens by a centerfold who wanted a pat on the back. It was jarring to know he was just as tall when Keith wasn’t fighting a concussion.
Keith was never suave or charming, he hated people too much for that. He’d learned how to put on a fake smile when he had to, but no one could ever say it was very successful. He kept his distance with a sharp glare and sharper tongue. Somehow, it seemed to attract even more devotion from his fans than if he’d tried to actively entice him. Now it looked like it worked well enough that the groupies were following him to work.
He crossed his arms and regarded the other man coldly. Well, if he was going to have desperate fans follow him around, at least they were hot ones. “I don’t give out my number.”
“Your number?” The taller man blinked in confusion, brows furrowed and Keith realized that Mr. Hero hadn’t actually come in to see him. Well, that was a blow right to the ego.
“Whatever.” He waved his hand, dismissing the question before Shiro could think too much about it and realize the mistake. “What can we do for you?” Somewhere behind him, Keith could almost hear Hunk’s sigh of relief as he at least tried his best customer service line.
“I just…are you okay? That was a pretty big crash last night.” Shiro asked and Keith raised an eyebrow, doubting the sincerity.
Keith didn’t bother bragging, he just settled for the blunt truth. “I’ve been in worse, I’m fine.”
“He busted up my bike, is what he did!” Hunk yelled from the workshop. “Ignore him, is there something we can help you with?”
“Uh, yeah. I guess I was a little bit inspired by your race last night. Not the crashing part, obviously.” He said dryly. “I used to be pretty good with a hoverbike and I was feeling nostalgic. Figured I’d take a look at them again.”
Oh great, it was one of those. Some ass who watched too much Xer ProSeries and thought he could get behind the wheel of a hoverbike if he believed it enough. People like him were the reason he tried avoided the crowds, or at least, one of many. He wasn’t looking to hold someone’s hand down the finish line.
“If you can’t walk away from a crash, you shouldn’t be flying.” Keith scowled, always just a little too short on patience, and Mr. Hero tensed slightly, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket.
“I think you’d do less crashing if you cut your thrusters sooner and drift into your turns instead of trying to force your way through. It makes boosting out of it smoother.” Shiro said, and Keith scowled a little harder. It wasn’t bad advice. It was something he’d been working on improving, but in the heat of the moment, it was so easy to stick to old habits, especially when those old habits landed him victories. Yet Keith was never satisfied with stagnation, and if winning was all he cared about, he’d have gotten tired of this game long ago.
Shiro had already turned away though, talking to Hunk about picking up a racer. Something that didn’t have to be road ready, but could still run. Keith cut in just as Shiro was negotiating details about renting Hunk’s workshop. He stepped in between them, calling the conversation to a halt without touching Shiro. “We’re taking the Renegade.”
“Wait what? It’s not ready yet.”
“It’s ready enough,” Keith said. “I was going to use it tomorrow.”
“You were going to take my Renegade?!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll bring it back in one piece.” Keith said as Hunk all but wailed.
“Sure you will. One big crumpled piece. Oh, I feel sick. I need to go sit down.” The engineer complained as he shuffled off to the back of the garage. Keith resolved to make it up to him, adding yet another tick to that list. He was going to have to stay on Hunk’s good side, he was constantly surprised the other man hadn’t bailed ages ago.
The Big Damn Hero was still watching him and Keith put on his best sneer. “You think you can handle it? We don’t sell to people who are going to get themselves killed the first 30 seconds they’re on a bike, if you wanted to get something with training wheels, I can recommend a different shop.” He might have just imagined it, but it almost looked like the other man smiled.
“No, I think I’d like to give it a try. You’re going to come with me in case something goes wrong?” Shiro asked innocent, letting himself sound worried which just fueled Keith’s resentment.
“Of course. Someone’s going to have to scrape you up off the pavement.” He snarked, grabbing two helmets and slamming one against Shiro’s chest hard enough to make him oof. The Renegade was still a work in progress, stripped down of all its pretty, flashy exterior to expose the hard metal and upgraded electronics. The candy coating would come later, but Keith thought it was beautiful like this, distilled down to its purpose without any frills at all. It was brutal and honest, built for speed and not for show. Once Hunk had his way with it, it would all be hidden under a chassis just like every other hoverbike in the races, but for now, its power was on display for those who knew what they were looking at.
Shiro’s eyes narrowed as they roamed over the sleek lines and exposed metal, but he didn’t say a word until Keith impatiently made a motion for him to get on.
“You want me to drive?”
“Course I do. You’re the Hero after all, right? Let’s see what you’ve got in you.” Keith mocked, waiting until Shiro had slid into the pilot’s seat before taking his place behind him. He hid a smug smile as Shiro ran his hands over the controls, tentatively starting the engine. “You know, if you really don’t think you can do this, I can-”
His words were swallowed by the sound of the engine’s roar as Shiro hit the thrusters, sending them blasting from the garage with a whoop of joy. Hunk’s startled scream echoed behind them as Shiro raced into the darkening sky, disabling the altitude lock with deft hands.
They climbed higher and higher, past the landing zone and beyond the main traffic terminals, cars screeching out of the way as they flew. Shiro was flying them all the way up, and Keith couldn’t do anything but hold on, his heels digging into the Renegade’s footrests, his arms tight around Shiro’s waist, fists bunched into his jackets. Then everything stopped, and for one instant of pure bliss, they were floating, then the Renegade pitched forward, sending them to the ground at breakneck speeds as Shiro cheered.
And Keith cheered with him.
Shiro gunned the engine, pulling out of a nosedive far above the ground, but in a perfect arc to send them swinging through an alley. Keith saw stars. They weaved in and out of buildings, racing their waqy to the edge of the city. The hero moved like he’d spent his whole life in the air, obviously coming back to a game he’d spent years playing. There was an unevenness in his gestures, as he relearned the Renegade’s body, and he didn’t touch any of Hunk’s more subtle modifications but there was no hesitation. No fear.
Until the sharp bite of sirens made both of them look up as a black and blue patrol car painted the roads and buildings in blue and red.
“Shit.” Shiro breathed, voice muffled by his helmet. The Renegade started to slow, beginning its descent. Shiro was going to park, but Keith just slid forward, locking them together and putting his hands over Shiro’s. He was a wall of tense muscle and impossible heat against Keith’s chest, and Keith wondered if he could make him scream.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared.”
He didn’t know it then, but Shiro never would. If only Keith had paid attention to the warning signs.
Keith steered the hoverbike into a hard left, and the machine purred like a kitten beneath him. Pistons pumping, metal singing, they tore through the back roads, switching between pedestrian bridges and traffic zones like they were playing hopscotch. He felt Shiro jerk back against him, moving with him to keep his balance without needing to be told. Keith had never raced with a passenger, but he never imagined it would be this easy.
Then he swerved into a parking building, crashing through the gate barrier and setting the ticket bot squealing. When he came out on the opposite end of the third floor, the police were still chasing their exhaust.
He ducked into an alley, slotting the hoverbike into an impossibly small space behind a dumpster and switched off all the lights. The sirens whizzed passed, lights splashing don the alleyway before disappearing around the corner as the sound faded away in the distance. Keith just sat back on his seat and whooped with laughter, yanking his helmet off his head.
“That was awesome! I didn’t know you had it in you, Hero.” He punched Shiro in the shoulder, but the older man twisted in his seat to level a disapproving look at Keith.
“Running from the police wasn’t really my plan for a test drive today.” Shiro said, but it was hard to be upset when his body sang with adrenaline and that old familiar rush of speed. Having a handsome young man pressed against him, smiling wide with his hands settled around Shiro’s hips didn’t hurt either. He softened, leaning into Keith’s space and let his lips curl into a smile.
“You did good, Hero. Much better than I was expecting, you’ve got skills.”
“I’ve got more than skills, I told you I used to be pretty good at this.” He said and for once, Keith believed him. “And it’s Shiro.”
“Shiro?”
“My name. Takashi Shirogane, but everyone just calls me Shiro.”
“Ah. I’m…Keith.” There was only the smallest hesitation. It had been a long time since he’d been anything but Red to anyone. His real name felt almost too personal.
“Keith.” Shiro tested out the name, finding it fit his mouth better than just Red and Keith pretended not to notice the way Shiro’s lips parted or the tip of his tongue catching against his teeth. “Nice to meet you Keith, super great we almost got arrested. Next time I’ll try to go at least half an hour before the cops show up.” Shiro said with deadpanned sarcasm, startling a laugh from Keith.
They stayed there for what felt like a long time, pressed up against each other, the last of their adrenaline bleeding away before Shiro coaxed the Renegade back into the sky. They traveled at a more sedate pace, but Keith hadn’t moved his arms from where they were wrapped around Shiro’s waist yet.
Hunk was waiting for them at the garage entrance when they returned, or rather, he was waiting for his Renegade and went straight to checking it over with a sour frown. Keith almost felt sorry. He let Shiro disembark first, watching him move with unsteady legs. It was almost endearing after everything.
“Hey.” Shiro started, clutching his helmet to his chest. It had done a number on his hair, and Keith wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through those soft-looking strands. “I hope that next time’s still on the table?”
It would’ve been more obnoxious if he was holding his helmet like a shield.
Keith found himself smiling, just a little too sharp. “Tomorrow night. There’s a race by the docks. The ‘Gade should be ready by then.”
“No it won’t!”
Keith ignored Hunk. “I’ll see you there.”
“I’ll be there,” Shiro promised, smiling with so much warmth that Keith stopped to stare.
Keith didn’t understand it then, but that smile was going to destroy him.