speedometer ☆ l.yy | ✔

01

As the car whipped by just a few feet from you, the wind blew up your hair all around you and you plugged your ears uselessly against the loud growl as it raced by. Your friend Yuta was part of the underground car racing scene, and while you usually never came to his races—mostly for fear of it being busted by the cops and thus getting you arrested or something—he managed to convince you to come to this one. Mainly because he had burned through all of your typical excuses: work—he looked up when it closed himself; studying—you were on break from college at the moment; other plans—he so coyly pointed out that you don't have other friends besides him; and of course, being arrested—they won't arrest the spectators.

How you had even become Yuta's friend truly baffled you. He ran a mechanic shop as his day job, and you just so happened to have stumbled into his shop when your brakes decided to fail and nearly kill you. Having nowhere else to be or any way to leave, you hung out in his shop for the next few hours while he worked on another client's car and then your own. You ended up talking the whole time, eventually evolving to something pretty akin to best friends over the next year. And finally, finally he was able to drag you to a race.

Just behind the car that had already shot by you was Yuta's, a sleek white car with red piping and details along it. He loved that car probably more than he loved his own mother, honestly. You cheered him on, well aware that there was no way he could actually hear you from inside there.

The crowd was made up of you, a group of men that you were pretty sure were some of Yuta's other racer friends, some unfamiliar people that you knew had to pay the mildly intimidating bouncer for entry (your friendship with Yuta had thankfully gotten you excused from that), and a couple random teenagers who came thinking that it was so badass and criminal to be here. All packed onto a rickety set of metal bleachers in the middle of a dirt lot far outside the reaches of the urban city center you called home.

You weren't sure why this one was any different to him than the others, why he had relentlessly tried to persuade you this time. With your eyes still on the track, you didn't notice that anyone was making their way towards you until they plopped down beside you, creaking and rattling the entire structure you were on.

It was Hendery, one of Yuta's employees who also happened to be in your Public Speaking class last semester. You would talk to him if the occasion arose, always fairly friendly. He offered you a smile before refocusing on the track, "Yuta finally got you out to one of these?"

"Yeah, somehow," you scoffed, watching the tight race.

"Did he tell you why this one was special?"

"No, why?"

"The guy he's racing just came here from Germany a few months ago and is undefeated."

"A few months? Don't you guys have one race a month? Two or three races is nothing."

"Try four. All of them against Yuta."

You looked over at Hendery again, eyebrows shooting up in surprise, "Really?"

"Yep," Hendery seemed enthused that he'd gotten your attention again. "He beat Yuta at his first race here, and ever since Yuta has been throwing out the schedule in order to have a rematch."

"That's not fair to you guys."

He shrugged, "We don't care, it's entertaining to see someone put Nakamoto Yuta in his place for once."

"Is Yuta good?"

"The best. Well, until this guy came around."

Hendery pointed back to the track just in time for you to see the picture-perfect finish. Yuta had lost by over a car's length, eliciting mixed reactions from the audience. The man beside you snickered, while the teenagers probably would have been as excited as they were no matter who won, and the group of men varied between boos and yells of elation. You were surprisingly happy that the other guy had won as well, knowing that Yuta could often times get cocky and self-aggrandizing.