deciphered

daikokufuto race I

You watched the sunset go down along the Tokyo skyline, the orange hue penetrating behind Oikawa's side profile. His eyes shifted towards yours, the ends of his mouth curling up while he placed his left hand on your thigh.

"Are you excited?"

Smiling back, you gave him a quick chuckle and turned your head back onto the road. The tall bridge suspensions flashed forward as Oikawa pressed on the accelerator, taking his hand off your thigh to switch gears. Immediately, he placed his fingers back on your leg, tracing his index finger up and down the inseam of your pants.

You looked up into the rearview mirror and saw Iwaizumi's white Subaru WRX STI following closely behind; Kuroo and Leia to your left in another lane. Once the engine of his red Nissan 350Z caught up next to Oikawa's vehicle, their tinted windows rolled down. Kuroo exposed the same dragon tattoo on his right arm while the contradicting black sunglasses worn only at night rested on the bridge of his nose.

He gave a salute with two fingers towards Oikawa, revving his engine as he sped up in front of him. You heard a lighthearted chuckle to your left before feeling the transmission shift, the car pulling forward to catch up.

Oikawa was wearing his infamous Seijoh Brawlers bomber jacket again, white and shiny from the reflection of the sun. With his hand placed firmly on your thigh, you looked down at his long fingers—a dagger on his index, a cross on his middle, and the words "with God" written above his knuckles in kanji.

It was the beginning of April, where the start of Spring and the night of the Daikoku Futo car meet and underground street race took place. The one a few months ago where you met Oikawa was in the heart of Downtown Tokyo, a long trip away from the small wharf island you both were headed to. A couple of weeks ago, Oikawa had taken you out there to drift—and to do other things as well.

The trip down was familiar, recognizing all the landmarks and bridges along the way. This time, Oikawa was the one driving as you relaxed back into the seat, fixating your eyes on the bright sunset dropping down into the water. With the windows rolled down, you felt the cold and crisp Spring night air against your cheeks as the roar of Oikawa's RX-7 echoed in your ears.

When you arrived at Daikoku Futo, the parking lot reeked of gasoline and loud music—the place packed to the brim filled with all kinds of cars, racing gangs, and people, all there to catch a glimpse of the races happening later. You recognized the same gangs as before from the Downtown Tokyo race; the sleek colored bomber jackets resting on the shoulders of the Fukurodani Squad, Karasuno Killers, and Nekoma Crew members.

The parking lot was crowded with regular car enthusiasts, all of whom were just there to show off their creative expression—large body decals and neon LED rim lights attached underneath their side skirts and bumpers. Most cars were just domestics, until you saw a crowd of people around a dark blue 1967 Ford Mustang with two white stripes down the middle—something you'd only ever find in older western movies. Old American imports were rare to find, so it was no surprise people were taking interest just to get a glimpse of it.

"Admiring Rambo's ride?"

You looked back at Oikawa smiling to himself, his attention focused on finding a parking space large enough for all of the Seijoh Brawlers to settle down in—The Brawlers' Pit, as they like to call it. He turned his head for a second, the smile remaining on his face.

"Who?"

"Wakatoshi Ushijima. It's his first race back after a while."

"Huh." You placed your hand on the car window, leaning your head inward as you spotted a group of men in dark purple bomber jackets around the Ford Mustang. "First race back? What happened?"