A G E N C Y

It’s not altogether strange for him to be here by himself, but it is different. His left side feels empty, devoid of the usual presence of his brother. It’s almost cold.

The parking lot is swarming with people.They’re out in the industrial district, near the shoreline, and normally this place is devoid of anything except semi trucks and half-filled warehouses. But after nightfall twice a month, it becomes home to one of the larger meetups on the racing scene. He attends maybe three times a year. Recently, he’s been competing with the Audi Spyder that had been sitting in the garage. Might as well get some use out of it, even if it feels like a cheat.

He sits on the hood, waiting for them to call his name. Few people dare approach him here. It’s almost like they can sense that he’s different - he’s a threat. Not just because of the car. It’s an instinctual response similar to what a mouse feels when it’s left in the room with a cat. He’s watching, stalking… but he’s not interested in pouncing today.

Among the many that pass by, he picks out a dark-haired man (Would man be the right word? He looks more like a boy.) that leans heavy on his left as he wanders around. Beyond his gait, it’s easy to tell that he hasn’t been to one of these events before. This usually isn’t the first stop for newbies, so it’s a little interesting.

“Oi!” Yazi is too old to be reserved. “Kid with the limp! You racing?”

When the dingy little motel room starts to feel suffocating, Taka goes for a walk. It never takes him on the same route. He tried to explore the woods behind the property once, but the trees grew dense and he found his way increasingly blocked by tangled branches. The next night found him wandering into town to stock up on snacks and aspirin. Tonight, he’s treading in the opposite direction – away from streetlights and tourist traps, toward an empty sky and the hint of salt spray on his tongue.

It’s only been three days since he left and already he feels like he shouldn’t be here. The pull to return is strong, almost impossible to resist, but he stubbornly shoves it down when it tries to surface. If he can’t look Kaz in the face he can’t very well live with him.

The stretch of road he’s been following winds along the coastline, and for a while it’d seemed thoroughly deserted. When he starts to hear things – odd things, like the murmur of a crowd and the roar of motors – he genuinely starts to entertain the possibility that he is finally losing it.

Then the road winds around another bend, and he can finally see what is happening here. They’re drag racing. He debates turning around. He still hasn’t made up his mind but his steps carry him forward regardless.

So he doesn’t want company. If he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, he doesn’t have to. It’s only natural to be curious.

His plan is working fine until someone calls out to him. Because there’s no way it could be anyone else. He can’t even take another step without proving him right.

An almost inaudible sigh, and he walks closer. Do I look like I’m racing? he wants to say, but it makes him cringe even in his head. You fucking nerd. Like you’d ever do anything that cool.

He shrugs. “Just here to watch.” He sinks his hands into his pockets and finally gets a proper look at the one who’d addressed him.

His breath leaves him like he’d been punched in the gut. The car he’s lounging on is obscenely expensive and deadly fast, Taka knows. It isn’t the reason for his confidence, but it does do plenty to justify it. He wonders dimly if this guy’ll win, while the greater part of his brain struggles with how to even talk to someone so intimidating.

Too late. He’s doing it.

Just Breathe :: No Longer Accepting

                                                                                                                              It’s ten 

and he knows that his brother should be home. It’s ten and he knows that no matter how late practice runs, his brother is never late - the unspoken curfew has kept them in check since middle school. They’re always back by ten.

It’s ten fifteen and there are three calls straight to voicemail. There are two texts unreturned. Normally, he wouldn’t be so bothered; Takashi is probably busy. But it’s been increasingly hard to get a handle on what his twin is feeling lately and there have been more long evenings spent at the studio than there used to be.

Kazuya feels like a mother hen, worrying over something so trivial. Still, he finds himself getting into a cab, biting out the directions, and speeding off into the night to check on the one good thing in his life.

The doors are unlocked despite the only people here being the night caretaker and Takashi. The trip to his brother’s specific studio is a familiar one, lined with cracked plaster and little else. The lights flicker every so often.

There’s music coming from behind the door of his destination. It’s faint, trickling like water through the gaps, flooding him as the door opens.

Before him is a scene that will burn his memory for years.

Takashi is on the ground and there’s no blood but the instant feeling Kazuya gets squeezes his stomach like a vice. This is wrong.

He crosses the room and drops to his knees, all but sliding into his sibling at the other end.

“What is it? What happened?” He’s not panicked just yet, but he’s on edge, inspecting every visible inch of the other boy with his eyes. Quick fingers prod at arms and then legs and he almost recoils at the sound that his touch pulls into life as it reaches Takashi’s right ankle.

Instant upset.

“Shit,” he doesn’t swear,”Fuck, fuck, fuck. Okay, shh, just breathe.”

Hands tremble and he steadies them on his twin’s face. It’s not quite the same as looking into a mirror. “Look at me; breathe. We’re going to the hospital.”

Maybe he’s the one that isn’t calm.

Normally he’s the epitome of grace under pressure, serenity in chaos, but when it comes to…

They successfully stand, three legs and a hand against the wall later. A plethora of vulgarities come to mind as he calls the cabby back to the studio, and half of them spew forth as he loads his brother into the back seat and climbs in after.

The emotions he feels now are mixed: dread, fear, worry, and at the back of it all, sorrow.

He manages to contain a laugh.

“We meet with the lawyer on Monday - you, me, and Mom. We get told that you’re supposed to take over. We tell them that it won’t happen… not anytime soon, at least. We all know that you’re not ready. None of us are ready for this.”

Dark eyes follow erratic movement and he knows that he’s not saying what Takashi wants to hear. It’s probably insulting, but the truth hurts.

“Mom probably plans to cover for you for a little while. We’ll make the argument that you can’t just drop school to run a business you don’t know anything about. It’ll buy you some time.”

Time to come up with permanent way out. 

And yet they both know the only real escape is the way their father went.

The rain comes in sporadic drips, at first. Here, there, and now they’re everywhere. Not a downpour like he’d expected; just a drizzle. They’ll still be able to perform the burial. 

“You’re not in this by yourself, okay? It’s going to be fine.”

It’s enough to make anyone lose it. Takashi’s just having a minor breakdown, though. No big deal.

While he’d love to believe it’s as easy and painless as Kazuya makes it sound, he’s not naive enough for that kind of blind faith. Still it’s a glimmer, however faint, of something beyond this cage beckoning him in.

“All right.” He’s stopped pacing and he gives a nod, gaze distractedly roaming the concrete. “Yeah, that sounds good. We can stall them. They can’t argue with that.” He’s still not sure he believes it, but at least saying it aloud has taken the edge off his panic.

Now all they need is to change the will. And their names and identities. Fleeing the continent never sounded so good.

ℳ : A Playlist Inspired By You

Their mother looks somewhat confused when they get back to their feet. What kind of children leave their own father’s funeral when it’s just started? He hears a few quiet words slip from his brother’s lips and he presses his own against her forehead. Don’t worry.

They get stares as they pass - there are quiet whispers, but on the whole, everyone is too polite to say anything.

It’s overcast when the door swings open and they step outside. Nobody out here but the attendants, and neither of them seem to care that they’ve skipped out on the service.

Maybe even the heavens will cry at the passing of Sano Katashi, Business Legend.

“It’s a shame,” he says, and he doesn’t need to fake the sincerity this time (because it is, just not the dying part), “But it happens, I guess.”

He does wonder if he should be consoling his brother. They must have felt differently about their father, after all. But does Takashi miss the man as he should, or would it be a waste of time? Sometimes, it’s hard to tell what the other boy is thinking, despite spending almost every second with him for the last twenty two years.

But he gets the feeling that now isn’t the time for kind words. There’s been enough of that today. Maybe later.

His hands find his pockets and he watches the traffic ahead of them.

He wonders how many here are true allies and how many are silently rejoicing. It makes him sick when he thinks of the politics -- the alliances, the vendettas, the double-timing, the back-stabbing, the deals and hits and plots and all of it shrouded in the deepest kind of secrecy. How he’s ever expected to understand it all is beyond him. He doesn’t want to.

Too bad that’s exactly what’s required of him.

Kaz is talking but he’s not really saying much, just the standard platitudes, so he doesn’t bother looking over at him. His eyes are on the sky, on the murky grey of low-hanging clouds. That’s all there is, stretching to the horizon, no reprieve. He wonders if it will rain and ruin all those fancy suits.

A dumbfounded blink and he falls back down to earth. Trust Kazuya to cut right to the heart of the matter. It hasn’t been easy -- it’s been downright exhausting -- but he’s been more or less holding his composure together all day. That’s exactly the question to get it to break.

“Do I?” The laugh is more exasperated than anything. He starts to pace, turning sharply when he reaches the grass and facing his twin with the blind urge to hurl accusations and beg for help, all twisted into one. “Let’s see, I-- meet with the lawyer tomorrow, probably, to go over his will. I get informed what I already know, that he’s named me his successor, and then I-- what? Where do I even begin sorting through this mess?”

The words that echo through the air should be comforting, but it’s hard to get past the hollow reverberations in his own head. No doubt, they’re not fairing much better in his brother’s. For a second, he wonders if this whole thing is worth it - there are too many grieving. But what’s done is done and they’re all here already. Can’t take anything back.

Younger twin leans a little closer, takes Takashi’s hand in his own, like when they were small. There’s still something comforting in the gesture, he’s sure. Even he feels a little more at ease. Knowing you’re not alone in the world takes a weight off your shoulders, and the only one that can lift it is Takashi, for him. He’s caught himself pondering more than once on if the opposite is also true.

He squeezes, another silent affirmation that he’s here. It’s okay.

“Yeah. It’s pretty surreal… I’m almost waiting for him to sit up and say it was all a joke.”

Of course, that wouldn’t be ideal. Zombies and angry parents are both things he actively tries to avoid.

And he breathes, for real this time. A slow inhale, the kind that straightens his posture as it evens out his heartbeat. Even slower exhale, and he starts to relax. He even manages a laugh -- however weak.

“Just a test. To see how we’d react.” If only. But the thought of his father watching with disapproval as he falls apart sobers him further. He’ll get through this the way he always does. Everything will make sense in time.

It’s a mildly surprising suggestion, but an appealing one. There’s an unconscious quirk of the brow as he looks around, as subtly as is possible. All eyes are on the pulpit, if they’re not darting to the shiny black casket laid out below it. Some would notice if they left, but what would they think?

A vexed expression, apologetic mumbles -- the impression would be of one overcome with emotion, unable to withstand the grim proceedings. He could pull it off (it’s really not much of a stretch, though he’d never admit it) and, even better, no one would judge him for it.

“That sounds real good right about now.” The first question goes unanswered, answering itself in the process. He gives another look around, the self-conscious air only half for show. To his mother, he murmurs, “I’m sorry. We’ll be back.”