"I'm being carried?" Dazai's smile sharpened. "My teammate is P4 in the championship. Same car, very different results. Perhaps the problem isn't the car, Chuuya. Perhaps it's the driver."
"Put me in your car, and I'd beat you."
OR
Chuuya Nakahara never expects Formula One to be fair. Osamu Dazai never has to. Chaos ensues.
"I'm being carried?" Dazai's smile sharpened. "My teammate is P4 in the championship. Same car, very different results. Perhaps the problem isn't the car, Chuuya. Perhaps it's the driver."
"Put me in your car, and I'd beat you."
OR
Chuuya Nakahara never expects Formula One to be fair. Osamu Dazai never has to. Chaos ensues.
Dazai arrived in Milan on a Thursday afternoon, the sky grey with the looming ominousness of potential rainfall. He'd taken a commercial flight because the private jet felt like too much effort, and now he sat in the back of a car arranged by the team, watching the Italian countryside blur past with the same mild disinterest he felt about most things.
The driver tried to make conversation. Dazai responded with monosyllables, pretending not to be able to speak neither English nor Italian until the man gave up.
Monza was one of those circuits that people pretended to care about more than they actually did. History, tradition, the Tifosi -- all very romantic if you were the sort of person moved by such things. Dazai found it tedious. The track was fast and relatively simple, which meant the racing was often processional unless something went catastrophically wrong. He'd won here before. He'd probably win again. The thought produced neither satisfaction nor anticipation.
The hotel was the same one they always used, a sprawling place with too much marble and staff who recognized him on sight, like most people tended to. He checked into the counter under Mori’s name, refusing the offer to have his bags brought up so he could carry them to the elevator himself, wandering the hotel to familiarise himself with all the forgotten routes to and out of his room.
His room overlooked the gardens. He dropped his bag by the door and went to the window, looking out at the manicured hedges and stone pathways. Somewhere out there, other drivers were arriving, settling in, preparing mentally for the weekend ahead. Chuuya was probably already at the circuit, obsessing over data and pushing himself through some incessantly punishing workout routine.
Dazai lay down on the bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling.
The kiss had been a miscalculation. Not in execution -- he'd meant to do it, had wanted to see what would happen -- but in outcome. Chuuya's panic had been predictable, really. Dazai had known it would go that way. What surprised him was the faint, annoying persistence of the memory. The way it surfaced at odd moments, uninvited.
He'd kissed people before. Many people. It was an entertaining way to pass time or satisfy curiosity or maintain whatever persona the situation required. This should have been the same.
It wasn't, quite.
Dazai closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He managed about forty minutes before giving up and going down to the hotel bar, where he ordered the most expensive thing possible to Mori’s card (not that it would make a dent in his salary, but it was the prospect of pissing him off with unauthorised charge notifications that he really cared about) and sat in a corner booth, watching other guests come and go.
A couple at a nearby table was arguing in hushed Italian. A businessman typed furiously on his laptop, pausing only to gulp coffee. Three women in designer clothes laughed too loudly over cocktails.
Everyone performed their little dramas, convinced of their own significance.
Dazai finished his drink and ordered another.
By the time he returned to his room, it was past midnight. He showered, changed into clean clothes, and lay back down. Sleep came eventually, thin and unsatisfying.
Friday morning arrived, inevitably, as did each morning.
Dazai dressed in team gear, the Port Mafia colors that he'd worn for years now, and made his way to the circuit. The paddock was already busy with the many teams setting up, media personnel stalking drivers for quotes and videos to post on their drama sites.
He signed a few things on his way in and smiled for a few photos when solicited by an actual fan rather than a media promoter with a three foot long microphone pole.
The Port Mafia garage was no less chaotic as Dazai walked in, glancing around at the dozens of mechanics and engineers checking every millimetre of the car.
Chuuya was already there, talking to Kouyou near his side of the garage. He glanced up when Dazai entered, their eyes meeting for perhaps half a second before Chuuya looked away.
Dazai felt nothing in particular about this.
"Morning," Mori said, approaching with a tablet in hand. "Sleep well?"
"Wonderfully," Dazai lied.
"Good. We need to discuss strategy for FP1. The weather's supposed to hold, so we'll focus on race simulation. I want both of you working through tire degradation scenarios."
Dazai nodded, only half listening. He'd done this so many times the briefings had become white noise. Mori would outline the plan, the engineers would provide data, everyone would nod seriously, and then they'd go out and drive. The specifics may have varied from country to country, but the pattern never did.
Mori's expression twisted skeptically, but he continued anyway, walking Dazai through the session plan in detail that felt entirely unnecessary. Dazai had been doing this for ages. He’d been prepared for this for years. It was all quite dreary.
When Mori finally finished, Dazai wandered over to where his car sat, gleaming under the garage lights. The mechanics had already completed their checks and wandered off to do various other jobs. Everything was ready.
He should have felt something. Anticipation, maybe. Excitement. The car was beautiful, a masterpiece of engineering, and he was about to drive it at speeds most people couldn't imagine.
Instead, he felt the same hollow indifference that colored most of his waking hours.
"Ready?" one of the mechanics asked.
"Always," Dazai said, because that was what he was supposed to say.
FP1 passed in a blur of laps and tire compounds and radio communications that Dazai responded to automatically. The car felt responsive enough and the setup was close to optimal already. And Dazai was dynamic, anyways. He could probably adapt to whatever he was given. He put in consistent times, nothing spectacular (by his standards), and nothing concerning. Ended the session P2, a few tenths behind Fyodor.
Chuuya was P4.
Back in the garage, Dazai went through the debrief with the engineers, discussing balance and brake temperatures and a dozen other technical details. He contributed where necessary, his mind working through the data not dissimilarly to the way Chuuya would hover over statistics for hours, but without his teammate’s unadulterated dedication.
"The car's good," he said when they asked for his overall assessment. "Minor adjustments to the front wing, maybe. Otherwise, leave it."
Mori nodded. "Chuuya's reporting understeer in the second chicane."
"He's carrying too much speed in," Dazai glanced up at the screen transferring Chuuya’s data for a millisecond before glancing back down at his shoes.. "Tell him to brake earlier."
"I'll pass it along."
FP2 was more of the same. Dazai improved his time, went fastest, then watched as Fyodor beat it by two hundredths of a second. Chuuya moved up to P3.
The session ended. Dazai climbed out of the car, pulled off his helmet, and submitted to the usual post-session routine.
"You looked strong out there," a journalist asked, microphone extended. "Confident about qualifying tomorrow?"
"I'm always confident," Dazai said, flashing a smile. "Though Fyodor seems determined to make things interesting."
"What about your teammate? Chuuya's been performing well lately."
"He has," Dazai agreed. "It's almost like giving him a competitive car was a good idea."
The journalist laughed. Dazai excused himself and moved on.
Back at the hotel that evening, he ordered room service and ate without tasting anything. The food was probably good. He didn't care. Afterward, he stood at the window again, looking out at the darkening gardens.
His phone sat on the desk, silent. He hadn't messaged Chuuya since Zandvoort. There didn't seem to be much point. Chuuya had made his position clear, and Dazai wasn't in the habit of pursuing things that didn't want to be pursued.
Except he kept thinking about it anyway, which was irritating.
He went to bed early and slept poorly, waking several times throughout the night for no particular reason. By morning, he felt hollowed out and vaguely nauseous, which was normal enough that he barely noticed.
Saturday brought qualifying.
Dazai went through his routine in the same exact manner he always did. Breakfast he didn't want, unsweetened coffee he hated the taste of but probably needed, the drive to the circuit in silence. The paddock was more crowded now, the weekend energy building toward its peak.
In the garage, Mori gathered both drivers for a final briefing.
"Q1 and Q2 should be straightforward," he said. "Save your best tires for Q3. Dazai, you're our best shot at pole. Chuuya, within the top three would be ideal. I think that’s feasible enough for you both."
Chuuya nodded. Dazai said nothing.
"Any questions?"
"No," they said in unison.
Mori studied them both for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Good. Go win this."
Q1 was indeed straightforward. Dazai put in a single flying lap, went P1, and returned to the garage. Chuuya did the same, P3. They both advanced easily.
Q2 required slightly more effort. Dazai went out on used softs, set a time good enough for P2, and came back in. Chuuya matched him, also P2 on his run. Both through to Q3.
The final session was where things mattered.
Dazai sat in the car, waiting for the session to go green, and felt the familiar absence of nerves. Other drivers talked about the pressure of qualifying, the intensity of pushing for pole position. Dazai had never understood it. You either had the pace or you didn't. Anxiety changed nothing.
The session opened. He went out immediately, getting clear air before traffic built up.
The lap was clean. Not perfect -- he ran slightly wide at Parabolica -- but clean enough. Across the line, the time flashed: P1 provisional.
Fyodor beat it three minutes later.
Dazai came in, switched to a fresh set of softs, and went back out for his final attempt.
This time, he didn't think. Thinking was the enemy of speed. He let his hands and feet do what they'd been trained to do, let the car dance through the chicanes and scream down the straights, and when he crossed the line, the time was there.
Pole position. Three tenths clear of Fyodor. His biggest competition bar for his teammate.
"Brilliant lap," Mori said over the radio. "That's pole. P1."
"Lovely," Dazai said, and meant it as much as he meant anything.
Chuuya qualified P3, which would make Mori happy. A Port Mafia front row lockout would have been ideal, but P1 and P3 was acceptable, and it had the advantage of avoiding any awkward media questions regarding which driver would be prioritised in the event of team orders overriding the race.
"You seem relaxed," one journalist observed.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Dazai asked. "I'm on pole at Monza. Life is good."
"Your teammate's been strong lately. Any concern about competition tomorrow?"
"Chuuya can try to beat me if he wants," Dazai said. "I encourage it. Makes things less boring."
The journalist looked delighted. Dazai excused himself before they could ask anything else.
That evening, he skipped the team dinner and ate alone in his room again. He'd received a message from Oda earlier -- brief, saying he was recovering well, that he'd be watching the race tomorrow. Dazai had read it several times, trying to feel the relief or happiness that seemed appropriate.
Mostly, he just felt tired.
He slept better that night, perhaps because exhaustion finally outweighed his mind's tendency toward insomnia.
Sunday arrived with clear skies and warm temperatures.
Race day.
Mori had pre-established a specific strategy, given that Dazai didn’t care nor did he want to decide for himself. He’d start off on the soft tyres so as to build as wide a gap as possible, push early, subsequently pit early, and the rest should work out in its own manner.
"Any issues, we'll adapt," Mori had said. "But the plan is to control from the front."
The grid walk was the usual circus. Mainly just celebrities who had no idea how racing actually worked, but nonetheless, Dazai smiled and waved and said nothing of substance to anyone. Monza was a decent track, and he’d do his best to enjoy whatever competition would occur.
Back in the garage, he climbed into the car and let the mechanics strap him in. The ritual was soothing in its familiarity. Helmet on, gloves on, radio check, systems check. Everything green.
The formation lap passed without incident. Dazai positioned the car on pole, went through his start procedure, and waited.
Five red lights.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Lights out.
The start was clean. Dazai got away well, Fyodor slotting into P2 behind him, and by the first chicane, he'd already established a gap. Behind them, the pack sorted itself out in ways Dazai didn't particularly care about.
"Good start," Mori said. "Gap to Fyodor is 1.2 seconds."
Dazai didn't respond. He was already settling into the rhythm of the race, hitting his marks, managing the tires, building the gap lap by lap.
By lap ten, he was three seconds clear.
By lap twenty, five seconds.
The race became repetitive after turn one, exactly as he'd expected. Fyodor wasn't close enough to threaten, and Dazai wasn't pushing hard enough to stress the car. He was doing exactly what was required and nothing more.
"Chuuya's in P3," Mori reported at one point. "Comfortable gap to P4."
"Wonderful," Dazai said.
The laps blurred together. Parabolica, Lesmo, the chicanes -- corners he'd taken hundreds of times, each one identical to the last. His mind wandered while his body drove, thinking about nothing in particular, observing the race from a distance even as he participated in it.
He’d managed the soft tyre stint pretty late, dragging the degrading tyres up to lap 35 before being called to pit. Dazai came in, the crew changed his tires in 2.3 seconds, and he rejoined still in first place.
"Perfect stop," Mori said. "The gap to Fyodor is 6.8 seconds."
The second stint was even more dull than the first. Dazai maintained his gap, brought the tires up to temperature, and continued the careful dance of going fast enough to stay ahead but not so fast as to risk an incident.
With ten laps remaining, Mori came on the radio.
"You're clear ahead, clear behind. Bring it home."
Dazai acknowledged and continued at the same pace.
The final laps ticked by. Ten remaining, then three, then one.
He crossed the line in P1, winner of the Italian Grand Prix, and felt approximately nothing about it.
"Brilliant drive," Mori said. "Perfect execution. That's P1."
"Thanks," Dazai said.
In parc fermé, he climbed out of the car and went through the routine. Congratulated Fyodor on P2, nodded at whoever had finished P3 -- he hadn't been paying attention until he saw the flash of ginger hair that indicated it had been his teammate. The team was ecstatic behind the barriers.
The podium ceremony was tedious. National anthem, champagne, the crowd cheering below. Dazai sprayed champagne in the appropriate directions, held up the trophy, waved to the Tifosi who were probably disappointed he wasn't driving for the Decay.
Afterward came the media obligations. Interview after interview, all asking variations of the same questions.
"How does it feel to win at Monza?"
"Dominant performance today. Was it easier than expected?"
"Your teammate finished P3. Happy with the team result?"
Dazai answered them all with as much excitement as he could muster. It was probably a bigger deal than he’d been treating it as, but it was still easy. It took away the fun of racing if there was nobody equal, if not better than him, to race.
By the time he escaped back to the hotel, it was evening. He ordered some Italian delicacies Odasaku had recommended, showered, and lay in bed staring at his phone, taking a nibble out of a small amaretti every so often.
He could message Chuuya. Congratulate him on P3, make some joke about the race, try to bridge the distance that had opened between them.
He didn't.
Instead, he set an alarm for his early flight tomorrow and closed his eyes.
The win had extended his championship lead. The team was happy. Everything was going according to plan.
Marina Bay, Singapore
The flight to Singapore was long enough that Dazai actually managed to sleep, wedged into an excessively luxurious first class seat with an eye mask and noise-canceling headphones. He woke somewhere over the Indian Ocean, disoriented and vaguely nauseous, and spent the rest of the flight staring out the window at clouds.
Singapore was humid and bright, the kind of oppressive heat that hit you the moment you stepped outside. Dazai's shirt was sticking to his back by the time he reached the car, and the air conditioning in the vehicle felt like a small mercy.
The hotel was downtown, close to the circuit, a towering glass structure that probably looked impressive to people who cared about things like architecture. Dazai’s priorities in Singapore lingered on being able to turn the air conditioning in his room on as soon as possible.
His room had a view of the city, skyscrapers and lights stretching to the horizon. He stood at the window for a while, watching traffic move below, then unpacked the clothes and various random objects in his bag into the hotel room wardrobe.
Singapore was a night race, which meant the schedule was inverted, everything happening later at night when it had cooled off a little. FP1 wouldn't start until evening. Dazai had the entire afternoon to kill.
He considered going out and exploring the city, perhaps finding something to occupy his time. Instead, he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling until his alarm went off.
The circuit was already busy when he arrived, the paddock illuminated by artificial lights that turned everything slightly surreal. Dazai made his way to the Port Mafia garage, nodding at team members, deflecting questions about how he was feeling.
"Ready for the weekend?" Mori asked when Dazai found him near the engineering station.
"As ever," Dazai said.
"Good. Singapore's always challenging. The heat, the humidity, the barriers. I need you focused."
"I'm always focused."
Mori's expression suggested doubt, but he didn't push. "FP1 starts in ninety minutes. We'll run a standard program -- installation laps, then push runs, then race simulation."
Dazai nodded and wandered off to find somewhere quiet to sit.
Chuuya was in the drivers' room, reviewing data on a tablet. He glanced up when Dazai entered, their eyes meeting briefly before Chuuya returned his attention to the screen.
"Excited for Singapore?" Dazai asked, because the silence felt pointed.
"It's a cool race," Chuuya said without looking up.
"How insightful."
"What do you want, Dazai?"
"Nothing in particular. Just making conversation."
"Well, don't. I’m busy. Go do something helpful."
Dazai considered pushing, saying something that would provoke a reaction, but decided against it. Chuuya had made his boundaries clear. Dazai could respect that, even if it was tedious.
He left the room and went to find someone to bring him a coffee.
Marina Bay was a little more challenging than some of the previous circuits -- tight corners at every curve, constantly threatening the end of a session from a singular mistake. Dazai put in a couple half-hearted laps and ended P3 behind Fyodor and Nikolai, Chuuya behind him in P5.
The debrief was standard. Balance issues in the slow corners, tire temperatures running hot -- which would probably be a consistent issue among most teams, considering the scorching nature of Singaporean heat -- but all in all, only minor adjustments were needed to the setup. Dazai contributed where necessary and tuned out the rest.
FP2 went a little better. He improved to P1, the car feeling more responsive after the changes. Chuuya moved up to P4.
By the time Dazai returned to the hotel, it was past midnight. He twisted the room cooling switch to full blast until he was shivering in his room, then went to sleep.
Sleep being the operative word.
The time zone shift had disrupted whatever fragile rhythm he'd established, and he lay awake for hours, mind churning through nothing in particular. Eventually, he gave up and went to the window, looking out at the city lights.
Chuuya was probably sleeping. Or training. Doing whatever it was he did when he wasn't racing.
Dazai wondered if Chuuya thought about the kiss. If it surfaced in his mind at odd moments the way it did for Dazai.
Probably not. Chuuya was good at compartmentalizing, shoving inconvenient feelings into boxes and pretending they didn't exist.
Dazai envied that, sometimes. But he didn’t particularly feel much of anything.
He went back to bed and managed a few hours of restless sleep before his alarm went off.
Saturday arrived with the same oppressive humidity.
Qualifying was scheduled for late evening, past nightfall, which meant Dazai had eons of time to use up. He went to the gym in the hotel, ran on a treadmill for forty minutes while staring at a wall, then returned to his room and showered.
His phone had several messages. One from Oda, asking how he was doing. One from his manager, confirming some sponsorship obligation next month. Nothing from Chuuya.
Dazai responded to Oda with something brief and reassuring, ignored his manager, and lay back down.
The afternoon passed slowly. He tried to read but couldn't focus. Tried to watch something but lost interest. Eventually, he just lay there, counting the hours until he needed to leave for the circuit.
By the time he finally arrived at the track, the sun was already beginning its slow descent beyond the horizon, casting long shadows across the asphalt. The sky above the city had transformed into a breathtaking canvas of deep oranges and rich purples, the fading light reflecting off glass buildings and distant structures. The atmosphere carried a strange stillness, the kind that settled in just before something significant was about to unfold. It waas eerie for it to feel so quiet so soon before qualifying, and especially in Marina Bay.
Dazai changed into his race suit, the familiar material settling against his skin like a second layer of armor.
When it was time, he climbed into the car for the seat fitting check, adjusting himself into position with quiet focus, surrounded by the hum of equipment and low murmurs of the team.
Mori gathered both drivers for the final briefing.
"Q1 and Q2 should be manageable," he said. "Don’t risk a crash. I’d rather see P6 than an incident pushing you into P10. But I’m sure you’re both fine at that. Dazai, I want pole. Chuuya, top five minimum."
"Understood," Chuuya said.
"Any questions?"
"No," Dazai said.
Mori studied him for a moment. "You seem distracted."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look particularly fine."
"I'm always fine," Dazai said, smiling. "It's one of my most endearing qualities."
Mori didn't look convinced, but he let it drop. “I really don’t care, Dazai. Just make pole position. That’s all I ask.”
Q1 was straightforward. Dazai went out, put in a clean lap, went P2. Chuuya was P4. Both advanced easily.
Q2, Dazai improved to P1, then watched as Fyodor beat his time by a tenth. Chuuya stayed P4.
Q3 was slightly more disconcerting.
Dazai went out on his first run and immediately felt something was off. The car was loose in the slow corners, the rear stepping out more than it should. He managed the lap, but the time was only good enough for P3.
"Box," Mori said. "We'll make an adjustment."
Dazai came in. The mechanics worked quickly, adjusting the rear wing, checking tire pressures. He went back out with five minutes remaining.
The second lap was better. The car felt more stable, more responsive. Dazai pushed hard, threading the car through the barriers, hitting his marks.
Across the line: P2. Two hundredths behind Fyodor.
"That's P2," Mori said.
Dazai didn't respond. P2 was fine. It was barely an okay lap. Not ideal, and not what Mori had wanted, but fine.
Chuuya qualified P5, which would satisfy Mori's requirements.
In parc fermé, Dazai congratulated Fyodor with the appropriate level of enthusiasm, which was to say, very little.
"Good lap," Fyodor said, his expression unreadable as always.
"You too," Dazai replied.
The media wanted to know if he was disappointed with P2, if he thought he could challenge Fyodor tomorrow, if the championship was still his priority.
Dazai gave them the answers they wanted, projecting confidence he didn't particularly feel.
Back at the hotel, he ordered food and ate alone, staring out at the city. Tomorrow would be challenging. Singapore was always challenging -- the heat, the length, the concentration required. Starting P2 instead of P1 made it marginally more difficult.
He should have cared more about that.
Sunday arrived beneath a sky so clear it seemed almost artificial, an endless stretch of blue unmarred by even the faintest trace of cloud. The sunlight poured down relentlessly, sharp and unforgiving, wrapping the entire circuit in a shimmering haze.
Clothes clung uncomfortably to skin from the intense humidity, and even the slightest movement brought a sheen of sweat.
Mori didn’t rush. He walked them through every phase of the race, from the opening laps to the critical pit windows, highlighting the moments where precision would matter most. His tone remained steady, almost clinical, but there was an undercurrent of irritation behind it, the steady loss of patience. Both Chuuya and now Dazai were off their game, and Fyodor was remarkably close to catching up, having made almost every podium this season. He was still feasible competition, no matter how irrelevant he seemed to be in comparison to the Port Mafia rookie prodigies.
"Dazai, you're starting P2. I want you to pressure Fyodor from the start. If you can pass him in the first stint, great. If not, we'll try the undercut."
"Understood," Dazai said.
"Chuuya, you're P5. Focus on your own race. If you can move forward, do it. Otherwise, just bring home solid points.”
Chuuya nodded.
The grid walk was the usual chaos. Dazai avoided most of it, finding a quiet corner to stand in until it was time to get in the car.
The formation lap passed without incident. Dazai positioned the car in P2, went through his start procedure, and waited.
Lights out.
The start was clean. Fyodor got away well, Dazai slotted in behind him, and by the first corner, Fyodor was a couple seconds ahead in P1, Dazai behind him and Nikolai a second behind Dazai.
"Good start," Mori said. "Gap to Fyodor is 0.8 seconds."
Dazai pushed, trying to stay close, but Fyodor was managing the gap perfectly. Every time Dazai got within DRS range, Fyodor would pull away again.
By lap fifteen, the gap had stabilized at around 1.5 seconds.
"He's managing his tires," Mori said. "Stay patient."
Dazai stayed patient, though patience had never been his strong suit. The laps blurred together, the same corners over and over, the same barriers flashing past, the same heat building in the cockpit.
Singapore was always a war of attrition. The race stretched on endlessly, each lap blending into the next beneath the relentless strain of the conditions. The heat radiating off the track turned the cockpit into an oven, the brutal humidity making every breath feel thick and labored. There was no room for complacency out here. Even the smallest mistake was punished instantly, often beyond recovery. A fraction too late on the brakes, a moment of lost focus, and it could send him straight into a barrier.
Dazai narrowed his world down to the essentials -- the rhythm of the circuit at each of the precise points where he needed to brake, turn, and accelerate. He managed his tires carefully, resisting the temptation to push too hard too early, knowing the race would reward patience as much as speed.
Ahead, Fyodor remained just out of reach, a constant presence at the edge of his vision. Dazai kept as close as he possibly could -- close enough to apply pressure, but distanced enough to avoid unnecessary risk. He watched, waited, studying every movement, every subtle deviation in line or pace. All he needed was a single mistake, one crack in the rhythm -- and he would be ready to take it.
Fyodor didn't make errors.
The pit stops came and went. Dazai tried the undercut, pitting a lap early, but Fyodor responded perfectly and maintained the lead.
"He's a tenth of a second faster than us per lap," Mori said, frustration evident in his voice. "Just bring it home in P2. We’ve got Chuuya in P5. We’ll be ahead anyways." He sighed, sounding remarkably unconvinced by his own words.
Dazai acknowledged and eased up slightly, giving up on the attempt of an overtake.
The final laps were a blur. Fyodor controlled from the front, Dazai followed at a safe distance, and when the checkered flag fell, the order was unchanged.
P2. Second place.
Dazai heard no positive words from Mori through the radio this time.
The podium ceremony was fine. Fyodor's national anthem with its sharp, Russian patriotism, then the slightly less dramatic Italian anthem for the DOA, champagne, the cheers of the crowd below. Dazai sprayed champagne and smiled and played his part.
Afterward, the media wanted to know if he was disappointed, if Fyodor was now a real threat to the championship. If he was concerned about his recent form. As if second place was bad.
Maybe it was, for his standards. But the concept of other people catching onto his disappointment was irritating.
"Fyodor drove a great race," Dazai said. "Sometimes you finish second. It happens."
"But you've won the last several races before this -- "
He excused himself before they could ask anything else.
Back in the paddock, he was making his way toward the Port Mafia hospitality when someone fell into step beside him. He was about to make some silly retort, or a joke about how Mori would have him eviscerated for P2, until he realised the figure standing next to him was much too tall to be his small, ginger teammate.
Fyodor.
"Walk with me," Fyodor said quietly.
Dazai considered refusing, but curiosity won out. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere private."
They walked in silence through the paddock, past team garages and hospitality units, until they reached a quiet area near the back of the circuit. Fyodor stopped and turned to face him.
"Congratulations on P2," Fyodor said.
"How gracious of you."
"I wanted to discuss something with you. A proposition, if you will."
Dazai waited, staring blankly.
"You're leading the championship," Fyodor continued. "Comfortably. But the season isn't over, and things can change quickly."
"Is this going somewhere?"
"I have information," Fyodor said. "About Port Mafia Racing. About certain... irregularities in your car's development. Technical violations that the FIA would find very interesting."
Dazai's expression didn't change. "Do you?"
"I do. And I'm prepared to share this information with the media unless you're willing to cooperate."
"Cooperate how?"
"The next race is Qatar," Fyodor said. "I want you to have a mechanical issue. Something that forces you to retire. Nothing dramatic -- just enough to give me the win."
Dazai studied him, genuinely curious now. "And if I refuse?"
"Then I leak the information. Port Mafia gets investigated, possibly disqualified. Your championship is void. Your career takes a significant hit."
"You're blackmailing me."
"I'm offering you a choice," Fyodor corrected. "Take one DNF, or risk losing everything."
Dazai considered this. The smart play would be to agree, to take the DNF, to protect the team and the championship. One race didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.
But Dazai had never been particularly good at doing the smart thing.
"No," he said.
Fyodor's expression flickered with something that might have been surprise. "No?"
"I'm not throwing a race for you. Leak whatever you want."
"You're willing to risk your entire season?"
"I'm willing to call your bluff," Dazai said. "Because I don't think you have anything. And even if you did, the FIA would need proof, which you don't have, because Port Mafia's car is legal."
"You seem very confident."
"I am," Dazai said, though in truth, he had no idea if the car was entirely legal. It probably wasn’t, really. Mori pushed boundaries. Everyone did. But Fyodor's threat felt still hollow, performative in some way.
"You're making a mistake," Fyodor said.
"Probably. I make a lot of those."
Dazai turned and walked away, leaving Fyodor standing alone in the shadows.
Back at the hotel, the world felt quieter, removed from the roar and intensity of the track. The air conditioning hummed softly in the background as Dazai sat by the window, a glass of tea resting loosely in his hand. He took a slow sip, the faint bitterness eliciting a slight grimace.
His mind kept circling back to the conversation, replaying it piece by piece, searching for anything he might have missed. Fyodor’s words lingered more than they should have, carrying a weight that was difficult to ignore. On the surface, it had sounded like a threat, but there was always the possibility it had been nothing more than a bluff, a carefully constructed attempt to get inside his head.
Dazai exhaled quietly, his gaze unfocused as he stared out at the brightly lit city below. He couldn’t afford to dismiss it entirely. With Fyodor, there was always another layer, something hidden beneath the obvious. Even an empty threat could be a distraction for something else entirely.
Either way, it wasn’t something he could keep to himself. Mori would need to know.
He'd tell him tomorrow. Tonight, he was too tired to care.
He went to bed and slept better than expected, exhaustion finally winning out over his mind's tendency toward insomnia.
Monday morning, he had a late flight back to Europe. He spent the morning in his hotel room, packing slowly, checking out of the mental space of Singapore.
Around noon, his phone buzzed. A message from Chuuya, surprisingly.
There's a café near the hotel. Meet me there in twenty minutes.
Dazai stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back: Why?
Just come.
Dazai considered refusing, but curiosity won out. He finished packing, grabbed his jacket, and headed downstairs.
The café was a small place tucked between two larger buildings, the kind of spot tourists wouldn't notice. Dazai found Chuuya sitting at a corner table, two cups of coffee already waiting.
"You ordered for me," Dazai observed, sitting down.
"You drink it black, right?"
"I do."
They sat in silence for a moment. Dazai sipped his coffee -- it was good, actually -- and waited for Chuuya to explain why they were here.
"I wanted to talk," Chuuya finally said.
"About?"
"Nothing specific. Just... talk."
Dazai raised an eyebrow. "This is very unlike you."
"I know."
"Are you feeling alright?"
"I'm fine," Chuuya said, though his expression suggested otherwise. "I just thought... we're teammates, right? We should be able to have coffee without it being weird."
"Is it weird?"
"A little."
Dazai smiled despite himself. "Fair enough."
They talked about inconsequential things. Chuuya mentioned he was planning to visit his family before Qatar. Dazai said he'd probably just go back to Monaco and sleep for a week.
"You look tired," Chuuya observed.
"I always look tired."
"More than usual."
"How flattering."
Chuuya's expression softened slightly. "I'm serious. Are you okay?"
The question caught Dazai off guard. He considered deflecting, making a joke, changing the subject. Instead, he found himself saying, "I'm fine. Just the usual existential malaise."
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
"It's really not."
They fell into silence again, but it was more comfortable this time. Dazai finished his coffee and signaled for another. Chuuya did the same.
"I'm sorry," Chuuya said suddenly.
"For what?"
"For being... difficult. After Zandvoort."
Dazai waved a hand dismissively. "You were clear about your boundaries. I respect that."
"Still. I could have handled it better."
"We both could have handled a lot of things better," Dazai said. "But here we are."
Chuuya looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn't. Instead, he changed the subject, asking about Dazai's plans for the break between races.
They talked for another hour, the conversation meandering through various topics, never landing on anything too serious. It was….pleasant, actually. Easy in a way things between them rarely were.
Eventually, Chuuya checked his watch. "I should go. My flight's in a few hours."
"Mine too."
They stood, and for a moment, there was an awkward pause where neither of them seemed sure what to do.
"See you in Qatar," Chuuya finally said.
"See you in Qatar," Dazai echoed.
Chuuya left. Dazai sat back down and ordered a third coffee, watching through the window as Chuuya disappeared into the crowd.
The conversation had been unexpected. Nice, even. But it didn't change anything fundamental between them.
Dazai finished his coffee and headed back to the hotel to collect his bags.
The flight home was uneventful. He slept most of the way and spent the rest of the flight staring out the window.
He had a week before he needed to be in Qatar. A week to rest and prepare.
Instead, he spent most of it lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about nothing in particular.
Oda messaged him a few times. Dazai responded with brief updates, reassurances that he was fine and that the racing was going well.
He didn't mention Fyodor's threat. Didn't mention the café with Chuuya. Didn't mention the persistent emptiness that coloured everything, or rather took away its colour.
Some things were easier left unsaid.
Lusail, Qatar
Lusail was cold when Dazai arrived, a sharp contrast to Singapore's oppressive heat. By the time the plane landed, he felt unmoored, as though part of him was still somewhere over the Atlantic. Stepping into Qatari customs, he moved on instinct rather than clarity, passport in hand, eyes adjusting slowly to the bright, sterile lighting. The air felt different here, much cooler and sharper, the low hum of conversations around him blending into a distant, indistinct noise.
The hotel sat in the middle of downtown, a tall, modern building with glass and steel reflecting the city around it. His room was on a high floor, and the windows looked out directly over the lit up city.
From where he stood, the buildings stretched wide and restless, the many bright, colourful lights twinkling under the heavy overcast sky. Small waves broke against the Lusail bay, and occasional boats moved slowly across, leaving thin trails in their wake. The clouds above were thick and low, casting a muted, diffused light over the river and the surrounding cityscape, making everything look damp and subdued.
He stood at the window for a while, watching boats move slowly across the surface, then unpacked his bag.
Qatar was one of the newer races on the calendar, the circuit a now permanent track that wound through the outskirts of the city. The track perfectly matched his driving style. It featured heavy braking zones that demanded absolute precision, forcing him to judge speed and distance with meticulous accuracy. Between these, a variety of corners twisted and turned -- some slow and technical, requiring delicate control, others fast and sweeping, testing his reflexes.
He should have been looking forward to it.
Dazai signed a few things, posed for photos, and made his way to the Port Mafia hospitality.
Mori was waiting for him the following morning, tablet in hand, expression serious.
"We need to talk," Mori said.
"About?"
"Your contract."
Dazai followed him to a private room in the back of the hospitality unit. Mori closed the door and gestured for Dazai to sit.
"Your current contract expires at the end of this season," Mori began without preamble. "I want to discuss renewal."
"Cool." Dazai shrugged.
"You're the best driver on the grid. I want you to stay with the Port Mafia."
Dazai leaned back in his chair, studying Mori's expression. "And if I don't want to stay?"
"Then you're an idiot," Mori said bluntly. "You have the best car, the best team, the best chance at championships. But you’re not stupid. So why would you leave?"
"Maybe I'm tired of racing."
"You're not tired of racing. You're tired of everything, which is different. You’re probably depressed, which is problematic, but it’s not my problem. Deal with that outside of racing."
Dazai grinned mischievously despite the nature of the conversation. "How considerate of you, Mori-san."
"I'm serious, Dazai. I need an answer. Are you renewing or not?"
Dazai considered this. The smart answer was yes. The Port Mafia had the resources, and the infrastructure to keep winning.
Not to mention he’d grown particularly attached to a certain teammate. Leaving would be irrational.
But Dazai had never been particularly rational.
"I'll think about it," he said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting right now."
Mori's expression darkened. "I need a decision by the end of the season."
"Then you'll have one by the end of the season."
Mori looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't. Instead, he stood and opened the door. "Don't make me regret investing in you."
"Too late for that," Dazai said cheerfully.
He stepped out of the hospitality area and strolled through the paddock, hands tucked into his pockets, taking in the controlled chaos that surrounded him. Mechanics hustled between garages, tires and equipment were moved with practiced efficiency, and drivers arrived one by one, their focus sharp and unshakable. The whole circus of preparation for another weekend of racing unfolded around him.
He spotted Kouyou near the Port Mafia garage, crouched over a tablet, eyes scanning lines of data with intense concentration. The glow of the screen reflected off her face, highlighting the focus etched into every movement as she adjusted numbers and checked readings, immersed entirely in the technical choreography of the team.
"Busy?" Dazai interrupted.
She looked up, surprised. "Always. What do you need?"
"Nothing. Just wanted to chat."
Kouyou studied him skeptically. "You never 'just want to chat.'"
"Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf."
"Doubtful."
Dazai smiled. "How's Chuuya doing? With the car, I mean."
"He's adapting well. Still learning the limits, but his pace is strong."
"He's been struggling in the hairpin," Dazai observed. "Carrying too much speed, locking the fronts."
Kouyou's expression sharpened with interest. "You've been watching his data?"
"I notice things."
"What would you suggest?"
Dazai considered this. He could keep the information to himself, maintain whatever small advantage it gave him. But the thought of Chuuya struggling with something blatantly fixable was viscerally irritating to Dazai’s constantly shifting thoughts.
"Tell him to brake a couple meters earlier," Dazai started. "Not loads. Like, ten feet or so. And to turn in more gradually. He's trying to rotate the car too aggressively, which is why the fronts are locking."
"That's very specific advice."
"I'm a very specific person."
Kouyou made a note on her tablet. "I'll pass it along. Thank you."
"Don't mention it," Dazai said. "Seriously. Don't mention where it came from."
"Why not?"
"Because I don’t want him to think that I think I know better."
Kouyou's expression suggested she understood more than Dazai wanted her to, but she didn't push. "Alright. I'll keep it to myself."
Dazai nodded and wandered off, feeling vaguely satisfied in a way he couldn't quite articulate.
FP1 that evening was standard. The track was green, grip low, times slower than they'd be by qualifying. Dazai put in his laps and ended P2 behind Nikolai.
FP2 went better. He improved to P1, the car feeling more responsive after a couple rear wing changes he’d requested. Chuuya moved up to P4, having come P6 in FP1.
Saturday brought FP3 and qualifying.
FP3 was uneventful. He put in consistent laps and ended P1.
Mori gathered both drivers prior to qualifying for the same spiel about his minimum expectations for each driver. Top 2 for Dazai (a wide berth, considering Mori usually asked for pole) and top 4 for Chuuya.
"Understood," Chuuya said.
Dazai nodded.
"Any questions?"
"No," they said in unison.
Q1 was straightforward. Dazai only got around to completing one flying lap after a red flag incident from one of the Black Lizard drivers, but he progressed to Q2 in p4 anyways, Chuuya in P7.
Q2 required slightly more effort. Dazai went out on his used softs, set a time good enough for Q2, and came back in. Chuuya pretty much matched his time, coming a hundredth behind Dazai’s run.. Both through to Q3.
Dazai went out on his first run and put in a clean lap. Not perfect -- he ran slightly wide at the hairpin -- but clean enough to grab provisional pole.
Chuuya beat it two minutes later.
Dazai came in, switched to a fresh set of softs, and went back out for his final attempt.
The lap was good. Better than his first. He made up missed time where he’d lost it, glancing up at the scoreboard next to the pits to view his position.
P2. One tenth behind Chuuya.
"That's P2," Mori said over the radio. "Good lap. Chuuya's on pole position."
Dazai felt a flicker of something that might have been pride, though whether for himself or Chuuya, he wasn't sure.
In parc fermé, he approached Chuuya with an easy, genuine smile, extending his hand in a gesture of unguarded camaraderie. For once, there was no calculation behind his words, no edge of superiority -- just straightforward acknowledgment of a wellearned performance, the kind of rare, unpretentious recognition that spoke louder than any praise rehearsed or forced.
Chuuya's expression softened. "You too. P2's nothing to be ashamed of."
"I'm not ashamed. I’d be ashamed if it was Fyodor I lost to. But you’re good, Chuuya."
Tomorrow would be interesting. Starting P2 behind Chuuya, who'd been driving exceptionally well lately.
He should have been strategising, planning how to beat him.
He found vaguely himself hoping Chuuya would win.
The thought was strange enough that he examined it from multiple angles, trying to understand where it came from. He'd never wanted to lose before. Competition was the only thing that made racing remotely interesting.
But the idea of Chuuya winning and seeing him on the top step of the podium, of watching him succeed….
It didn't bother Dazai the way it should have.
He went to bed and slept better than expected, waking only once during the night.
Sunday arrived with clear skies and moderate temperatures.
The pre-race routine felt like clockwork, each step drilled into muscle memory. He started with breakfast, simple and precise, followed by coffee strong enough to sharpen every sense. The drive to the circuit was quiet, a small bubble of focus before the storm of noise and motion.
"Chuuya, you're on pole,” Mori started his strategic reminders. “Control the race from the front. Dazai, you're P2. Support Chuuya if he's leading, but if you have the pace to win, take it."
"Understood," Dazai said.
Chuuya nodded.
The formation lap passed without incident. Dazai positioned the car in P2, went through his start procedure, and waited.
Lights out.
Chuuya launched off the line with controlled aggression, taking the lead almost immediately, while Dazai settled smoothly into the slipstream behind him, conserving momentum and watching for any gaps. By the time they approached the first corner, the positions had already locked into place: Chuuya in P1, Dazai in P2, and Fyodor trailing in P3, each driver threading their car carefully through the apex.
"Good start," Mori said. "Gap to Chuuya is 0.9 seconds."
Dazai settled into the rhythm of the race, following Chuuya through the corners, staying close but not pressuring. The car felt fine, and he could tell Chuuya was managing his pace well.
By lap ten, the gap was maintaining around 1.2 seconds.
"He's controlling well," Mori said. "Stay patient."
Dazai stayed patient, watching Chuuya's lines, observing how he was managing the tires. The advice he'd given Kouyou seemed to be working -- Chuuya's entry into the hairpin was much smoother now when he braked earlier, no front locking.
The pit stops came and went. Dazai pitted first, trying the undercut, but Chuuya responded perfectly and maintained the lead.
"He's too fast," Mori said, though he didn't sound disappointed. It was still his driver winning, and a 1-2 was the best possible result for the team. "Just bring it home in P2."
Chuuya P1. Dazai P2.
"Great race," Mori said. "Perfect team result. Well done, both of you."
In parc fermé, Dazai climbed out of his car and immediately went to Chuuya, who was being swarmed by mechanics.
"Brilliant drive," Dazai said when he reached him.
Chuuya turned, his expression a mix of elation and disbelief. "I can't believe I just won. It’s been ages."
And it had. Chuuya’s last win had been Hungary, and now, he had another trophy to show for his efforts.
"Believe it. You earned it."
"I couldn't have done it without -- " Chuuya stopped, seeming to catch himself. "Without the team."
Dazai wondered if Kouyou had told him about the advice. It didn’t matter. Chuuya would have figured it out himself eventually, probably.
The podium ceremony was different this time. Watching Chuuya on the top step, hearing his national anthem, seeing the genuine joy on his face -- it produced something in Dazai that felt unusually warm and comforting.
Later, when the chaos had died down, Chuuya found him in the drivers' room.
"Hey," Chuuya said.
"Hey yourself. Congratulations again."
"Thanks." Chuuya hesitated, then said, "Kouyou gave me some advice. About the hairpin. It really helped."
"Good advice, then."
"She wouldn't tell me where it came from."
Dazai kept his expression neutral. "Maybe she came up with it herself."
"Maybe. We weren’t looking at that turn when we analysed my lost time, though." Chuuya didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. "Whatever. Thank you. For not making it difficult out there."
"I wasn't going to crash into you just to win."
"I know. But still. You could have pushed harder."
"You were still faster," Dazai said simply. "Pushing harder wouldn't have changed anything. I wouldn’t have let you win just for the sake of it."
Chuuya studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You're being weird."
"You already think I’m weird."
"Weirder than usual."
Dazai smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"I should go," Chuuya finally said, after a moment of silence. "Media obligations."
"Of course. Go bask in your glory."
Chuuya rolled his eyes but smiled. "See you at the next race."
"See you at the next race," Dazai echoed.
Chuuya left. Dazai sat down on the couch and stared at the wall.
The season was winding down. A few more races, then it would be over. He'd probably win the championship -- his lead was comfortable enough that even a few more P2 finishes wouldn't threaten it.
And then what?
Mori wanted an answer about his contract. Dazai still didn't have one.
He thought about Fyodor's threat, which had amounted to nothing. Or maybe it would come back to bite him, but he didn’t really care about that now. Thought about the café in Singapore, the easy conversation with Chuuya. Thought about watching Chuuya win today and feeling something other than failure.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was all he could hope for.
Small moments of something resembling feeling, scattered through the vast emptiness of everything else.
He stood, grabbed his bag, and headed back to the hotel.
Tomorrow, he'd fly home. Rest for a few days. Prepare for the next race.
The routine would continue, as it always did.
And Dazai would continue with it, because what else was there to do?
The flight back to Europe departed at six in the morning, which meant Dazai was awake at four, staring at the ceiling of his hotel room and counting the hours until he could leave Lusail behind. He'd slept perhaps three hours total, fragmented and unsatisfying, punctuated by dreams he couldn't remember upon waking.
He showered in the dark, not bothering with the lights, and dressed in clothes that were comfortable enough for a long flight. The bandages on his arms needed changing -- they always did after a race weekend, sweat and friction wearing them down -- but he left them as they were. He'd deal with it at home.
The lobby was empty when he checked out, just a tired desk clerk who barely looked at him. Dazai appreciated that. The car to the airport was waiting outside, the driver silent and professional, and Dazai spent the ride watching the city pass by through tinted windows.
Lusail at dawn was grey and quiet, the streets mostly empty except for early morning workers and the occasional taxi. Dazai watched a woman walking a dog, both of them moving slowly, and wondered what it was like to have a routine that simple. Wake up, walk the dog, go about your day. No cameras or expectations, no championship to defend.
Probably boring.
But maybe boring wasn't the worst thing.
The airport was busier than expected, travelers moving through security to rush to their flights. Dazai made it through without incident and entered into his gate,settling into a corner seat to wait for boarding.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through messages he had no intention of answering.
Dazai deleted them all without responding.
There was one message from Oda, though, sent late last night: Good to see Chuuya win. You looked happy for him.
Dazai stared at it for a long moment, trying to decide if that was true. Had he looked happy? He'd felt something, certainly, watching Chuuya on the top step of the podium. But happy seemed like too strong a word for whatever that had been.
He typed back: Did I? Must have been the champagne.
The response came quickly, despite the early hour: You don't drink champagne on the podium. You just spray it. Hasn’t Qatar banned alcohol, anyways?
Semantics.
How are you doing?
Dazai considered lying, then decided there wasn't much point. Oda would see through it anyway.
Tired. Flying home now.
Get some rest. You've earned it.
Have I?
There was a longer pause before Oda's next message: Yes? Don’t be silly.
Dazai didn't respond. He pocketed his phone and stared out the window at the tarmac, watching ground crew move around the planes.
Boarding began twenty minutes later. Dazai was in first class, a window seat, and he settled in with the kind of relief that came from knowing he wouldn't have to interact with anyone for the next seven hours. The flight attendant offered him champagne, which he declined, then orange juice, which he accepted and put aside for later.
The plane took off on time. Dazai closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
He managed about an hour before giving up and spending the rest of the flight staring out the window at clouds and ocean. Somewhere over the Atlantic, he ordered coffee and drank it impatiently, scalding his tongue in the process. The pain was sharp and immediate and then gone, leaving nothing behind.
He thought about Chuuya's win. The way he'd driven, controlled and precise, defending against every attack Dazai had thrown at him. It had been impressive, genuinely so, and Dazai had meant what he'd said in parc fermé. Chuuya had earned it.
The advice he'd given Kouyou had helped, probably. The hairpin entry had been noticeably smoother during the race, Chuuya's braking more measured. Dazai wondered if Chuuya knew where the advice had come from, if Kouyou had told him despite Dazai's request for anonymity.
Probably not. Chuuya would have said something if he knew.
Unless he wouldn't have. Unless he was playing the same game Dazai was, pretending everything was professional and distant while actually paying attention to every detail.
Dazai dismissed the thought. He was projecting. Chuuya wasn't like him -- didn't think in layers of calculations and strategic manipulations. Chuuya was straightforward and selfless, honest to a fault, incapable of the kind of sustained deception that Dazai, like Mori, wore like a second skin.
It was one of the many things that made him interesting.
The plane landed in Paris just after noon local time. Dazai had a connection to catch, another two hours in the air, and he moved through Charles de Gaulle like he’d done too many times to count.
His apartment was in Monaco, because of course it was. Every driver lived in Monaco for the tax benefits, clustering in the same expensive buildings, seeing each other at the same expensive restaurants over and over again. Dazai had bought his place three years ago when PMR headquarters were in France and he could fly over quickly, and decorated it with furniture he didn't care about, filling the space with things that looked livable without really thinking about what he’d like his home to look like. He wasn’t home long enough for it to matter, anyways.
The second flight was much shorter and considerably emptier, notably because nobody could really afford to go somewhere as godforsakenly expensive as Monaco. Dazai dozed intermittently and woke up disoriented each time, unsure where he was or why he was there.
By the time he landed in Nice and took the helicopter to Monaco, it was late afternoon. The city was bright and warm, sunlight glinting off the harbor, yachts bobbing gently in the water. Dazai's building was near the port, all glass and obscene wealth, and he nodded at the doorman without speaking as he entered.
His apartment was on the fifteenth floor, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Mediterranean. Dazai unlocked the door and stepped inside, dropping his bag in the entryway and standing in the silence.
The space was exactly as he'd left it two weeks ago. The cleaning service came twice a week whether he was home or not, keeping everything pristine. There were no photos on the walls, no personal touches, nothing that would tell a visitor anything about who lived here. It was utterly boring.
Dazai liked it that way.
He walked to the windows and looked out at the water, watching boats move slowly across the surface. The view was supposed to be worth millions. Dazai had never understood why. Water was water. Boats were boats. The fact that you could see them from fifteen floors up didn't make them more interesting.
He stood at the window for another twenty minutes, watching the light change as the sun moved lower in the sky.
Eventually, he forced himself to move. He carried his bag to the bedroom and unpacked what needed to be hung, putting everything else away in drawers. The bandages on his arms were definitely due for changing now, the edges fraying repulsively, but he left them.
In the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror. He looked tired, which was nothing particularly new. The bandages were visible beneath his shirt sleeves, white against his skin, and he adjusted them slightly so they sat more evenly.
The scars underneath were old, mostly. Some older than others. He'd stopped adding new ones years ago as a rebellious teenager, after Oda had found him in a hotel bathroom in Singapore with a razor blade pulled out of Mori’s letter opener, having drunk far too much vodka for a seventeen year old. That had been a low point, even for him.
He showered, the water much too hot, and changed into clean clothes. In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and stared at the contents without interest. The cleaning service kept it stocked with basics -- milk, eggs, vegetables, things that would go bad if he didn't eat them, which he never did. It felt a waste for them to keep replacing what he’d never use. He’d have to tell them to stop doing that when he’d be away for longer periods of time.
He closed the refrigerator without taking anything.
The couch in the living room was leather and uncomfortable, chosen by an interior designer who'd assured him it was very fashionable. Dazai lay down on it anyway and stared at the ceiling.
The apartment was too quiet. He could hear the hum of the electricity in the walls, and the distant sound of traffic from the street below, but nothing else. Even in Monaco, it was quiet on occasion, when the races had long gone and the city began to seem yet again like a consumerist nightmare.
He hated it.
But not enough to do anything about it.
He must have dozed off at some point because he woke to darkness, the sun having set while he slept. The apartment was lit only by the ambient glow from the city outside, orange and white light filtering through the windows.
Dazai sat up slowly, his neck stiff from the awkward angle. His phone showed it was past ten at night. He'd slept for nearly five hours, which was more than he usually managed.
He should eat something. His stomach felt hollow, though whether from hunger or the usual emptiness, he couldn't tell.
In the kitchen, he made toast because it required minimal effort. He ate it standing at the counter, chewing mechanically, tasting nothing. When he finished, he made more and ate that too, then drank a glass of water and called it dinner.
The bedroom was dark when he entered, the bed perfectly made by the cleaning service. Dazai pulled back the covers and climbed in fully clothed, too tired to bother changing.
Sleep came easier this time, heavy and dreamless.
He woke at six the next morning to sunlight streaming through the windows he'd forgotten to cover. For a moment, he lay there, disoriented, trying to remember where he was and why.
Monaco. Home. No race this weekend.
The realization brought neither relief nor disappointment.
He got up, showered again, and changed the bandages on his arms. The process was familiar, soothing in its routine. Unwrap the old ones, check the scars beneath -- still there, still raised and white against his skin -- wrap new ones in their place. He'd gotten good at it over the years.
In the kitchen, he made coffee and drank it while staring out at the harbor. A few early morning joggers were visible on the path below, moving with some kind of visceral willingness. Dazai had never understood that. Exercise was necessary for racing, for maintaining the physical conditioning required to handle a Formula 1 car, but he'd never found it enjoyable. He would never want to do it.
But then again, what did he want?
He'd spent so long not wanting anything that the question felt foreign. Racing was what he did, the same way anyone wouldn’t want to go to work nor would they want to be unemployed. It was just something you did. Winning was expected, not desired. Everything else was just filling time between races.
Except that wasn't entirely true anymore, was it?
He wanted Chuuya to do well. Wanted to see him succeed, to watch him grow into the driver he was capable of becoming. That was new. That was something.
He wanted Oda to be okay, to recover fully from the accident, and to stop worrying about Dazai's wellbeing. That wasn't new, but it was real.
He wanted... what? To feel something other than emptiness? To find meaning in any of this? To understand why he kept going when nothing seemed to matter?
Dazai stopped walking and stared out at the water. A yacht was leaving the harbor, moving slowly toward the open sea. He watched until it disappeared from view.
The sun was setting by the time he made it back to his apartment. Sleep was elusive again. He lay in the dark, listening to the city outside.
At some point, he must have dozed off because he woke to sunlight and the vague sense that he'd dreamed about something unpleasant. The details were already fading, leaving only a residue of unease.
His phone rang, cutting through the ambient noise. Mori. Of course it was Mori.
Dazai considered not answering, then decided that would only delay the inevitable.
"Good morning," he said, injecting false cheer into his voice.
"We need to talk about your contract," Mori said without preamble.
"Do we?"
"Yes. I need an answer, Dazai. The team needs to plan for next season."
"The season isn't over yet."
"It will be in a few weeks. I need to know if you're staying."
Dazai took a sip of coffee, buying time. "What if I said I was thinking about retiring?"
There was a confused pause. "Are you?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have right now."
Mori's frustration was audible even through the phone. "You're twenty years old. You're at the peak of your career. You’ve only been in Formula One for a year and a half. Retiring now would be nothing short of insanity. It’d probably be grounds to have you institutionalised, Dazai. Be serious for once."
"Maybe I'm just insane." Dazai sighed, rubbing his forearm against his temple as if to stave off an oncoming headache.
"You're not. You're just difficult."
“Mori-"
"Dazai." Mori's tone shifted, becoming more serious. "Talk to me. What's actually going on?"
Dazai considered lying, then decided there wasn't much point. Mori knew him too well. "I don't know if I want to keep doing this."
"Racing?"
"Any of it. The racing. The media, the constant performance. It's exhausting."
"It's also what you're good at."
"Being good at something doesn't mean you should keep doing it."
"What else would you do?"
That was the question, wasn't it? Dazai had been racing since he was eight years old. He'd never seriously considered doing anything else.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Mori was quiet for a moment. "Is this about Oda's accident?"
"Partially."
"And Chuuya?"
Dazai's grip on his coffee cup tightened slightly. "What about Chuuya?"
"You tell me. You've been different since he joined the team."
"Different how?"
"More engaged. More present. Like you actually care about something for once."
Dazai didn't know how to respond to that.
"Look," Mori continued, "I'm not going to pressure you into a decision you're not ready to make. But I need an answer before the end of the season. Can you give me that?"
"Yes."
"Good. In the meantime, focus on the championship. You're close. Don't throw it away because you're having an existential crisis."
"I'll try my best."
"That's all I ask."
Mori hung up. Dazai set his phone down and stared at it for a long moment.
The championship. Right. He was leading by a comfortable margin, but comfortable could disappear quickly in Formula One. A few bad races, a mechanical failure, and suddenly the gap would close.
He should care more about that.
The fact that he didn't was probably more disconcerting than he knew to feel.
He finished his coffee and went to get ready for training.
The next week passed in much the same way. Training, eating, sleeping poorly, filling the hours with activities that meant nothing. He met with his trainer, reviewed data, avoided thinking too hard about anything.
On Wednesday, he went for a long walk along the coast, trying to clear his head. The weather was perfect -- sunny and warm with a light breeze -- but Dazai barely noticed. He was thinking about the season, about the races still to come, about what would happen when it was all over.
He stopped at a bench overlooking the water and sat down. A woman was sitting at the other end, reading a book. She glanced at him briefly, then returned to her reading.
Dazai wondered what it was like to be absorbed in something like that. To care enough about a story to lose yourself in it.
He used to read, years ago. Before racing consumed everything. He couldn't remember the last time he'd finished a book.
He considered going out, finding a bar, drinking until everything blurred. But he'd done that before, and it never helped.
Instead, he went to bed early and lay awake for hours, listening to the silence.
Sunday morning, he woke up to rain. Unusual for Monaco in summer, but not unheard of. He stood at the window and watched water stream down the glass, distorting the view of the harbor.
Rain always made him think of racing. Wet conditions introduced the constant threat of aquaplaning. He'd always been good in the rain -- better than most drivers, actually. Something about the reduced margin for error focused his mind in a way dry conditions didn't.
He knew Chuuya was good in the rain. They'd raced together in wet conditions a few times, but never directly competing for position.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through race results from earlier in the season. Australia -- Chuuya had finished P3 in the wet, ahead of much faster cars. That was in his old Sheep car, too, which was remarkably impressive.
Dazai made a mental note to watch Chuuya more closely in wet conditions. Not to find weaknesses to exploit, but just to observe.
The rain continued through the morning. Dazai made coffee and sat at the window, watching the city transform under grey skies. Everything looked different in the rain -- softer and quieter. It was much nicer, until his phone rang.
Unknown number.
That was usually his joke.
"Hello?"
"Dazai." Fyodor's voice, unmistakable. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"Just…staring at the rain. It’s pretty nice. That’s if you’re in Monaco. I don’t know where you live. What do you want?"
"I wanted to follow up on our conversation in Singapore."
"The one where you tried to blackmail me?"
"I prefer to think of it as a negotiation."
"Call it whatever you want. I didn’t DNF in Qatar and I don’t plan on intentionally doing it anywhere else."
"I see." Fyodor sounded amused. "You're very confident that I don't have anything."
"I'm confident that even if you did, it wouldn't matter."
"Interesting. Why is that?"
"Because the FIA investigates everyone constantly. If there was something illegal about Port Mafia's car, they'd have found it by now."
"Unless they weren't looking in the right places."
"Then show them where to look. I'm not stopping you."
There was a pause. "You're calling my bluff."
"I am."
"What if I'm not bluffing?"
"Then I guess we'll find out."
Fyodor laughed, a quiet sound. "You're more interesting than I gave you credit for."
"How flattering."
"I mean it. Most drivers would have taken the deal. One DNF to protect their championship."
"Sure they would. Anyone who had something to lose."
"You’ve got a whole championship to lose. You’re not exactly in a bad team." Another pause. "Tell me, Dazai -- do you actually care about winning?"
The question caught Dazai off guard. "Why do you ask?"
"Because you don't seem to care."
"And yet I keep winning."
"For now. But what happens when it’s not you with something to lose?"
Dazai didn't have an answer for that.
"Think about it," Fyodor said. "I'll see you at the next race."
He hung up before Dazai could respond.
Dazai set his phone down and stared at it for a long moment. Fyodor was perceptive, he'd give him that.
Did he care about winning? Or was it just something he did because he was good at it?
ignoring my big large massive several chapter long fic that people are genuinely enjoying just to write random oneshots for niche fandoms that nobody will read lmfao
it’s just unearned admiration (are you sick of all the stares ?)
the aftermath of the death of the honourable Daisy Wells from the perspective of Hazel Wong - her best friend and roommate
december 1936
ao3 here
The kitchen at Fallingford was too quiet.
Hazel Wong stood in the center of it, her black mourning dress rustling stiffly against her stockings, and tried to remember how to make tea. It should have been simple. She had made tea thousands of times - at Deepdean, in her own home in Hong Kong, in railway carriages and hotel rooms and train carriages and crime scenes across England. Tea was what you did when there was nothing else to be done, when the world had stopped making sense and your hands needed something to hold. It was something so very dear to her, a common interlink between her Chinese heritage and the English culture she’d grown to adopt.
But her hands were shaking.
The Wellses had gone into the village - Lady Hastings to finalize arrangements with the vicar, Lord Hastings to collect relatives from the station, Bertie to escape the suffocating weight of the house. Her own father and siblings had caught a train to London, partially wanting to explore the country’s dedicated cornerstone, and more likely not wanting to intrude upon the grieving family. They had asked if she wanted to come. Hazel had said no. She needed to be alone, she'd told them. What she hadn't said was that she needed to be alone here, in Daisy's house, surrounded by Daisy's things, breathing air that Daisy had breathed.
Even if Daisy would never breathe again.
Hazel's fingers found the handle of the kettle. It was cool and smooth, porcelain painted with delicate blue flowers. She filled it at the sink, watching the water rush from the tap, clear and cold and utterly indifferent to the fact that the world had ended three days ago.
The stove took three matches to light. Her hands were shaking too badly for precision.
While the water heated, Hazel opened the cupboard where the Wellses kept their tea things. Rows of cups hung from hooks, their handles forming a neat line like soldiers at attention. She reached for one - white with a gold rim, the kind Daisy always insisted on using because anything less was "frightfully common" - and her fingers slipped.
The cup fell.
It seemed to fall forever, tumbling through the air in slow motion, the gold rim catching the light from the window. Hazel watched it fall and couldn't move, couldn't reach out to catch it, could only stand frozen as it struck the floor and shattered into a dozen pieces, the sharp sound in the silent kitchen reminiscent of a bullet at the start of a battleground.
The gymnasium at Deepdean School for Girls smelled of floor polish and some kind of sharp, unpleasant rat pesticide fluid - arsenic, most likely. Hazel detested the stench.
Hazel stood in the doorway, her heart hammering against her ribs, and stared at the thing that had been Miss Bell. The science teacher lay crumpled beneath the vaulting horse, her limbs arranged at angles that bodies weren't naturally intended to bend like. Blood had pooled beneath her head, dark and viscous, soaking into the wooden floor.
"Don't just stand there gawping, Hazel," Daisy said from beside her, her voice sharp with excitement rather than horror. "We need to examine the body before anyone else arrives."
Hazel's stomach lurched. "Daisy, we can't -"
"Of course we can. We're detectives, aren't we? This is what detectives do." Daisy was already moving forward, her shoes clicking against the floor, her blonde hair swinging. She crouched beside Miss Bell's body with the blasé grace of someone examining a particularly interesting insect. "Look at the blood spatter pattern. And the angle of the head wound. This wasn't an accident, Hazel. This was a murder."
Hazel forced herself to move closer, though every instinct screamed at her to run. The blood was so red, so very dark. She had never seen so much blood before. It seemed impossible that one person could contain so much, that a body could exude it all out onto the floor like spilled paint.
"Hazel." Daisy's voice was gentler now. She looked up, her blue eyes finding Hazel's brown ones. "You can do this. I know you can. You're the bravest person I know."
And somehow, with Daisy looking at her like that, Hazel found she could move forward. Could crouch beside the body. Could look at the terrible wound and the spreading blood and begin to think like a detective instead of a frightened thirteen year old girl.
Because Daisy believed she could.
Hazel blinked and looked back down at the kitchen floor, staring down at the shattered cup. Fragments of porcelain lay scattered across the floor like broken bones, and for a moment she couldn't breathe or think or extract any memory other than the sharp visions of blood spreading across gymnasium floor, across railway carriage carpet, across so many floors in so many places where death had found them.
Where death had found her.
She knelt carefully, her dress pooling around her, and began to pick up the pieces. Her fingers found a large shard, curved and sharp, and she gripped it too tightly. Pain lanced through her palm. She looked down and saw blood welling up from a thin cut, bright red against her pale skin.
The blood looked exactly the same as it had on the gymnasium floor.
Exactly the same as it had looked everywhere.
Hazel set the shard down carefully and pressed her other hand against the cut, applying pressure the way Daisy had taught her. Always apply pressure to a wound, Daisy had said, demonstrating on a cut Hazel had gotten while they were investigating the Bonfire Night murder. And don't faint, Hazel. Fainting is frightfully unhelpful. It wastes eons of time waiting for you to come to your senses again.
Daisy had wrapped Hazel's hand in her own handkerchief, her fingers gentle and sure, and Hazel had thought that Daisy's hands were the most capable hands in the world. That there was nothing Daisy couldn't fix, no mystery she couldn't unravel.
But Daisy couldn't fix this.
Daisy couldn't solve her own death.
Hazel stood, leaving the broken cup on the floor, and went to find a rag, or a piece of gauze. The first aid kit was in the scullery, tucked into a cupboard beside the cleaning supplies. She wrapped her hand mechanically, her fingers moving through the familiar motions while her mind drifted somewhere else entirely.
The kettle was whistling when she returned to the kitchen. She turned off the stove and stood staring at it, trying to remember what came next. Tea leaves. She needed tea leaves. And a pot. And a strainer.
The tea caddy sat on the counter, silver and engraved with the Wells family crest. Hazel opened it and the smell of earl grey wafted out, bergamot and black tea, and she was crying before she realized it. Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto the counter, and she couldn't stop them, couldn't even lift her hand to wipe them away.
Daisy had adored the smell of earl grey.
Daisy had loved so many things.
Hazel measured tea leaves into the pot with shaking hands. One spoonful. Two. Three. She couldn't remember how many Daisy used. Couldn't remember if Daisy had ever told her. There were so many things she should have asked, should have memorized, should have written down in her casebook so she would never forget.
But she had thought there would be time.
She poured the boiling water over the tea leaves and watched them swirl and darken, releasing their color into the water like ink spreading through paper. The steam rose in delicate curls, carrying the scent of bergamot, and Hazel closed her eyes.
The train compartment was small and overheated, the air thick with the smell of coal smoke and expensive perfume. Hazel sat pressed against the window, her notebook open on her lap, while Daisy paced the narrow space like a caged rat.
"It has to be the Russian," Daisy was saying, her voice low and urgent. "The timing is perfect, and she had access to the victim's compartment. Plus, did you see her shoes? Absolutely covered in mud, and it hasn't rained in days. She must have gotten off the train at some point."
"But why would she kill Mrs. Daunt?" Hazel asked, her pencil hovering over the page. "What's her motive?"
"That's what we need to find out." Daisy stopped pacing and turned to face Hazel, her eyes bright with excitement. "We need to search her luggage. Tonight, after everyone's asleep."
"Daisy, we can't just—"
"Of course we can. We're detectives." Daisy sat down beside Hazel, so close their shoulders touched. She leaned over to look at Hazel's notes, her blonde hair brushing against Hazel's cheek. "Your handwriting is getting better, you know. I can almost read it now."
Hazel felt her cheeks warm. "It's not that bad."
"It's appalling. But I love it anyway." Daisy's voice was casual, throwaway, but something in it made Hazel's heart skip. "I love how you write everything down, every tiny detail. You notice things I miss, Hazel. You always have."
The train swayed around a curve and Daisy's hand found Hazel's, steadying herself. Or perhaps steadying Hazel. Their fingers intertwined naturally, easily, as though they had done this a thousand times before.
As though they belonged together.
"We make a good team," Hazel said quietly.
"The best team," Daisy agreed. "Wells and Wong. Wong and Wells. The greatest detective partnership in England."
"In the world," Hazel corrected.
Daisy laughed, bright and delighted. "In the world," she agreed. "Forever and ever, Hazel. You and me against everyone else."
Forever had lasted five years.
Hazel opened her eyes and stared at the teapot. The tea had steeped too long now, would be bitter and overly concentrated. It’d be too strong. Daisy would have scolded her for it. Really, Hazel, how difficult is it to time tea properly? You're supposed to be the organized one.
But Daisy wasn't here to scold her.
Daisy would never scold her again.
Hazel found another cup - plain white this time, nothing special - she really was just common without Daisy, anyways - and poured the tea. It was as dark as coffee, and equally bitter and intense. She added milk and sugar, more than she usually took, and stirred mechanically. The spoon clinked against the porcelain, a small sound in the vast silence of the house.
She should clean up the broken cup. Should sweep up the fragments before someone stepped on them. Should do something useful, something productive, something other than standing in this kitchen making tea she didn't want to drink.
But she couldn't seem to move.
The house creaked around her, settling into itself. Fallingford was old, built in the sixteenth century, and it made sounds like a living thing - groaning floorboards and sighing walls and windows that rattled in their frames. Daisy had loved this house. Hazel had heard the stories of how she’d run through its corridors as a child, had hidden in its secret passages, had known every creaking board and loose stone.
Hazel had visited Fallingford dozens of times over the years. For holidays and birthdays and long summer weeks when Deepdean was closed. She knew this house almost as well as Daisy had. She knew which stairs squeaked and which doors stuck and where the best hiding places were.
But it had never felt this empty before.
She picked up her teacup and walked out of the kitchen, through the servants' corridor and into the main hall. Her footsteps echoed on the marble floor. The portraits of dead Wellses stared down at her from the walls, their painted eyes following her progress. Daisy's ancestors, stretching back centuries. Daisy had always joked about them, had made up scandalous stories about their lives, had insisted that her great aunt had definitely murdered her husband.
"Look at her eyes, Hazel," Daisy had said once, pointing up at a particularly stern-looking portrait. "Those are the eyes of a poisoner. I'd stake my reputation on it."
Hazel looked up at the portrait now. She couldn’t remember the woman’s name now - Mathilde, or Marion, or the like. It didn’t matter now. The painted eyes were cold and judgmental, and Hazel wondered what she would think of Daisy's death. Would she approve? Would she think Daisy had died nobly, heroically, in service of something greater than herself?
Or would she think, as Hazel did, that it was a waste?
The stairs to the second floor seemed steeper than usual. Hazel climbed them slowly, her free hand trailing along the banister, her teacup held carefully in the other. She passed the drawing room where they had played cards last Christmas. Passed the library where they had spent countless hours reading and researching and planning their investigations. Passed the music room where Daisy had once tried to teach Hazel to play the piano and they had both dissolved into helpless laughter at Hazel's complete lack of musical talent.
Every room was full of ghosts.
Hazel stopped at the top of the stairs, uncertain. She should go to the guest room where she was staying. Should drink her tea and lie down and try to rest before the funeral tomorrow. Should do what was expected of her, what was proper, what was right.
But her feet carried her down the corridor to Daisy's room instead.
The door was closed. Hazel stood in front of it for a long moment, her hand hovering over the doorknob. She shouldn't go in. It felt like trespassing, like violating something sacred. This was Daisy's private space, Daisy's sanctuary, and Daisy wasn't here to invite her in.
But Daisy would never be here to invite her in again.
Hazel turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.
Daisy's room was exactly as she had left it prior to Egypt, untouched even by her family. The bed was made with explicit precision, the coverlet smooth and unwrinkled. Books were stacked on the nightstand in a disheveled tower. The wardrobe door was slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of silk and wool and cotton. The vanity was cluttered with cosmetics and jewelry and hair ribbons, arranged in the careful chaos that was uniquely Daisy's.
It smelled like her. Like French perfume and expensive soap and something else, something indefinable that was just Daisy.
Hazel's knees went weak. She stumbled to the window seat and sat down heavily, tea sloshing in her cup. The window looked out over the gardens, bare and brown in the February cold. The maze where they had played as children. The folly where they had hidden during a particularly tedious garden party. The woods beyond where they had tracked a suspect once, getting thoroughly lost and having to be rescued by a bemused gamekeeper.
So many memories.
Too many memories.
Hazel sipped her tea. It was bitter and lukewarm now, unpleasant, but she drank it anyway. It gave her something to do with her hands, something to focus on besides the overwhelming presence of Daisy's absence.
Her eyes drifted to the bed.
It was a large bed, a four-poster with heavy curtains that could be drawn for privacy. Hazel had never slept in it - she always stayed in the nursery with Daisy when she visited - but she had sat on it countless times. Had sprawled across it with Daisy, discussing cases and reading letters and planning their futures.
Their futures that would never happen now.
Hazel stood and walked to the bed. She set her teacup on the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the mattress. It was soft and expensive, the same type of silky cotton that cost abhorrent amount that neither she nor Daisy would ever have had to worry about. She ran her hand over the coverlet, feeling the smooth silk beneath her fingers.
And then she saw it.
A hair ribbon, pale blue, tucked half underneath the pillow, concealed by its floral covers.
Not Daisy's color. Daisy wore green or grey or occasionally pink, but never blue. It clashed with her eyes, she’d say. This blue was deeper and richer, the color of a summer sky at twilight.
Hazel picked it up slowly. It was silk, expensive, with a subtle pattern woven into the fabric. She turned it over in her hands, and something cold settled in her stomach.
She knew this ribbon.
She had seen Amina El Maghrabi wear it.
The library at Deepdean was empty except for two figures in the corner, half-hidden behind the stacks. Hazel had come looking for a book on poisons - they were investigating a suspicious bout of illnesses in the local village - and had stopped short when she heard voices.
Daisy's voice. And another voice, lower, warmer, with the faint accent that marked Amina as foreign, just as Hazel herself could never shake the slight tonal differences in words that came from years of Cantonese.
Hazel should have announced herself. Should have walked around the stacks and greeted them normally. But something in Daisy's tone made her freeze, made her stay hidden, made her listen.
"You can't tell anyone," Daisy was saying. Her voice was different than Hazel had ever heard it - uncertain, almost vulnerable. "Not even Hazel. Especially not Hazel."
"Why especially not Hazel?" Amina asked. There was amusement in her voice, and something distinctly knowing. “You’d have thought she’d be the first person you’d want to know.”
"Because she wouldn't understand. She's so... innocent. So good. She'd be horrified."
"I think you underestimate her. She knows about Martita, doesn’t she?"
"I think I know her better than you do." Daisy's voice had an edge now, defensive. "She's my best friend. My partner. I know exactly how she'd react."
There was a pause. Then Amina said, very quietly, "Is that all she is? Your best friend?"
Another pause, longer this time. Hazel's heart was pounding so hard she was sure they must be able to hear it.
"Yes," Daisy said finally. "That's all she is."
"Liar."
The word hung in the air between them. Hazel pressed herself against the bookshelf, hardly daring to breathe.
"I'm not -" Daisy started.
"You are. You're lying to me, or you're lying to yourself, or both." Amina's voice was gentle now, almost pitying. "It's all right, you know. You don't have to pretend with me."
"I'm not pretending anything."
"Aren't you?"
Silence. Then the sound of movement, fabric rustling, footsteps on carpet. Hazel risked a glance around the bookshelf and immediately wished she hadn't.
Daisy and Amina stood very close together, so close they were almost touching. Amina's hand was on Daisy's cheek, her thumb brushing along Daisy's cheekbone. Daisy's eyes were pointed downwards, her face tilted up, and she looked nothing like the confident, commanding Daisy that Hazel knew.
She looked young. Uncertain. Completely unlike the noble Daisy Wells.
"I can't," Daisy whispered. "I can't be this. I can't want this."
"Why not?"
"Because it's wrong. Because it's not what people like me do. Because -"
Amina kissed her.
It was gentle at first, tentative, a question rather than a statement. But then Daisy made a small sound in the back of her throat and kissed back, and suddenly it wasn't gentle at all. Daisy's hands fisted in Amina's cardigan, pulling her closer, and Amina's fingers tangled in Daisy's blonde hair, and they kissed like it was natural to breathe one another in like air.
Hazel couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't even look away, even as every bone in her body begged her to run.
She watched as Amina backed Daisy against the bookshelf, as Daisy's head tilted back and Amina's fingers moved to her throat. Watched as Daisy's eyes fluttered closed and her lips parted and her whole body seemed to melt into Amina's touch.
Watched as Amina's hand slid down Daisy's side, over her hip, and Daisy gasped and -
Hazel turned and fled.
She ran through the library, not caring about the noise, not caring if they heard her. She ran down the corridor and up the stairs and into her dormitory, and she locked the door and pressed her back against it and tried to understand what she had just seen.
Daisy had kissed Amina.
Daisy had kissed a girl.
Daisy had kissed a girl and it had looked like the most natural thing in the world.
Hazel sat on Daisy's bed, holding Amina's ribbon, and felt something crack open inside her chest.
She had never told Daisy that she had seen. She had never mentioned it or acknowledged it in any way. She hadn’t known if she’d even wanted to bring it up to Daisy. She had pretended it hadn't happened, had pushed it down deep inside herself where she didn't have to look at it or think about it or understand what it meant.
But Daisy had known. Somehow, Daisy had known that Hazel knew.
Because three weeks later, Daisy had kissed her too.
The ribbon slipped from Hazel's fingers and fell to the floor. She stared at it, at the blue silk pooled on the carpet, and felt tears burning behind her eyes again.
Daisy had kissed Amina in the library.
And then Daisy had kissed Hazel in the garden.
And Hazel had never known which one meant more.
She stood abruptly, unable to sit still any longer. The room felt too small suddenly, too close to her body, the walls pressing in on her. She walked to the window and pressed her forehead against the cold glass, staring out at the grey , bleak Decemberafternoon.
The garden looked dead. Everything looked dead.
Behind her, Daisy's room waited. Daisy's bed with its silk coverlet. Daisy's vanity with its scattered cosmetics. Daisy's wardrobe with its expensive clothes. Daisy's books and Daisy's jewelry and Daisy's perfume and Daisy's everything.
Everything except Daisy herself.
Hazel closed her eyes.
It was late spring, the kind of perfect English evening that made Hazel believe the warmth and sunshine would last forever. The garden party at Fallingford had wound down, the guests departing in a flurry of goodbyes and promises to write. Hazel and Daisy had escaped to the rose garden, ostensibly to get some air, actually to avoid Daisy's aunt who had been asking pointed questions about their plans after Deepdean.
They walked in silence between the rose bushes, their arms linked, their steps synchronized. The roses were just beginning to bloom, tight buds of red and white and pink. The air smelled like green things growing, like earth and flowers and possibility.
"I've been thinking," Daisy said suddenly. "About after we leave school."
"Oh?" Hazel's heart sank. They had been carefully not talking about after school, about the future that loomed ahead of them like a cliff edge.
"I think we should open a detective agency. A proper one, in London. We could rent offices and advertise in the papers and take on real cases, not just school mysteries." Daisy's voice was bright with enthusiasm, but there was something vaguely uncertain underneath it.
"Your parents would never allow it," Hazel said quietly.
"I don't care what my parents allow. I'm going to be eighteen. I'll have my own money from Grandmother's trust. I can do what I like." Daisy stopped walking and turned to face Hazel. "We could do it, Hazel. We could really do it. Wells and Wong, Private Detectives. It would be marvelous."
Hazel wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that they could step off the cliff edge together and fly instead of fall. But she was practical, sensible Hazel, and she knew how the world worked.
"And what happens when you get married?" she asked. "When you have to give it all up to be someone's wife?"
Something flickered across Daisy's face. "I'm not going to get married."
"Daisy -“
"I'm not." Daisy's voice was fierce now, almost angry. "I don't care what my parents want or what society expects. I'm not going to marry some boring man and have boring children and live a boring life. I'm going to be a detective. With you."
"You can't just decide not to get married. Your parents will -“"
"My parents can go hang if my marriage is their priority." Daisy grabbed Hazel's hands, gripping them tightly. "Listen to me, Hazel. I don't want that life. I don't want any of it. I want this. I want us. I want to solve murders and catch criminals and be brilliant together. That's all I want."
Hazel's throat felt tight. "Daisy..."
"Don't you want that too?" Daisy's blue eyes were intense, searching Hazel's face. "Don't you want us to stay together?"
"Of course I do. But wanting something doesn't make it possible."
"It does if you want it badly enough." Daisy stepped closer, so close Hazel could feel the warmth of her body, could smell her perfume. "I want it badly enough, Hazel. Do you?"
Hazel couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only stare at Daisy's face, at the determination in her eyes and the set of her jaw and the way her lips were slightly parted.
And then Daisy kissed her.
It wasn't like the kiss in the library. That had been passionate and desperate and filthy - the kind of thing Hazel’s father tried incessantly to keep from her, the utter nonsense she’d hear from girls in the changing rooms and Deepdean about women and men and something somewhat repulsive that Hazel didn’t want to think about.
This was different. This was soft and sweet and careful, like Daisy was afraid Hazel might break. Like Hazel was something precious that needed to be handled gently.
Hazel's eyes fluttered closed. Daisy's lips were warm and soft and tasted like champagne and strawberries. Her hands came up to cup Hazel's face, her thumbs brushing along Hazel's cheekbones, and Hazel felt something inside her chest crack open and spill out.
This was what she wanted.
This was what she had always wanted, even when she hadn't known how to name it.
Daisy pulled back slightly, just enough to whisper against Hazel's lips. "Just stay with me. Promise me you'll stay with me. Wherever I end up going."
"I promise," Hazel whispered back.
And Daisy kissed her again, deeper this time, more certain. Her hands slid from Hazel's face to her shoulders to her waist, pulling her closer. Hazel's arms went around Daisy's neck, her fingers tangling in blonde hair, and they stood there in the rose garden as the sun set and the shadows lengthened and the world narrowed down to just the two of them.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Daisy rested her forehead against Hazel's.
"I love you," Daisy said quietly. "I know I'm not supposed to. I know it's wrong and impossible and completely mad. But I do. I love you, Hazel Wong."
Hazel's heart was beating so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest. "I love you too."
Daisy smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing Hazel had ever seen.
The roses bloomed around them and the evening air grew cool and somewhere in the house someone was playing the piano. It was perfect. It was impossible. It was everything Hazel had ever wanted and everything she knew she couldn't have.
But for that moment, in the rose garden at Fallingford, with Daisy's arms around her and Daisy's lips on hers, Hazel let herself believe.
Hazel opened her eyes yet again.
She was still standing at the window in Daisy's room, her forehead pressed against the cold glass. The garden below was grey and dead and empty. The rose bushes were bare, their branches skeletal against the winter sky.
Forever had lasted three years after that kiss.
There had been so many alleged forevers. Five years ago, after Ms Bell. Another four after Mrs Daunt.
Hazel could never have guessed that there would be a countdown.
Hazel turned away from the window. The room swam in her vision, blurred by tears. She walked back to the bed and sat down heavily, her legs no longer able to support her weight.
Amina's ribbon still lay on the floor where she had dropped it. Hazel stared at it, at the blue silk that proved Daisy had loved someone else. Daisy kissed someone else. Daisy had brought someone else to her bed to do unthinkable things.
But Daisy had kissed her too.
Nothing seemed like a sin when it was Daisy who did it. The honourable Daisy Wells, who could do no wrong.
"I love you," Daisy had said in the rose garden. "I love you, Hazel Wong."
Had she meant it? Or had it just been another lie, another role Daisy was playing, another mask she wore, even in front of her alleged best friend?
Hazel didn't know.
She would never know.
Because Daisy was dead, and the dead kept their secrets.
The house creaked around her. Somewhere downstairs, a door opened and closed. Voices drifted up from the hall - the Wellses returning from the village. Hazel should go down. Should greet them into their own home. But she couldn't move.
Had Daisy loved Amina more than she loved Hazel?
Had Daisy loved either of them at all?
Hazel picked up her teacup from the nightstand. The tea was cold now, a thin film forming on its surface. She drank it anyway, forcing down the bitter liquid, punishing herself with its unpleasantness.
The last time Hazel saw Daisy alive, they were on the deck of the ship, and Heppy was running.
Everything happened so fast and yet so slowly, time stretching and compressing in that impossible way it did during moments of crisis. Heppy had been exposed - her careful facade crumbling under the weight of evidence, under Daisy's relentless questioning. And now she was fleeing, racing toward the railing with the desperate energy of a cornered animal.
"Daisy, don't - “ Hazel started, but she already knew it was useless.
Daisy was going after her.
Of course Daisy was going after her. That was who Daisy was - reckless and brilliant and utterly incapable of letting a murderer escape. Even if it meant jumping off a moving ship. Even if it meant dying.
Hazel watched Daisy move toward the railing, and time seemed to stop entirely.
The late afternoon sun caught in Daisy's hair, turning it to spun gold. Not the pale, washed out blonde of winter, but rich and warm and alive, each strand gleaming like precious metal. The wind had pulled some of it loose from its pins, and it whipped around her face in a way that should have looked disheveled but instead looked wild, beautiful, untamed.
Hazel had always thought Daisy was beautiful, but in that moment, she was nothing short of incandescent.
The light loved her. It always had. Everyone and everything loved her. The sunshine caught on the sharp line of her cheekbone, the elegant slope of her nose, the determined set of her jaw. Her skin was luminous, porcelain-pale but warm, alive with color - pink in her cheeks from exertion. Her lips were parted slightly as she ran, red and full and perfect, and Hazel remembered with sudden, visceral clarity exactly how they had felt against her own.
Hazel thought absurdly that Daisy looked like a painting. Like something too beautiful to be real.
But she was real. So terribly, wonderfully real.
Real in the way her hair caught the light. Real in the way her chest rose and fell with each breath.
Hazel had watched Daisy die.
She had stood on that deck and watched Daisy jump and watched her fall and watched her hit the water and watched her float away and she hadn't been able to do anything.
Daisy had looked at her one last time and Hazel could’ve sworn Daisy had said her name, and Hazel had been too far away, too useless to stop it.
The teacup slipped from her fingers.
It fell, just like Daisy had fallen, tumbling through the air. It hit the floor and shattered, porcelain fragments scattering across the carpet like bones. The remainders of the tea and its dregs spread in a dark stain, soaking into the expensive fabric.
Hazel stared at it. At the broken pieces. The second cup she’d shattered today.
The smell of Daisy's perfume hung in the air, faint but unmistakable. French and expensive and utterly, devastatingly Daisy. Hazel breathed it in and felt something inside her chest crack open completely.
Daisy had jumped off that ship and Hazel had watched her die and no amount of remembering would bring her back. No amount of reliving their kisses or their cases or their promises would change the fact that Daisy was gone.
Really, truly, finally gone.
Hazel couldn't solve this one.
Because the victim was Daisy, and Daisy was the detective, and how could you solve a murder when the detective was dead?
How could you solve anything when the only person who had ever made sense of the world was gone?
