Sleep-Writing 24/5

Disclaimer: This is purely my opinion or my view on Fukutomi Juichi’s actions. There is no reason for anyone to have to agree with this. Please do formulate your own opinions, please do take this with a grain of salt. This is written with my own experiences in mind, some which are very different from other people’s. Therefore, I ask you to read this with an open, but objective mind.

Fukutomi Juichi, age 17.

His father founded the Hakone Gakuen's cycling club when he was in attendance. Already, the Fukutomi name has been tied to this, and Fukutomi's brother also attended the same school and joined the cycling club. While we don't hear of the eldest brother's achievements (such as whether Hakone won the InterHigh when he was there), this already establishes a strict precedent for Fukutomi Juichi.

He clearly respects his family's prowess.

We can probably assume that Fukutomi was trained since he was very young by both his father and brother, following after them on his bike. If they were as hardcore about biking as I suspect, they would mentor him until he was able to ride perfectly. In which case, they also must've entered him in races when they knew he would have a high chance of winning. Because he was most likely more strictly trained than his peers, he was able to overtake them whenever he entered a race. This leads him to understand and internalize what it means to be strong, what strength looks like. However, that view is skewed by constant victory. Victory that knows no defeat or humiliation is hollow, as is for every sportsman. You don't learn if you keep winning, if you never make mistakes. Fukutomi's mistakes were corrected by his family before he had a chance to compete and discover how to correct and adjust for his mistakes by himself. So when he rides competitively and with his peers, he only knows perfection.

However, when defending Arakita, he only speaks the truth--speaks of the strength he sees with his own eyes. He calmly defies his seniors as he does so. He is self-assured because he understands. He can see what the seniors cannot, and moved to prove it. He must've crushed enough people and races enough people at this age to understand and to see a person's potential. This is typical of a seasoned sportsman. They can usually tell at a glance how much potential a person has--the way they walk, how they hold themselves, how they react. Granted, this is not flawless. There are people who purposefully hold themselves differently and control their actions so that no one can tell what they're capable of, or people who pretend they're more capable than they lead everyone to believe by displaying particular behaviors. It takes time to really understand how far a person can go, but Fukutomi has seen enough of Arakita's efforts to understand that this person is strong. While Fukutomi himself is a strong cyclist, it can be safely assumed that his eye for talent is stronger.

As for the Bianchi, chances are he really meant for Arakita to keep it. He will stop at very little to nurture talent. He will wait as long as reasonably necessary to do so, as he did with Shinkai.

When Arakita challenged him, it must have made him very happy. Fukutomi has pride and confidence in his cycling, teaching someone first hand just how great it is must've been exhilarating. In addition, he probably hasn’t been challenged like that in a long time. It feels nice to be challenged by someone who doesn’t know your true strength, it feels good to win against all odds. (Or it can be read as: it feels good to make people eat your dust).

There have been debate about Fukutomi's character when the series reaches the scenes between Imaizumi Shunsuke, a Sohoku first-year, who in the heat of the race and as an inevitability, replaced Kinjou as Sohoku's ace. Fukutomi, who was in the lead up until Imaizumi caught up to him, was riding alone--poised to win InterHigh. However, after a few harsh words and being constantly being held back by Imaizumi, he seemed to back down, even give up on passing the younger Imaizumi. Fukutomi trained all this time in order to create the perfect team to win Inter-High with himself as the top. This seems extremely uncharacteristic of Fukutomi who always stresses victory, who has the pressure of upholding Hakogaku's pride as the Kings.

However, Imaizumi explains why--he is stronger than Fukutomi at the moment (when they meet each other again toward the climax of the race on day 3), and is continuously growing stronger even as they speak. Fukutomi, on the other hand, remains stagnant because--either by personality or some other design--he is not able to grow in the midst of battle. He is the type who is groomed off the battlefield. He must garner everything through training and traditional means of hard work and consistent habits. Whatever Fukutomi brings to the race is all he has. Imaizumi grows on and off the racetrack.

Even if Imaizumi was of a lower level than Fukutomi at the start of the race, by this point, he has accumulated enough experience to level up and unlock his inhibitions about his controlled and methodical racing techniques.

Fukutomi recognized his limits, and backed down. It's something that some sportsmen may do, especially those who understand and have weighed the risks. He could've taken the reckless route: believed in himself and tried to overtake Imaizumi despite the odds, fought against what he knows is an inevitability and gone down in flames, but he didn't. There is more than just recognizing the growing gap between himself and Imaizumi, however. Like Toudou and Makishima said during the race, the third-years are held down by the unspoken rules and experiences from their previous races. It makes them cautious, hesitant. Fukutomi was trapped by the same logic. He remembers what he did to Kinjou. If he chased after Imaizumi, despite knowing that he might be outrun, there might be a real chance that his desperation for victory may return. Who can say that he is beyond repeating his mistake? However, he lets it pass him by because he has another ace in the hole. Manami Sangaku.

As mentioned before, Fukutomi has a sharp eye for talent. But he's not particularly good at reading personalities. Toudou made it clear that Manami will absolutely not follow his orders, because of how Manami is and his personal agenda. Not to say his agenda is malicious, but he didn't care for the victory of Inter-High. He wants something more, something that Fukutomi failed to account for.

Against Kinjou in the previous InterHigh, he panicked. This is probably the first time he's had victory come so close to slipping his fingers. It's terrifying. He needs to win because who knows what was waiting for him if he loses. He doesn't want to think about it, and so desperately tries to reclaim his victory. He asks him to have a fair match with him. That, for a sportsman, means a lot. To have a fair match means to ride with everything, to treat each other as equals, to respect each other. Kinjou could've easily told him that he won't ride at the next InterHigh, robbing Fukutomi of any chance to redeem himself. Or he could've told him that he doesn't want Fukutomi to ride because he doesn't trust him. But he didn't, he accepted.

Which may have also horrified him when Midousuji appeared. It was supposed to be a match between the two, not this.

They somehow all tied, which probably bothers me more than anything else in the series.

When Kinjou calls him strong at the end of their match, Fukutomi cries. He was finally acknowledged for what he feared wasn't true. The accident must've been bothering him for a long time even if he didn't show it after they had moved onto the next year.

Fukutomi designed his team with victory in mind, but also as his answer to Kinjou.

To Kinjou's surprise, it's Arakita who messages him first.

Somehow, the room is mysteriously empty except for Arakita, who is sitting on a bench--the same one they were fighting at, an unopened bottle of bepsi dangling from his hand.

Their positions are reversed.

Kinjou steels himself for the violent eruption that is about to happen.

Seconds pass.

And it does not come.

Arakita does not splutter and yell, he gazes on Kinjou with a tempered silence and a thoughtful, distance stare--there's a challenge in there, but not fiery or provocative. It's familiar, but why? Kinjou fidgets a little under his gaze, it's an unfamiliar look on Arakita and he doesn't know how to respond. Arakita’s eyes exude patience, and not even half the fire and irritation that he’s used to. There is none of the familiar snarling or snappish comments. His shoulders are the slightest bit tense—waiting, but they are down. His arms are crossed loosely, it seemed that he would tap his foot, too.

Kinjou opens his mouth to say something to clear up the air when Arakita tilts his head just a little bit and it suddenly dawns upon him like the rays of the rising morning sun.

He knows that look, seen it before in the past few days. Where...?

Ah.

It’s the same look the cycling club’s manager gave when she confronted him about his injury.

The same look the school’s doctor made when he treated Kinjou’s leg.

The same look that so many people have given him before that he never noticed or thought he understood.

For a moment, Kinjou could almost understand what it was like to smell a person’s scent by looking at Arakita and remembering all the people he had encountered in the past few days. The look that spoke in volumes of the person's struggles, the look which asked him, "Do you finally understand this pain?" Such lament. All of them, each and every one of them understood his pain—it wasn’t just Koga or Kanzaki. The suffocating "can't"s and "should not"s, and the childish yet daring, "but I want to, I have to"s, and finally the wise yet bitter, "are you satisfied now?" was all conveyed in that look. Kinjou quickly ducks his head, the warmth of shame explodes in his chest and crawls up his face like fireworks. The echoes of the past few days play in his head and come together, clicking so soundly into place that he wonders why he didn’t realize it before.

<i>“He should understand better than anyone what injuries can cost a person."

"Arakita used to play baseball. It was everything to him..."

“Where do you get off on talking like you know anything—what these injuries have cost me?!...What do you know about this pain?" </i>

He was naive.

"Did...Hakone have a baseball team?"

Arakita's face dropped a little, a tinge of weariness in the corners of his eyes. "No."

It wasn't because Hakone didn't have a baseball club that Arakita stopped playing--that look told him everything--he chose Hakone <i>because</i> it didn't have a baseball team. He ran away from the pain of broken dreams. This is embarrassing. This whole time, he was being so selfish, caught up in his own self-loathing that he failed to recognize that the people are him were also suffering. He threw such a childish fit because of his own pride, and yet his friends called and cheered him up, cheered him on.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the ground.

He truly means it, too. "I'm so sorry."

Kinjou feels a hand resting on the back of his head. It sends shivers down his spine and the unfamiliar warmth makes his scalp itch, but he does not move. The hand takes it time petting the short hairs on Kinjou's head, gently and slowly as though he were a cat to be calmed down. Kinjou lets this continue for a moment before reaching up to grab Arakita's arm with both hands. He never really liked people touching his head, it felt too weird.

He heard Arakita snort above him before he pulls his hand away.

“Idiot.”

In a kinder tone, he says, "You don't have to struggle so hard on your own. You can rest easy now. Good job."

Those words somehow resonate in his heart louder than anything he's been told by anyone. He draws his lips into a tight line and scrunches his face, the warm from his chest moves up and presses against his eyes.

"...thank you."

There’s a pause and Arakita slaps him hard on the back. It almost knocks him off his seat.

“Come on. Let’s get you fixed.” The fire in Arakita's voice which held unspoken promises and assurance spreads and burns Kinjou from the belly-up. Yeah, it’s time to get fixed.

"Yes. Please lend me your help."

"'Course, you sappy bastard."

They smile at each other simultaneously, and Kinjou feels just the slightest bit dizzy--his heart beats a little fast and his blood feels so warm, he wants to fly yet sink at the same time. He wonders why.

They both jump when the clubroom door slams open and in rushes their upperclassmen, congratulating the jagged duo on making up after their fight. Arakita’s familiar yelling resounds throughout the room, and Kinjou maybe feels like everything is going to be okay.

The manager just lets them get embarrassed and teased as she stands off to the side and gently massages the lower part of her spine with a worn, bitter smile.

Kinjou slips on an elastic knee sleeve and then buckles on the knee brace that Arakita dragged him to buy after a less reluctant doctor’s visit which Arakita insisted on accompanying him to. When asked where the money came from, Arakita wouldn’t answer—instead just gave a vague, “Somewhere.” It isn’t until Kinjou refused to go into the store—and no amount of pulling, cursing, bribing, or any amount of force could get him to go inside—that Arakita tells him the source.

“—one,” he mumbled.

“I’m sorry?”

“-eryone.”

Kinjou gave him a confused look. “Once more?”

“EVERYONE, okay?!” He yelled. “Everyone! Sohoku’s brats, Fuku-chan, Shinkai, even that weird beetle haired guy! Everyone, okay?”

He couldn’t bring himself to stop Arakita from pulling him into the store after that—he was too busy trying to clean the nonexistent smudge on his glasses. He has to pay them back somehow, firstly by recovering. The brace is bulkier than most, spanning from mid-thigh to mid-shin with hinges and various straps. No word of complaint or even the most defiant of his efforts was able to change Arakita’s or the store associate’s mind—that was the brace for him. Any other wouldn’t do the job right. So with a new bag in hand and a heavy heart, he left the store with it to go for a ride immediately after. At first, it was an intimidating piece of equipment that mocked him when he first tried to put it on. Tried. Keyword. But patience and Arakita's guidance made him an expert, or at least figure out which side is up and what straps go where. Arakita has to check it again though, redo a strap or two to adjust the tightness before he gives a nod of approval.

"You ready for this, Kinjou?"

Kinjou nods and grabs at Arakita's outstretched hands and skinny wrists and pulls himself up in a tangle of digits. Arakita heaves a dramatic groan, complaining unnecessarily about how heavy he is and damn aces. Kinjou reminds him that he's an ace, too, to which Arakita reddens and tells him to shut his face.

Arakita watches Kinjou flex his leg experimentally, still unused to the extra weight attached to his person. It looked good—well, as good as a brace framing an injury could look. It wasn’t gaudy, but it was big—it looks strange and somewhat out of place. It’s the same color as his glasses, though Kinjou wanted to opt for a more inconspicuous black or even green to match the uniform, which Arakita argued against.

Kinjou is the red to his blue. The brains to his brawn (not that he didn’t have brains, mind you). And he would like nothing more than to keep it that way, so it is only fitting for Kinjou to be outfitted in fierce red. He can see all the other competitors eye Kinjou’s leg hungrily. Their thoughts frame their faces quite clearly.

‘Easy prey.’

‘What a weakling, he won’t last.’

‘That thing is so heavy, he won’t be able to ride.’

Kinjou’ll show them. He’ll show them all.

However, something else does not fail to escape his notice. There are a select few with the decency to eye Kinjou’s accessory with squirms of discomfort or knowing smiles. What dangerous people.

Arakita smirk as he clicks on his helmet. He bumps shoulders with Kinjou who looked up from studying his brace. It was still alien to him, it seems. He knocks his helmet into Kinjou’s.

“Don’t overthink that shit. I’m carrying you, so ride like you usually do.” Kinjou blinks slowly at him before regaining that smirk of confidence that he usually possesses.  “Ah. I’m counting on you.”

Arakita mirrors him. That's the look he likes to see.

The two lead their bikes to the start line where everyone else was waiting. It’s a short race for the prefecture of Shizuoka, assisting is allowed and the course itself was a single circuit around Shizuoka University, a little under 50 kilometers with various climbs and descents scattered throughout. The highest incline is no more than 15 degrees for some distance before it transforms into a series of flats and descents.

The captain and manager asked them to enter this race to measure where they stood. While Yonan managed to rank fairly high in the national race, similar to Inter-High, there was still more to do. They had asked for the two to measure their own skills in this race and see what they had to work on and who they were up against in the prefecture before the actual qualifying trials for the year’s national race.

He shoves Kinjou ahead of him with all his might, and the tailwind strikes him firmly across his face. The air that rushes in after almost suffocates him, and the sun nearly blinds him as the shadow of Kinjou's back leaves him behind. He must be getting old, he figures as he watches Kinjou's blurry backside disappear into the equally blurry distance at an amazing speed. He's already lost an arm, a dream--Arakita laughs with the little strength left in his stomach--it would be too much and a damn shame for someone like Kinjou to lose those sorts of things too.

It would be a greater shame to lose Kinjou to the tears, to the isolation, to the nightmares, to the what-ifs, oh so many what-ifs, and the if-onlys. But he won’t let that happen, he decides as he continues his lazy cruise toward the goal where he is sure—so sure he can almost taste it—Kinjou is waiting for him, bulky brace and all.

<i>“Arakita-san?!”

Arakita took a deep breath through his nose. He wasn’t sure he could even do this after what happened. It took him nearly an hour to get up off the club room floor and that was only because the seniors of the cycling club had come in for a very late impromptu ride and forced him off the ground to talk. He couldn’t get his usual flapping mouth to work, and so the manager forcibly ejected everyone else from the room to coax him into choking out what transpired a while ago.

Somehow, he managed to talk through a mouth full of tears, a running nose, and a heaving chest full of feelings that were supposed to have been buried long ago. The manager slapped him on the back a couple of times to get him past his choking points, and finally called in one of the eavesdropping seniors (all of them hid behind the clubroom door) to give him their handkerchief. He got more than a bird embroidered napkin. When the seniors finally left, he was given a few short words of advice from his manager who confided in him with no small amount of loathing that she had to work through being told she’ll never walk again to road racing. The comparison didn't help, but her next words may have changed his mind a little.

"Do for him what you should've done for yourself all those years ago. Don't let him taste that same pain."

He exhaled deeply. This was important, he had to do this. “Onoda-chan, I need you to listen.”

“Y-yes! W-w-wh-what is it?! I’m listening!”

That sort of earnest stuttering almost brought a smile to his face. It was enough to keep him going. “Onoda-chan, listen. Kinjou’s in a bad spot.” He had to jerk the phone away from his ears. “Kinjou-san?!! What happened, Arakita-san? Did something happen? Is he okay? Sh-should I call the police?”

“No, no. Kinjou—he,” Arakita paused. He wasn’t even sure how to explain this, but the memory of Kinjou’s flashing eyes and anguished voice in his ears forced him to find way. “He needs…encouragement.

“How do I encourage him?” Onoda’s voice was shaky, but had that note of determination in it that Arakita could see in his riding.

"Do what you do best, Onoda-chan. Let him know you're right behind him."

"Right!"

It was easier to contact everyone else after that. He couldn't get a hold of Fukutomi, so he left several messages for him. After that was to reach the rest of Sohoku, but he didn't have their number, so he had Shinkai deliver a message to the huge sprinter who decked Fukutomi in the face.

"I'll pass the message along to Jin."

Somehow, later that night as he got off the phone with Fukutomi and was finished packing his bags to leave for Tokyo, there was a knocking on his door.

At this hour?

When he opened the door, he was bombarded with questions that was given at a volume way louder than acceptable at this time of night.

He ended up hitching a ride to Tokyo in the back of the Tadokoro family van, too nervous to fall asleep on Shinkai. It had nothing to do with his terrible driving either. Instead, they spoke about Kinjou.

Fukutomi was there to greet them.

It's good, Arakita thinks, to have the old smart-alack Kinjou back.

Kinjou has already reached a checkpoint in life--the same one he himself passed. It's important to face yourself and your faults and eventually accept them.

Now he just has to wait for Kinjou to catch up to him on this path in life Kinjou smiles warmly at him, and he turns away in a huff. Kinjou’s smile turns fond, and Arakita begins to yell about what a bother the race was.

“But you did great, Shingo.”

Kinjou opens his mouth to respond as per usual, but he stops. Did he just… The back of Arakita’s ears are pink, as is his neck. Kinjou covers his mouth for a moment to suppress the awkward half-words that couldn’t come out. He’s glad that Arakita has his back turned so that he can’t see Kinjou’s face match that color of his brace and glasses. Instead, he slaps the embarrassed assist on the back—half to steady himself and half to return the favor.

“You too, Yasutomo.”

The hard muscles underneath his hand stiffens and it is flung off and he is attacked by flailing arms. “Don’t call me by my first name, damn it!”

Well, he could wait, he decides. He can wait.

So, on a night shortly after InterHigh, to Arakita Yasutomo’s great delight (despite the prickly, burning sensation), pink which fades quickly into pale, spidery welts appeared on his skin in the form of hiragana. At least he knows that whoever his soulmate is, they can probably also read Japanese. Arakita watches as the name is slowly and carefully etched into his skin at his elbow, willing it to hurry up and reveal the identity of his other half. Already the letter し was written, and then a ん. Shi-n…

The rest disappears into the scar at his elbow. 

The entire Hakogaku dormitory wakes up to incoherent screaming.

After multiple complaints and banging contests against the wall, the morning light eventually peers through Arakita’s window to ask about his condition. He squints in response, scowling at the offending glare. His bed is littered with pages of the Hakone Gakuen registry, most of it covered in red marks. His eyes are a matching red, and his hair is angrily askew with one hand buried in his locks. 

How the hell did the stupid name manage to write itself next to a scar? How did a scar manage to even cover up half the name–the thing is tiny! The scar was there first, for crying out loud–the name should’ve at least been written over it.

At least he’s not one of those people who have their soulmate’s name written on their face. Those people have it rough for more reasons than one.

Even among those with ‘Shin’ in their last name, the numbers are depressingly small. While he knows it’s astronomically impossible for his soulmate to be in the same school and be the same age as him, he can’t help but let his eyes linger on the few names with red stars next to them. Shin…

It can’t be…

His heart speeds up just a little bit at the thought, his lips presses together into a line that can’t seem to decide which direction it wants to go. If Shinkai is his soulmate, then that’d be good because they would’ve found each other, but it’d be bad because they know each other, going from friend to soulmate isn’t unheard of, but it’s Shinkai. It’s…

The alarm reminds him that he should have been sleeping. He turns around and reminds it that it is not allowed to disturb him.

He huffs, red in the face and slams his capped marker into the papers, his whole body trembling. He gets up and attempts to get ready for the day, kicking away more papers on the ground, practically vibrating.

There are few distractions left in school with InterHigh being over and all, but that doesn’t keep the team from training still. He’s back on the rollers again, but even the rollers do not manage to keep him from looking every once in a while at his arm and then at Shinkai.

Whenever he sees him now, he averts his gaze and his fingers twitch. What if…?

He rides harder as if he could outrun his thoughts on the rollers. It could be anyone–

That quiet Shinji guy from class 3-B, or that glasses kid in kendo club…Shinpachi or something like that, or even the school nurse.

His eyes are drawn back to the redhead before he knows it, shaking his head violently when he catches himself. It could be anyone, anyone at all, he keeps telling himself. But he avoids touching Shinkai because what if–he yells as he cycles on the rollers, hoping his voice can drown out his thoughts.

Shinkai picks up on his odd behavior soon enough in the days that follow (not that Toudou and a bunch of curious others haven’t already noticed), pulling a very jittery Arakita by the sleeve one day to speak to him. Needless to say, it ended with a lot of erratic gesturing, near-misses, and an almost hyperventilating Arakita getting familiar with the underside of Shinkai’s tongue. What a weird place to get the name written.

Just to be sure, Arakita hugs him (if you ask him, it was Shinkai who did it first), observing no changes to his arm. He pushes Shinkai away hard, muttering a barely audible thank you, and turns around the leave. The sprinter gathers Arakita up in his arms again, muttering condolences and warm words that just seem to contribute to the lump in his throat. 

For the rest of the year, Shinkai arranges as many meetings between Arakita and the people whose names begin with ‘Shin’, most are brief with a nervous handshake in between. Shinkai has even suggested the possibility of the person’s name being only ‘Shin’, but Arakita remembers all too well the burning sensation had continued into his scar by the unseen writer who seemed ignorant of the fact it was even there. Without a doubt, there is more. So he continues to search. Toudou somehow gets involved in this mess despite Arakita’s vehement protests, and the days leading to graduation become a lot busier. Constant small talk, countless people, and endless handshakes; the name remains incomplete. Eventually, the rest of the core members of the Hakogaku cycling club get involved, except Fukutomi who stays politely to the side and mentions none of that nonsense when they’re together. But that’s not really a surprise, Arakita even thinks it suits him to be so distant from this. It’s good to get away from having to constantly think about the other half of your freakin’ soul who is definitely out there and hopefully looking for him just as frantically, too.

At some point out of impatience or some sort of inane desperation–short of actually going on social media because that’s not the world’s business, he is introduced to his sister’s friends and his parent’s friends in an attempt to find his soulmate. Not a single thing changed except he now has middle schoolers waving at him on the streets and older people now talk to him more at the nearby supermarket, giving him wry smiles and winks. He shudders to think that he may one day become like that, all too friendly and in other people’s business all the time. The walk home becomes just a bit livelier.

There are stories of people who never find their soulmate even if they receive their markings at birth. Arakita wonders if he’ll end up like that, and tries to suffocate his thoughts with his pillow.

The days turn into weeks, weeks into months. Exams came and went, applications went out, results and colleges acceptances came back.

Arakita finds out he’ll be attending Yonan University. His brief moment of joy at entering his first choice university is quickly replaced with the usual sour thoughts of his mysterious soulmate–are they also entering college? Graduated? In graduate school? He scowls automatically at the two scars on his arm.

He furrows his eyebrows at the incomplete name. It’s been months, he has gone over this. His parents told him before that it’ll take time, and to just be patient. Don’t think about it, they had said. But the incompleteness of the name makes him even more anxious than when he didn’t even have one.

Shin…

The hiragana could be written in many different ways in kanji.

「新」 like in Shinkai’s name; new. 

「心」as in ‘heart and mind’; he scoffs. How cheesy would that be? 

「信」 meaning ‘trust’ or 'believe’. 

Believe.

Arakita sucks in a quick breath through his teeth, abruptly raises his other hand and presses his nails hard against the double scars before letting it drop with a heavy sigh. He looks out the window, watches the clouds drift by and merge and disperse. Fuck this.

He rolls down the sleeves of his shirt slowly and calls it a day. Maybe he can get Fukutomi to treat him to a bepsi or something. Graduation will soon be upon him, he doesn’t have time for this. The soulmate thing can wait later, first is his education. Then he can get a job, work hard, maybe get to travel all over, and hopefully find his stupid soulmate before he turns into an old man. Or maybe he’s destined to be one of those incomplete people. Incomplete–like the stupid name of his soulmate.

When he meets Fukutomi the next day, they talk about literally anything other than the soulmate issue–though Arakita also desperately wants to ask if the stoic captain has already found his. Even if he did, he probably wouldn’t go after them like a desperate puppy. Fukutomi would focus on his future, on cycling, on being strong. If and when Fukutomi meets them, they would probably just nod at each other and go on with their lives. Arakita nods to himself, that’s surely how it’d happen.

There are stories like that, too. Soulmates who meet each other and nothing in their lives change. They are just aware the other exists and go on their merry way, never getting intimate with each other’s lives or doing soulmate things.

Not that he particularly minds that, of course, because what if his soulmate is an irritating person? Maybe they are a complete bookworm, or talks too much, or–

“Kinjou will be at Yonan,” says Fukutomi, sounding the slightest bit pleased. It’s hard to tell with him considering the only thing he smiles at are puppy videos. But that’s not an issue. Arakita can smell the slight change in mood.

Arakita can only nod his head in vague interest. “That so?”

“You should work with him as soon as possible. He is–”

“Strong, I get it already.” Arakita smiles a little. Good old predictable Fuku-chan.

The blond doesn’t respond, fiddling minutely with his phone. Arakita wonders if this is Fukutomi’s way of encouraging him, telling him that Kinjou is there and so he doesn’t have to feel too alone at a new school. Or is that an order? Work with Kinjou or something like that.

Arakita soon forgets about it, the conversation isn’t so important, he’ll probably see Kinjou at the cycling club anyway being the strong rider that he is. Chances are they’ll end up working together regardless. The club at Yonan can’t be as big as Hakone Gakuen’s.

“Hey, Fuku-chan.”

He grunts.

“Buy me a bepsi?”

There is a slight pause and Arakita almost retracts his request as a joke. “I suppose. You’ve done well to enter into Yonan.”

Arakita ignores the pleasant squirming in his stomach as they both get up to find a vending machine with his drink of choice. Arakita smiles to himself. He shouldn’t be in a rush, soulmate or no, he has other people who make him feel like he’s complete.

Graduation comes and goes abruptly with little incident (unless you count Toudou bawling his eyes out as everyone sang the school anthem and Fukutomi’s bottom lip trembling the whole time as “little incident”). Though, he’d be lying if he didn’t say he’s proud, too. It’s been a long three years. Goodbye, his high school life. Thank you for everything.

Spring is about the begin, and so is college. It’s time for a new beginning.

He spends the rest of his remaining days at home handling school preparations. His mother and father fuss endlessly about his school life, despite the fact he spent most of his high school years at the Hakone dormitories. It must be because he’s moving to Shizuoka that they’re nervous. His sisters both pester him with outrageous demands, determining when he needs to visit and what gifts are appropriate to bring back to them, shoving a magazine article or a picture of their desires in his face every evening. Whenever he is able to get away for a day from his obnoxious family, he could be found hanging out with Shinkai, who blessedly doesn’t ask him for souvenirs or impossible trips. Instead, Shinkai seems to find great joy in bothering him about trying different foods and telling Arakita to recommend good ones to him when he visits. He couldn’t bike away fast enough. What’s with everyone asking him for things? Arakita barely has time to breathe with all this nonsense in his life.

School starts a scant month later, much to his family’s disbelief and to his neighbor’s disappointment and minor amusement. His departure from home included a lot of yelling from his sisters, and dubious advice from his neighbors. His parents send him off with well-wishes and barely concealed concern for his diet, to which he argues that he knows how to eat just fine. He does not almost burst out crying when he hears his dog yipping sadly at him as he boards the bus. The ride is long by his standards, and he almost wishes he could bike all the way there. But no, his Bianchi is tucked away inside the luggage compartment of the bus. He practically grinds his teeth the whole way there, ears ringjng with the voices of those back home.

It’s not until he settles into his own dorm at Yonan does he realize it’s too quiet. He wonders if the rest of his days at Yonan will be like this–silent and calm.

His room is not yet set up, all possessions from home are left haphazardly by the door. He’s lying on the bed, legs dangling freely off the side, hands folded under his head. The air seems to buzz with the tension in his chest, and the quiet that threatens to consume him. He turns and catches sight of his elbow, and all at once, he throws on a jacket and rushes out the door and hops onto his trusty Bianchi. He needs to move.

He doesn’t return to his new home until he’s thoroughly soaked in sweat and almost too tired to go up the stairs. It’s quiet again, but he sleeps before he can dwell on it.

Finally, the first day of university begins. Slightly sour about his sore muscles, he makes a point to look as grumpy and displeased as possible–forget his sisters’ advice about smiling more often so he doesn’t scare away any potential friends or any other potential anythings. He doesn’t care about that. But Arakita takes a deep breath and decides for himself: This is college, this is time to change himself, to finally stand on his own two feet.

He remembers Fukutomi’s advice, to seek out Kinjou. Though, he figures he’ll see him once the clubs begin recruiting and activities begin. He’s in no rush, he figures as he heads into his first class and takes a seat near the back of the lecture hall behind some buzz cut guy. Though, the moment he sits down, he smells something familiar.

Wait.

That head looks familiar, too. Like…

Wait, wait. He said he was in no rush, right? Right?

“Sohoku’s…captain…?”

The man in question turns around calmly, eyes instantly crinkling into a smile. Arakita leans back for more distance. Friendly bastard.

“I had hoped to see you again, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon.”

Arakita snorts. “Yeah, me neither.”

He looks down to see Kinjou extend a hand and look at him expectantly. He narrows his eyes at him.

“Don’t get so friendly–just because we’re in the same college and raced each other at InterHigh. Don’t go thinking that means we’re best friends, got it?”

Kinjou opens his mouth to retort, but is interrupted by the professor’s voice booming voice calling for attention. With the look of a shunned puppy, Kinjou rights himself in his seat, shooting him a final look that tells him this conversation isn’t over. Arakita leans back in his chair. It is over as far as he was concerned.

Though, it seems that was only wishful thinking The moment the professor dismissed the class, Arakita hightails it out of the lecture hall, intent on finding something solid to bash his head against. That was the most tedious lecture ever. And that was an introductory class, too. On top of that, the hall was cold! He reminds himself to wear something thicker next time.

Behind him, he hears Kinjou call out his name, but he ignores him and weaves through the crowds of people that begins to surge in the hallways. Steadily, he no longer hears his name being called and he huffs to himself. That snake bastard is going to have to prove himself if he wants to be friendly with him.

The rest of the day goes by uneventfully. Except for a few text messages from his teamm–ex-teammates. All of them ask him how his first day went, to which he dutifully replies to them that it went fine and they should stop mothering him. Which spawns a whole new conversation about taking care of one’s health and how to properly address one’s mother.

Though, Fukutomi’s messages were a little more…specific. He asks if Arakita has met Kinjou yet. Arakita answers, it must be because he’s eager to see the strength of a new combination.

「I did. He’s in my morning class.」

「I see. Congratulations.」

「Congratulations for what, Fuku-chan? 」

There is a long pause from the usually quick-to-reply Fukutomi. It’s nearly bedtime when the blond cyclist replies and all he gets is a simple, 「It’s nothing. Good night.」

He returns it and puts himself to bed, mulling over what he could’ve possibly meant. In the end, he decides it’s because they found each other so quickly before club activities began. That had to be it. Semi-satisfied with his deduction, he sleeps.

The next few days consists of Arakita going to his classes and getting familiar with every single restaurant in the area that served karaage. Everything would be going okay if that Sohoku guy would leave him alone. Every morning, he would be waiting for Arakita’s arrival by the door to the lecture hall with a little book in hand.

Arakita slapped his hand away with his elbow and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I told you, I don’t need you getting all chummy with me. Even if Fuku-Chan recognizes you, you’ve still got a ways to go with me.”

“Is that a challenge, Arakita?” Kinjou’s eyes twinkle slyly at him from above his frames. Arakita grimaces. “When we join the cycling team, I was hoping you’d be able to give me what you gave Hakogaku.”

“That’s a lot of confidence you’ve got there! Bring it on, I don’t pull for just anybody.”

“Well, I hope I can meet your strict expectations.”

Kinjou raises a hand to offer a handshake, but Arakita turns his back on him and trudges his way into the lecture hall, grinding his teeth. Cocky bastard.

Luckily, Kinjou does not take a seat beside him in the hall, instead remaining steadfast in his initial choice of sitting in the seat in front of him. However, that doesn’t prevent Kinjou from occasionally turning around in the guise of getting something from his bag to look at him. Arakita scowls at him, a slight tinge of warmth prickle the top of his ears. The fuck does he even want?

The moment the class is allowed to leave, Arakita rushes out of there again. He doesn’t understand Kinjou’s deal and he has half a mind to call up his old teammates and ask if any of them put him up to this: being unreasonably annoying and friendly. Or maybe it’s just Sohoku’s quirk in general. Either way, Kinjou was being more personal than he had any right to be.

While rushing across the campus, he manages to spy a shivering mass on the ground beneath a bench. Arakita scrunches up his face and squints his eyes, his hand going slack against his backpack’s strap when he realizes what he’s looking at, prior irritation forgotten. He rushes over as quickly and quietly as possible as to not frighten the poor thing.

The mass of dirty, matted fur does not acknowledge his presence. It trembles on, trying to keep itself warm. Arakita quickly strips off his jacket, bristling when the cold air attacks his bare arms. He knew he shouldn’t have worn short sleeves. But he shoves the thought aside, and presses himself to the cement ground and under the bench, carefully holding the jacket above the kitten before he wraps it up.

“Wait, no! Augh!”

Angry screeches fill Arakita’s ears. The kitten struggles against its confines more violently than one would expect from its little frame. The tight space does not allow Arakita to handle the animal as easily as he would like. He scrapes his forearms against the concrete several times and manages to hit himself several times against the bottom of the bench before he could get out from under the bench with his uncooperative friend.

“Dumb cat,” he grumbles to no one.

“Arakita?”

The skinny man jumps at the sounds off his name, holding the bundled animal close to him. He must look ridiculous, lying on the ground in the middle of March with short sleeves and an angry furball bundle in his scraped up arms. He cranes his head and his face twists when he sees the speaker.

“…you.”

“You seemed to be in a rush after class ended, but I didn’t expect this.”

“Piss off.”

Kinjou kneels down and plucks the jacket-bundled kitten from his arms, the animal struggles a little more, hissing unhappily. Arakita can already tell his jacket is scratched up inside from the cat’s struggle. It’s been less than a week and he’s already in need of a new article of clothing. When the cat is secure in Kinjou’s arm, he reaches out a hand to help him up.

Arakita begrudgingly sticks out his hand, grumbling. Kinjou smiles almost too wide for his liking and grasps it quickly before he is able to voice any curses. A large ripple of energy bursts through his being from their conjoined hands that knocks the breath out of him, and a burning sensation draws his attention to his elbow.

New letters etch themselves simultaneously into his skin with a vigor, before and after the preexisting “Shin”.

きんじょう しん ご

Kinjou Shingo.

Arakita snaps his head at their hands, still locked together. At the pace of his steady speeding heart, his eyes trace the darker hand, trail up a sculpted arm, past the rolled up sleeve, and at Kinjou’s face, which looked up to meet his eyes with equal shyness.

His eyes are the color of moss, of grass, of trees, of life–a new life.

“…you?”

Kinjou lifts up his shirt with his free hand and turns slightly to reveal his ribs. 

あらき たやすとも

Engraved over some faded scars five fresh characters, all which contribute to form…

Arakita Yasutomo.

“I was afraid my soulmate was going to be a famous mangaka or something. I wouldn’t know how to approach them,” Kinjou jokes nervously, adjusting his shirt back to it’s proper place. Arakita stops himself from snorting as he watches Kinjou tuck the shirt back into his pants. But Kinjou gives him a warm smile, which must be contagious, the heat of it spreads to his own face just a little. “But I’m so glad it’s you.”

He’s glad? That it’s him? Of all people?

“If you won’t pull for me, will you let me pull you up?”

Arakita swears his brain shut down forever because he literally can not think of a damn thing to say. Faster than he could get the gears in his head to turn, he tackles Kinjou with open arms, pulling them both (and the mewling cat) to the ground.

Finally. —

Shinkai looks up from his phone with a whistle. “Juichi, Yasutomo’s found his soulmate–it turns out it’s that Kinjou Shingo from Sohoku.”

The blonde law student nods at his watch and stands, “Mm. I have to go, class is starting.”

Shinkai types out his congratulations and salutations and sends it out, taking the time to type out Fukutomi’s share, too.

“Did you know?” Shinkai’s voice is low, hiding the rest of his expression behind his phone. The edges of his large blue eyes sag just a little as he looks up at his friend.

Fukutomi pauses, and gives Shinkai a look only he understands before he tries to excuse himself again. Shinkai calls out to him.

“He told you, didn’t he?”

Fukutomi doesn’t turn around. He only looks at his fist where in the lines of his untanned palm seem to form words before he clenches it shut and continues walking.

—

Though, on a night when they're both lying in bed on the verge of sleep that Arakita tells Kinjou everything. Kinjou stares at the back of his fiancee's head framed by the lonely moonlight, the need to rest fleeting.

Voice thick with sleep, Arakita says that he gives no shits about his past, it doesn't define him, and he's happy those days are behind him. But the way that he slurs out the dates of events--his first tournament of his second year in junior high, the day he hurt his arm, the day he saw the doctor (his name and the medical terms he used word for word) tells a different story. He remembers the exact inning (it was right after the second inning when his team was switched into the field, third and final pitch), the exact pitch he used, every little thing that led up to his injury. He recounts the tears that he cried, the friends he lost, the bitterness he felt, and how nothing could make him feel better. 

Kinjou wishes that Arakita would turn around, but he doesn't. He keeps speaking through his narrative, half muffled by blankets and by weariness. He details how lonely he was once he lost his right to play baseball, how Hakone Gakuen changed him. But he keeps lingering on his elbow, the pain it caused, and the memories it brought. 

"Fucking baseball ace, my ass. Those...were the shittiest days..of my fucking...life..."

His words drift off, claimed by sleep. Soft snores gradually fill in the silence, and Kinjou doesn't know how long he keeps staring.

Kinjou finally places a gentle hand over Arakitas 's elbow--he always leaves it above the covers even though it's cold enough for snow to fall, like he wants to let it freeze or have it detached from the rest of his body. Kinjou presses against Arakita's back, and nuzzles the crook of his neck, gently stroking his arm, laying the occasional kiss on the bare expanse of skin of his shoulder.

He spends the entire night watching over his fiancee, replaying the telling of his carefully kept past in his head. He curls an arm around Arakira's shoulder protectively. He wonders if Arakita is dreaming of the past, wonders how long it's been bottled up without anyone knowing, and wonders if Arakita would take it all back if he could, would he stop himself from making the same mistake?

Kinjou takes a deep breath and presses himself harder against the back of his sleeping fiancee. He does not sleep until the sun begins to wake.

When he stirs, he finds himself suffocating under the sweltering summer sun, sitting on the lowest tier of a riser with no recollection of how he got there. The sound of cicadas accompany the occasional distinct 'thunk' of a bat hitting a ball, all among shouts of instruction of terms he does not know.

Looking around, he sees students in baseball uniforms and sparse spectators. No one questions his presence. Kinjou wonders if this is a dream. He pinches himself and winces. Either dreams are now linked to pain receptors or this is reality. But how’d he end up here?

Upon closer inspection, he sees the scoreboard: it's the second inning and so far, the visiting team has two outs. One more and the home team gets to take to the field. He stands and tries to get a closer look--the situation seems oddly familiar. Maybe it's because his father watches it or his friends would discuss it from time to time.

Kinjou stands against the cage, looking distantly at the field. The players look like they're just getting started, the heat of summer doesn't seem to bother many of them. He watches as the pitcher winds up his throw, the field tense with anticipation. There is a deep inhale and then the whistling of the ball cutting through the air. The batter swings, and misses. The umpire calls a strike. There is a cheer from half the members of the field and some from the dugout. It's time to change.

"We're counting on your killer pitch, Arakita!"

Kinjou's head snaps up. Arakita?

"Knock 'em dead, ace!"

"Remember, if we win this one, we're qualify for the prelims!"

"Leave it to me, my arm's going strong!"

Kinjou looks around for the one they call 'Arakita', it couldn't be. Could it?

There is a young boy who graces the field, his teammates slap his back as they head up themselves. He steps onto the mound, and only then does Kinjou have a clear look of his face. Kinjou can't help the fond and exasperated look that takes over when he sees an all too familiar sneer.

That's Arakita Yasutomo, all right. His hair may be different and and may not be as tall, outfitted in not a bike jersey, but a baseball uniform--so unfamiliar, but that face told the whole story. He is Arakita Yasutomo, and he’s about to take on the baseball world.

Kinjou watches him prepare for his pitch, some sort of routine--patting the mound with his foot, dusting his hands with some white pouch, a small wind-up of the shoulders. He looks positively feral when he gazes upon the batter. Kinjou can’t help the smile that grows on his face. Good old (or young, in this case) Arakita. 

The young pitcher gestures some unknown hand signals to the umpire, a secret code shared between them. He looks at the dugout and tips his hat at his coach, who gives him another signal in return. When everything is ready, he winds up for his pitch. Leg up, arms poised, and then there! He lets the ball loose.

Kinjou watches, stunned.

There. Arakita's arm remains frozen after the throw, as if paralyzed. He recognizes with no hint of uncertainty that look that Arakita wears. He slowly withdraws his arm into himself and holds it close, but as naturally as possible. He doesn’t even seem to notice that the batter has struck out. Kinjou could see the slight strain of pain on his face, the corner of his lower lip dips down on the left side if he's in pain, a habit that he never grew out of it seems. Kinjou's heart clenches, a jolt of sympathetic pain settles in his stomach and bounces all over. He needs to stop him.

"Arakita? What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Just stiff from sitting around!" His bravado is shoddy at best. Kinjou could tell even from this distance it isn't nothing. However, his teammates don't seem as aware, either too caught up in their optimism or too young to really understand.

Kinjou clenches his teeth and grips the chain link fence, the wires dig into his fingers, but he doesn't care. The summer heat fuels his anger. Why doesn't anyone else notice? Why is it only him who can see this? The boy winces again when he tries to readjust his glove. 

Kinjou can’t control himself from yelling, "Arakita!" 

Everyone in the field starts and dark eyes connect with green ones, a spark of recognition in one, but confusion in the other that is quickly replaced by juvenile excitement and strain.

"Oh! A fan, huh? Don't worry, ossan, I'm taking my team to the finals! Just watch!"

Kinjou's voice is caught in his throat, mixed feelings clash ferociously in his chest. He wants to shout and tell the young boy to stop before he regrets it, but that enthusiasm of a dream stops him. What did Arakita, his Arakita, tell him? He lost the use of his elbow after the third pitch of the second inning? That was the first. He grips the fence harder. He can stop him still. His voice can reach him. This will save his baseball career and a lifetime of pain that he never asked for.

He stops himself just as he opens his mouth. What of his future? Kinjou carefully considers the fence before him, tracing the links briefly with his eyes. If he stops him here, what about their future? This would mean that Arakita would never enter Hakogaku, never take up cycling, never meet Kinjou, never...ask Kinjou to marry him. 

Kinjou looks back at the youth who is waving off his teammates’s concerns and is staring down his opponent. He flexes his arm experimentally and prepares for his next pitch. 

‘Don’t do it,’ Kinjou wants to shout. ‘You’ll regret it.’

But this Arakita doesn’t know that. 

The second pitch requires a more herculean effort than the last. He throws and pulls back his arm just as quickly, hiding it from view the moment he is able. Kinjou can see the look of pain that he tries to conceal and the angry ditch in his eyebrow. The umpire’s shout alerts the whole field to “Strike two!” He has only this one chance.

Kinjou takes a breath. Arakita would be able to live his dream of playing baseball. He’d never have to suffer those lonely years in which his team hated him and he was shunned by his peers. He won’t have to cry over a broken arm that will hinder him for the rest of his life. 

But is this what Arakita would want? To never meet Fukutomi? Never meet Hakogaku? Never learn to cycle? Even if he stops him now, it doesn’t mean that some time in the future this won’t happen again. It’s only a temporary solution. If they never meet in the future, he can’t warn him again. 

Kinjou shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, this is too complicated. Who is he to decide someone else’s future? But he can still do it. He can still save Arakita’s future even if it means that he won’t be in his. He can still...

“STRIKE THREE!”

He knows he has no more chances when he snaps open his eyes and watches Arakita’s arm just drop and swing lifelessly by his side. Time slows as the boy turns to look at his arm, wide-eyed and afraid. His face is one of sheer terror, like the world just fell from under his feet. The appendage dangles innocently. 

All at once, Arakita crumbles, falls onto his knees, clutching his arm and screaming. The field is in an uproar, spectators come down from the stand, muttering and buzzing with confusion. Arakita’s teammates and coach swarm him, attempting to get the injured pitcher to relinquish his arm for inspection, but he holds it close, still screaming.

The summer haze only grows stronger and blurs out everything beyond the fence, the cicadas drown out all the yelling and the frantic rattling of the chained links under Kinjou’s hands. No one hears him shouting Arakita’s name, it seems. 

“Yasutomo!” 

He startles himself awake, and nearly slams his head into Arakita who was previously looming over Kinjou, but manages to jerk his head away just in time. They both stare at each other for a long moment while Kinjou tries to regain his bearings. When he realizes who he is looking at, he frantically grabs Arakita by the shoulders. 

“Are you okay, you were turning in your sl--”

"Arakita, if--if you could redo the past, would you?"

"What--what’s with you all of the sudden?”

Kinjou doesn’t have time to explain, but he needs to know. “Answer me, please!” 

“Idiot. Of course," Kinjou's heart sinks fast. "I would totally do it all over again if it meant that I could meet you."

Kinjou’s face scrunches up before he throws himself at Arakita, wrapping his arm clumsily around him. He says nothing, only burying himself as much as he could into his fiancee’s stomach. 

"Geez," he hears Arakita say fondly above him. "What's gotten into you?" 

He held fast onto Kinjou’s shoulders and twisted his upper body toward himself and nudged at Kinjou's feet with his toes. If anyone saw this, they could’ve easily mistaken this for a dance lesson.

"Move this foot back, your balance sucks."

Kinjou questioned the necessity of this training when Arakita announced it. Kinjou only managed to get an earful about the white patch of gauze on the back of his head that served as a reminder of the events that transpired. Arakita decided he was going to teach Kinjou how to protect himself in case there's a time he can't be there--not like he was the reason the two of them got home in one piece that night. No, it was because of their cycling team's vice-captain.

Arakita's hand curled around Kinjou's wrist just a little too hard at the memory.

That bastard.

It was a school night, the two of them had come back from eating dinner at a small restaurant they frequently used as a meet up point. They weren’t quite dating, but they were extremely close—it was everything short of kissing and hand-holding, but they were very close at that point. They had just walked into an alley, a shortcut back to the dorms. It wasn't as though they had never used it—heck, Arakita used it constantly on a day to day basis to save ten minutes. It was safe. Normally.

But it was different that night. They were ambushed, or would've been if Arakita didn't smell them coming first. Not that it accomplished anything more than Kinjou slamming into the skinny blockade that was Arakita. They came from both sides three by three, blocking the exit points and began to close in on them. In the darkness, he could see that they wore handkerchiefs and face masks over their faces—cowards.

“First-years at Yonan’s cycling club, eh? That you two? The new upstarts?”

Arakita’s mouth pulled into an unpleasant snarl. “Who the hell’s asking?”

He pointedly ignored Kinjou’s subtle tug on his sleeve and urgent whisper of, “Arakita, don’t.” It was useless anyway, these guys undoubtedly came for a fight, if that one bastard holding a baseball bat was any indication, and they won’t leave until they had one.

Arakita has been in a few fights between the end of his baseball career and the beginning of his cycling path; he could count the number of times on one hand. Most of them erupted as the result of his newfound frustration at his loss of self and attempt to regain whatever meaning he had in life. It never yielded anything good other than a couple of bruises, cut lips, and the development of his left hook. It would probably make his mother cry if she knew the bruises he had once sported on his chin and cheeks weren't the result of doggie head-butts. Really hard doggie head-butts.

“You don’t need to know that. Just do us a favor and stick out your necks.”

Arakita resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the cliché threat. Who the fuck did this guy think he is? Some shounen villain? A sharp tug on the back of his shirt and Kinjou stepping in front of him stopped him from delivering his clever reply of, “Necks? You aren’t the boss of us.”

“Excuse us, but we don’t want any trouble. Could you please let us leave?”

Diplomatic as ever, Arakita thought.

The six erupted into laughter. It echoed in the alley, reminding them of just how trapped they were, only to be silenced by a firm and threatening ‘thwack’ of a baseball bat against a wall. Kinjou swallowed audibly and shifted himself back. Taking his cue, Arakita turned so that he could press his back against his friend’s. This didn’t look good.

The six closed in on them. It looked like the fight was on.

Kinjou was quieter than usual, but Arakita chalked that up to nervousness and fear. He couldn’t blame him, he’s scared, too.

There was the sound of movement from behind Arakita, and he knew that Kinjou was in danger.

“Kinjou!”

Kinjou’s back pressed hard against his, there was the sound of a punch and an “oomph!” It sounded as though someone got hit. Arakita wasn’t safe either—the guys in front of him began to move, too.

“Bring it on, you fucks.”

“Arakita, please don’t goad them.”

He couldn’t say that they were doing too well seeing as they were outnumbered right off the bat. Luckily these guys were going at them two against two, as the alley wasn’t quiet wide enough for them all to attack at once. Arakita managed to throw in a counter-attack every once in a while, the alley going quiet except for a few yells and heavy breaths and strikes.

He honestly couldn't see Kinjou while they were back to back, it was only through the body heat radiating from his large back did he know that Kinjou was standing and okay. He had to trust that a reliable guy like Kinjou would know how to handle himself. Though at the same time, he couldn't expect that a do-gooder like Kinjou would've seen much action, especially in a street fight. But he had to trust him.

Arakita swallowed any rising fear he may have had for his friend. He let out a hiss.

He had to trust him.

There was a wide hook from one of the guys in front of Arakita. He couldn't duck or else Kinjou would get hit as a result. He had no choice but to raise an arm and receive the blow. It slammed into his forearm with a hard smack before it retracted and another punch was aimed for his face.

It hurt like a bitch.

Arakita felt himself get shoved back hard. There was a “thunk” of thick wood against skull, a cry of pain, and the tiniest crack of glass, and Arakita's back became eerily bare of the comforting warmth of his comrade—a stab of fear seized his core. He only managed to turn halfway back to check before his face ran into a perfectly timed fist. Instinctively, his head turned with the blow to lessen the impact and he swung his left arm as he fell, hoping it would hit something—anything—to keep that sneak attack from having fully succeeded in its mission. He barely had time to feel triumphant at the sensation of skin against his knuckles as gravity dragged his twisting body to the ground besides Kinjou's, who lay prone against the side of the building.

He scrambled to get up and reorient himself, to maybe check on Kinjou or even to keep going, but a foot came flying into his stomach, and he couldn’t breathe—it felt like he was going to throw up. He dropped back onto his knees.

"Fucking Yonan, always representing Shizuoka."

His vision lurched with each kick. He didn’t know what to do other than to over himself as best as he could with his arms. At least they weren’t going after Kinjou just yet. Probably because he’s frighteningly unresponsive or because everyone else was taking their sweet time with them. Either way, they were fucking bastards. Trying to protect himself was the most he could do.

Quiet.

He lifted his head when the next impact didn’t come. Before he opened his eyes, he could smell the change in atmosphere. The whole area was swept up in a completely different scent.

The deep haze of anger, chill of a disciplined desire for destruction. And the alluring, addictive, infectious spell of bloodlust. He could hear their assailants pause and step back. That scent disappeared almost instantly, returning to the previous air of hostility. There were soft footsteps that came closer and closer until it stopped in front of him.

Arakita was already trying to get onto his feet before he realized what he was doing. He had to get up or get killed. The ground wasn't safe. Kinjou wasn’t safe.

"Who are you, bastard?"

"This isn't your business, get lost!"

"Wait, isn't that the Yonan cycling club jersey? Bastard, so you're one of them, too?"

Arakita perked his head fully at the sound of his school’s name as soon as he regained his balance, and looked at the cause of the melee’s interruption. Glaring back at him through the darkening alley was the back of an unzipped Yonan jersey fluttering like a war flag. He squinted at the person—shorter than himself, fluffy black hair tousled by the wind with an impeccably straight back. The newcomer seemed unimpressed by the six people who surrounded them, though at least two were looking worse for wear, courtesy of Arakita’s and Kinjou’s previous efforts.

“Vice-captain…” The title dropped from his open mouth in shock upon recognizing the man. What the hell was he doing here?

The Yonan’s second-in-command tilted his head back slightly to acknowledge him before focusing on the shameless hooligans. He motioned for Arakita to sit down as though this were his house and they were in a tatami room and not the place where the two just got their faces beat in. Not he was going to listen to him because what good would siting down be in this situation? Both he and Kinjou got their asses kicked, his senpai really couldn’t think that he could take all six out by himself, did he?

Apparently he did. The vice-captain motioned for all six of the thugs to take him on. They all looked at each other to have some sort of telepathic conversation between themselves before the one with the baseball bat was brave enough to be the first test dummy. Arakita tried to push himself off the wall to assist, trying to ignoring the throbbing fire in his ribs. He couldn’t let his senpai get injured or possibly killed because he didn’t help or some lame shit like that.

The air was tense as the showdown between the two men was about to begin.

The baseball bat armed hooligan tapped his weapon threateningly against the ground. The Yonan student did not react to that in a manner that anyone expected. He began to hum.

Arakita couldn't make out the words, but he could tell it was in a different language, none which he was taught—not English nor Japanese. The humming reminded him briefly of a very small brat, draped in reds and yellows.

The bat-assailant moved—closed the gap between himself and his opponent, and swing his bat. The vice-captain delivered a lightning fast kick from behind to the hand of the thug with the bat—it almost looked like strike from the tail of a scorpion.

Oh shit!

Arakita slammed his ass into the ground, the baseball bat flew into the wall where his neck would’ve been just a mere second ago. Not that he cared, jostling himself like that aggravated his already bruised body. In between nursing his stomach, he noticed the bat had landed harmlessly into front of him, an instant debate toward grabbing the bat and hitting the other thugs with it flashed before his mind. He looked up to gauge the situation—without giving the baseball bat-less assailant time to recover, his senpai swung straight into a lunging position and head-butted the guy in the stomach hard. The poor bastard fell down, clutching his stomach, hacking and coughing. One down.

The thugs gaped at the scene and before they had any chance to process what just happened, the humming Yonan student made a wide arc in the air over his head to gain the momentum required to do a flying spinning kick that managed to knock into the faces to two thugs—one with each foot. The painful strike sent the two crashing to the ground, unwilling and unable to stand up. Arakita gaped. Holy shit.

Three left.

Seeing the vice-captain do so well, he opted to veto the idea. If he interfered, he may actually be doing more harm than good. But he'd be damned if he didn't feel a little humiliated at the fact that he had to be saved by anyone.

Two of them decide to team up against the vice-captain. It wasn’t the best of ideas as all he had to do was glare at them and shift his body sharply before the two yelped, jumped back, and ran out of the alley. That was rather anti-climactic. Once the two have cleared the area, the vice-captain turned to deal with one last nuisance.

The last of the thug—seemed to be the leader—fell into a fighting stance. One fist up, one fist low, back straight, hips low—it seemed that this one possessed some sort of training, it looked like one of the starting stances for karate. Arakita could have sworn he heard the vice-captain scoff, but it could very well have been the wind or the scuff of a foot.

There was a moment of tension before the masked thug moved—slammed his foot into the ground and then charged. The senpai spun on his heel, away from the thug’s reach. He tapped his foot mid-spin to stop himself and brought up upper-body to the ground as the attack switched from a missed charge to a mid-kick intended for his chest.

The vice-captain kept dodging in that weird manner of his—passively following the punches before weaving under them with even odder acrobatics. A punch was evaded with a cartwheel, a knee strike missed when he pressed himself against the ground and slid himself back to his feet just as another foot came to take out his face. The foot followed his visage’s ascent, but that missed when it could no longer follow the vice-captain’s backward bend into a back walkover. Despite the tight space of the alley, he seemed to have no problem making full use of the area he had. All moves were executed as though he had all the space in the world.

“Are you a man or a monkey? Fight me seriously!”

The only response that elicited was a slow blink. Somehow, Arakita felt offended in the place of his senpai. How fucking dare this guy—he couldn’t even get a single hit in and here he is, goading the very person who he can’t even touch.

The opponent grounded himself once more before he charged, clearly becoming impatient with his opponent’s antics and lack of decisive action. His punches were becoming sloppier—the vice-captain remained loose and insisted upon his acrobatics. The thug switched tactics, loosening his fists and opening them to grab at the fluttering ends of the Yonan jersey, most likely for a chance to drag him to the floor. The vice-captain spun out of reach however, tapped his foot to pause and change the direction of his trajectory. Even through the growing darkness, Arakita could see a change in his senpai's eyes and stance. A switch within him seemed to have been flipped.

"Foi, foi no clarão da lua, que eu vi acontecer..."

The lyric bursted from his lips, coloring the alley in an echoing wave of soulful music. The wooden, rotten alley walls were eaten by the night and warm stars enveloped them, the stone ground became a sandy beach, a tempered fire burned steadily before them, the silhouettes of many flicked and encircled the beach—some dancing, others performing flips and kicks in the air, and in the far, far back, a pile of bodies.

But it was only for that brief moment. Sounds of solid flesh striking flesh and heavy breaths erased the fleeting presence of song, returning the alley back to its bleak reality.

The vice-captain was upside-down on his hands, one shin landed a blow to his opponent, who put up his arms in defense. The hasty defense was only partially effective as the speed of the kick did not provide ample time for the thug to gain proper footing. Before the kicking foot even touched the ground, the other foot was already in motion, a straight kick to the guy’s ill protected stomach. Combined with a the bend if the knee, the slight twist of the body that resulted in a hand spin, the strength behind the kick sent the thug reeling into the opposite wall of the narrow alley. Arakita was sure, that if the wall was not there, he would have continued his journey backward.

Without even giving the thug a chance to regain his senses and stand upright, the vice-captain performed a wide sweep with his feet as soon as they touched the ground. He came up and wound his body up--only to unleash a spinning kick onto his opponent's hunched shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The body hit the floor hard, the sound was a decisive indication that the fight was over.

The cycling club’s second-in-command stood over his fallen opponent, crossing his arms once he was satisfied with the fact that his opponent would not be getting up any time soon, if the weak wheezing was any indication of the person’s condition.

He whispered again in the strange language that Arakita did not know.

“Num vale-tudo com o karate, o Capoeira vencer.”

The last part was said with such menace that despite not even understanding the words, cold dread seized Arakita by the throat. He could only stare, he dared not move. Normally relaxed and aloof, he had never seen anything resembling this expression before. It could be called calm and focused if not for the gritted teeth and pulled back lips that formed something between a snarl and a sneer. Arakita had trouble pulling air into his lungs for reasons other than his injuries.

Without him even noticing until this point, the air has become as thick as molasses, steeped in the unmistakably the scent of bloodlust that made him want to gag. A sadistic, relentless thirst for blood. The desire burned brightly behind his normally drooping eyes, now far too alert and wide. It would not be surprising if the vice-captain started laughing maniacally and continued his assault on the remaining hooligans on the ground who have been already been beaten to the point of unconsciousness. Instead, he half-turned toward Arakita and Kinjou and forced his face to return to that of the nonchalant expression he normally wears. Arakita shuddered at the change and moved closer to the barely conscious Kinjou, shielding him from view.

"…can you stand?”

His voice was as level as ever. Despite his voiced concern, he did not take even a step toward the two or give any indication that he would help them. He just stared at them from the side, one eye on them and one eye on the bodies around him. Arakita preferred it that way. As it is now, he’s not even sure he can trust the person who just saved their lives.

In the end, his senpai had to help them both to an emergency clinic as Arakita could barely stand, let alone lift Kinjou who was coming to, but not before he searched the fallen bodies for identification. He seemed to have but refused to let Arakita know the details, insisting that injured people should be concerned with themselves first. The doctor's most severe diagnosis for Arakita was a bruised rib. Other injuries included the scrapes on his arms and various bruises. Kinjou, however, was told to have a mild concussion and should be rest for the next few days. By this time, Kinjou was fully conscious and talking with the doctor about follow-up, much to everyone's relief. Arakita had a moment of panic where he wasn't sure what he'd do if Kinjou was critically injured, and what he’d do if he had to tell Kinjou's family.

When asked the vice-captain was asked he was planning to call the police, he only hummed and told them that the co-pay for their medical bill has been paid. That sprouted a whole new argument which made Arakita forget about the first issue of who the thugs were. Fucking elusive bastard.

The next day, Kinjou opted to stay home to nurse his injury, as per doctor's orders. Arakita, being the lesser injured one, decided to go to school to take meticulous notes for the classes that he and Kinjou shared. Arakita made it a point to avoid the alley where the yesterday’s incident took place. He spent the day slightly jumpy at everyone and everything, but his main goal was to confront the Yonan cycling club’s vice-captain. He had to know so many things.

Why was he there?

Where did he learn to fight like that?

Who were those guys from yesterday?

He didn’t manage to do so until his classes ended and he made his way to the clubroom where some of the club members, including the heads of the club, were cleaning up. Arakita spotted the second-in-command, nonchalantly packing some water bottles into a box. It doesn’t seem as though he’s been noticed yet. He moved to corner the man, but he was cornered instead. The captain called out to him quietly, motioning for him to approach. He was briefly torn between listening to the captain and continuing his mission, but another insistent wave of the hand forced him to go over to the head of the club.

“Are you okay?” The captain asked.

Arakita blinked at him. How did he…? He was wearing long sleeves, even an extra cardigan to hide the bandages to cover the bruises on his arms and ribs. There was no injuries on his face, nor did he tell anyone. So how?

He seemed to have sensed Arakita’s confusion, and answered, “They were from a rival school. Those assholes have been acting suspiciously, but to think that they’d do this…” He made a wide gesture at Arakita. His face no longer looked jovial or friendly. There were wrinkles around his lips and an exasperated bend in his eyebrows.

“I’m so sorry this happened,” He said quietly, bowing. “They’re being dealt with by the police right now. We got their student IDs, and turned them over. We’d prefer if you let us handle it, and you just focus on your recovery. I’m really, really sorry this happened.”

Arakita wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t know whether to be angry or what. It wasn’t the captain’s fault or anyone’s fault, it was just the act of jealousy from a rival group.

The only thing he could say was, “The vice-captain saved us. He fought them off.”

The captain’s spine snapped straight up, the wrinkles around the corners of his mouth grew deeper.  

"Was he singing?"

Distain was evident in his voice, and he didn't bother hiding it on his face. From the corner of his eye, he could see the vice-captain pause in the middle of lifting the box of bottles. He almost didn't want to answer.

"He saved us," he stressed.

"That's not what I asked, Arakita."

A shiver ran through his spine and his whole body stiffened at his tone. The captain rarely called anyone by their family name, it was too formal, he said once before. Everyone else in the club froze, the meaning of his choice of words not lost on them. If there was anyone who wasn’t listening, they were now.

Arakita didn't even manage to give anything more than a nod before the captain yelled, "I knew it!" and threw his hands up in frustration.

Arakita could only watch as the captain forcibly led his second-in-command away, who dropped the box of water bottles like it was on fire, to lecture him. The vice-captain threw him a look that made his stomach twist uncomfortably. He was definitely annoyed—or at least exasperated about the turn of events. He silently apologized to his senior as the captain's booming voice rattled off the walls from outside the clubroom the moment the door closed.

The vice-captain didn’t come back until much later, but when he did, he looked a little worse than before. His shirt was scrunched up in the front, his cheeks were an angry pink, and his jaw was tight. It looked like he got pulled up by his shirt and yelled at.

“Don’t worry about it, Arakita,” he said when he was approached. The upperclassmen’s voice seemed hoarse, like he was screaming. “The captain’s just…worried about the team. Please don’t tell anyone else in the team what I did.”

When Arakita questioned it—he saved them, shouldn’t everyone know that—his senpai shook his head. “I can’t have everyone knowing what I do. It’s…complicated.”

They both fell silent until his senpai sat down beside him, a resigned slump in his shoulders.

“…it’s related to my family’s history.” He shook his head. “If people knew it, they wouldn’t handle it very well. So please, please don’t tell anyone what I did.”

After Arakita agreed, he decided that he’d have to train. Not just in cycling, but in fighting, too, so that he’d never have to trouble anyone else again. He had to make sure that Kinjou, too, was able to defend himself even if he wasn’t around.

"Now try."

Kinjou gave him a look as if asking him whether he really had to. Arakita's crossed arms and expectant scowl was as good an indicator as any. Kinjou drew in a breath, pulling his feet and fists in at the same time. Arakita's mouth dropped open, a string of expletives ready to bombard the man for ruining his handiwork of correcting his form.

All that died on his tongue when Kinjou gave a short exhale and looked up at an imaginary opponent with the same cool fire that he would have during a race. He breathed in, then out--and then his whole body lurched into harmonic motion.

It was quick but his muscles may as well have moved in slow motion for Arakita's eyes. There was a tiny wind up into himself, like a pitcher before a throw, then an unleashing of the fist he kept close to face, supported by a sharp inhale, the subtle twist of the hips and a graceful but heavy turn on his balls of his feet. Underneath the shirt sleeve, the muscles clearly rippled in harmony and came together at the point of imaginary impact that seemed to bring a gale of new air into the room.

Arakita could feel that punch pierce his heart.

He didn't realize that Kinjou was talking to him—asking him if that way okay, or that the pulsing of his nervous heartbeat in his ears was the reason he couldn't hear. It wasn't until Kinjou laid a hesitant hand on his shoulder that he was able to snap out of his awestruck stupor.

"--kita, are you okay? You spaced out for a second…”

"Where the fuck did you learn to punch like that?" He blurted. "Why the hell didn't you do that the other night?"

The hand on his shoulder twitched, and Arakita suddenly became too aware of just how warm that hand was, how large, how heavy, how…reliable. His stomach squirmed just a little and he was torn between shrugging off that hand or let it stay and sink its warmth deeper into his skin.

"My brother taught me a few things. I just... never liked the idea of using my hands for violence."

Arakita stared. Somehow, he vaguely remembered that night—Kinjou must’ve gotten in a few hits. They were standing for quite a while before their senpai came to rescue them. That must’ve meant that Kinjou was able to hold his own during that time. And…the baseball bat…

That shove! The one before the bat hit Kinjou…

“You…took that hit for me. The one from the bat.”

A shaking hand reach over to touch the patch of gauze on Kinjou’s head. He flinched a little bit, but didn’t move away. Instead, he flushed a little and looked down.

“I couldn’t let you get hit…” He mumbled.

Some unknown emotion bubbled up in the pit of his stomach. It was warm, but burning also. A mix of fondness and anger and frustration and sadness—so many things. He gritted his teeth and grabbed Kinjou’s hand off his shoulder and brought it to his lips.

‘Forget it,' he decided firmly as he laid a gentle kiss onto each of Kinjou's knuckles. ‘Forget this shit.’

He swore, he would never let these large, warm hands that trembled ever so slightly beneath his lips be used for violence. These hands were meant for magic tricks and bringing life to needle and thread, for holding and caressing, for supporting.

Arakita opened his mouth and pressed a hungry kiss on the back of Kinjou's hand. He will protect him with his life if he must, just to keep these warm, loving hands from ever being bathed in wounds and blood.

This was super rushed, sorry. I wrote out all the main parts and then spent most of my time trying to fill in the gaps. So it probably doesn’t mesh very smoothly.  

This touched upon a few themes that were very much just implied...but the senpai (vice-captain) is afraid of the prejudice that would come with people know his family’s history (ie. his parents are immigrants from Brazil whose grandparents migrated from Japan). The captain’s just worried about the club being in trouble, and worried about his friend who is knows is very self-conscious about his identity.

Sorry for beating on karate in this fic, karate is a good martial art, it’s just ineffective in the hands of an inexperienced person. This is true for all martial arts.