- Reader is the OW cook
The result is something, something âWill you make me miso soup for the rest of my lifeâ proposal from Hanzo, because thatâs an actual way of proposing in Japanese culture. Itâs really, really old though. Would also cover everyoneâs food preferences.
- LĂşcio knew capoeira
Just reminisces about capoeira music, listens to a CD his mestranda made and just being emotional about it. Capoeira may not have been the path he took in life, but the hell if his mestranda didnât impact him more than anyone else. Debatable whether this mestranda was actually his mother or something.
- Reader is a bow maker
Based off a documentary/day-time show thing I saw while in Japan about how bows are made. Reader is in Hanamura and Hanzo sends a request to have repairs done to the Storm Bow after not hearing from him in like years. No romance?
- Reader does knife sharpening
Another self-indulgent hobby that I like to do. Genji asks to have his sword sharpened and thatâs an entirely different monster than knives or scissors or daggers.
- Hanzo and Genji fighting
Most of this thing wouldâve been written out with the dialogue between them in Japanese, but thatâs kind of a pain. So eh. It was supposed to be almost unreadable to most readers, but those who can read it are in for a bad surprise. But it touches on Hanzoâs prejudice against omnics and things like that.
- Ana, just Ana
Just Ana interacting with everyone and being a mom. Even to Soldier 76.Â
- Reader being the dropship pilot
I really wish I knew more about planes and such. Iâm trying to read as much as I can but it gets rather complicated and doesnât touch on the things I want to know. But basically due to funds and trying to avoid air traffic control, the Reader can pilot old cargo planes and is responsible for getting people to their destinations undetected and delivering payloads.
- D.Va and life is not a game
She pilots a literal killing machine. Does she see life as a game or does she fully understand she is killing people with a very real chance of being killed? LĂşcio understands this ridiculously well, actually. As does some other people.
- Dragon interactions
Just a higher power interacting with the Shimada dragons, getting their thoughts on what they have seen, what they think of the brothers, their purpose. Things like that.
- Zenyattaâs Enlightenment
How did Zenyatta receive his enlightenment? What was he like prior to it? Full of anger that he is not the same as humans, rebellious, violent? Who knows?
- Ana and McCree interactions
Ana puts McCree in line. Swipes his feet out from under him like she used to do when he was being cocky. They talk a little about the old days even though McCree doesnât want to, but he was never good at facing his past--or moving on from it?
- Mei misses her family
Sheâs been frozen for years, and awakens in a world she does not know with friends and colleagues who died waiting for help. Her family is gone, and sheâs alone. She just wants to go home.
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A 'ping' from your tablet alerts you of a new message, which you ignore in favor of muddling the greyish paste simmering away in a wooden basin off to the side of the little workshop. You lift the stick, wide as your forearm, just a little and watch the goo run off the end and back into its container. You dig the stick back and start folding the mixture again, unimpressed with the consistency. The sweat runs down your brow, your upper back muscles, arms, and thighs complain. Not yet, there was still work to be done, no matter how few requests come in nowadays.
It isn't until later on in the evening, when your hands can barely clench themselves around your teacup and your stomach aches just as much as the rest of your body from hunger, that you read the message you had received. When you do read it, one of your newly painted bows are covered in a coating of tea.
In Japanese, it only reads, "'Fourth Generation, the Storm Bow requires repairs.'"
A choked laugh came from Sombra's direction. Reaper ignored it the first time, and the second. But moments after that, peals of laughter came and that simply cannot be ignored.
"What, pray tell, is so funny?" Reaper glared at her from behind his mask. His weapons needed maintenance, and concentration to perform the maintenance. Sitting in a room with Sombra usually proved to be the exact opposite of productive, and he should've left when he saw her hogging up a four person couch by her lonesome with her screens spread around her like a rainbow in the sky.
She waved a hand at him dismissively, her attempts to quell her laughter came out as snorts and poorly composed coughs. "No, no, not you, big guy. This," She gestured at one of her floating screen where lines and lines of text was displayed. "This is great. Ey, listen to this."
She cleared her throat, and though Reaper did not come closer, the fact that he did not return to his work meant he was at least listening.
"'It took me four hours to get this shit working, don't touch this or I will murder you.'" Reaper raised an eyebrow. The hell was she reading?
"'Document the amount of time you spent trying to read this shit (good luck):
Programmer 1: Eight hours. I can't do this anymore.
Programmer 2: 20 minutes, not touching this mess.
Programmer 3: It's been three weeks, what is this shit? I'm moving this into another database.
Programmer 4: HELP. I CAN'T FIND YOUR DATABASE. HOW OLD IS THIS CODE? Six hours, btw'
Oh, oh, there's another good one. 'I'm not proud of this, but it's 4AM and I'm drunk and we need a workaround and please deliver us, because MAN WRITES and COMPUTERS don't OBEY.'"
Sombra barely finished reading before she devolved into giggles that left her rolling.
"Can you believe these guys? And they're supposed to be writing the code for one of the best vaults in the world--what, do they have interns doing this?"
She sighed contently, and swiped one of her screens. "I just love reading source code."
Sometimes, LĂşcio would listen to music. Other peopleâs music, not his own like he normally does. He would just listen without a notepad or his tablet out with scribbles and audio tracks splayed across the screen. No one knows what he listens to when he is without pen or tablet, just that he has a solemn face. Sometimes, heâd have these restless hands that move as though it were playing an unseen instrument, him mouthing words with an unheard voice, putting a performance for an invisible audience. No one ever bothers him when he gets like this, and no one ever asks. Except for Junkrat, whose mouth runs faster than he does sometimes, and that earns him a look and a bitter, âStep off.â
Solder 76 never had any intention of finding out, it was not his business and so never bothered making any assumptions about it. But like a beacon or a sirenâs call, it is a womanâs voice that draws him to a room with the truth.Â
The music has no synthesized instruments, no fancy sound effects, or anything that sounds like it came from this century. It is a woman and a chorus of voices accompanied by some percussion. He does not recognize anything other than drums and maybe the jangle of a tambourine, but the rhythmic beat of some sort of stringed instrument getting banged on constantly reminds him that he was never good with music and canât even pretend that he knows anything about it.
He scrambles to cover the speaker as though to hide it from view or to shush it from speaking his dirtiest secrets.
Soldier 76, in his infinite social adequacy, mumbles, âThat lady...she sings well.â
LĂşcio laughs, and continues to avoid eye contact, a blush colors his neck and cheeks. He holds the speaker tighter against his chest, but the powerful timbre of the woman singing permeates the room.
âSanto AntĂłnio eu quero ĂĄgua
Quero ĂĄgua pra beber
Quero ĂĄgua pra lavarâ
The song switches between a chorus, which is more successfully muffled by Lucioâs body, and the woman, who does not even seem to care thereâs a wall of muscle between herself and the audience of two.Â
LĂşcio sighs and lets go of the speaker slowly, and the womanâs voice drowns the room with the sheer intensity of her voice. Even Soldier, as unfeeling as he likes to think he has become, is stunned into silence. The voice reaches deep inside him, the crescendos threatens to smother him, the decrescendos tug his heartstrings down with it, and the drums and the other instruments he couldnât identify replaces his very own heartbeats.
What is this music?
âShe was meu mestre, yâknow?â LĂşcio suddenly waves a hand in the air as though someone were nagging him. âI know, I know. Mestranda. But she never really cared what people called her, so long as they knew who she was.
Though, if you called her something nasty, prepare to get dropped. She ainât playinâ if you ainât respectinâ.â
He laughs to himself, and rubs his cheek absentmindedly.
âMan, you wouldâve liked her. She...was really great,â he whispers to his lap. âShe wouldâve like Overwatch, maybe even joined it. She couldâve trained some people, make them do forty push-ups whenever they mess up, and cook everyone dinner--oh man, her vatapĂĄ were to die for, mm-mm, sheâd fuss about everyoneâs injuries even though itâs totally their own fault, and--and...â
âSe eu falar de amor, vou falar de capoeira
Se falar de paixĂŁo, ela ganhao meu coraçãoâ
The track changes, and Soldier 76 is keenly aware of both mourning and longing stirring in his chest. He does not know if itâs LĂşcioâs fault, or the musicâs.
LĂşcio and Capoeira. I laughed when I saw his emote for Capoeira. Thatâs a freakinâ floreio. Not that it isnât capoeira, but itâs probably not the best thing to represent it. But I digress, it is one of the cooler things to show.
I imagined that LĂşcio practiced a bit when he was younger, dabbled in it because that was the cool thing to do. He stopped at some point, most likely--it wasnât very big in his life, but he never forgot his mestranda who was there to encourage him to find a way to help the people, the community throughout the Omnic Crisis. Hell, heâs probably had dinner over at her place, and even after heâs stopped training, she still makes him do push-ups if he forgets his manners or something.
Thereâs a lot Iâd like to say about LĂşcio and capoeira, but my headcanons just say that he wasnât super into it. It was cool, but not his life. So eh, nothing for me to say there.
Edit:
Oh! Though I do think that he did learn a thing or two when he started. He had to learn how to sing. He probably liked the whole singing and playing instruments aspects way more than playing inside the roda. He was actually a beast on the berimbau, much more than he was in the roda.
As for what style of capoeira? Man, Overwatch takes place in the future, who knows what styles would have evolved between now and then? I want to say his mestranda was all Regional, but he picked up some angola from somewhere--though if he did and he tried to use it, his mestranda probably wouldâve busted his face in the roda. Just sayinâ. But most likely he wouldâve learned angola. I just want to think he had a mestranda who was regional.
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âćŞăăŽăŻĺ č ăŽăťăăăăŞăăďźďźâ
âBrother, youâre the one in the wrong here!â
Hanzo turned red. âćŞăăŽăăăŽăŞă˘ăăŁă ďźâ
âThe one who is wrong is that toy!â
The argument froze in its tracks, and Hanzo flinched as the realization of his words struck him. A wave of hard tension followed up immediately after. Even if no one else in the room understood the conversion, it was clear from their body language that Hanzo had struck a nerve. The valves on Genjiâs shoulders activated and released a long hiss of stream. Hanzoâs eyes flitted from the valves to the floor and back.
Without a word, Genji turned on his heel and left, a trail of still hissing stream followed him out of the room.
Somehow, I'd like to see Hanzo, Mei, and someone else talk about the differences between Japanese, Chinese, European, and Eastern European dragons. Generally, European dragons are associated with fire and castles and princesses. Usually meant to be slain by some prince or other hero. Asian dragons, more with water. No wings, and something more auspicious. Usually worshipped or brings about destruction if disrespected. Not sure about Eastern dragons hoarding treasure, though. There's been a lot of fics about a Dragon! Hanzo hoarding treasure, but I'd like to know if this is actually applicable to Eastern dragons. That reminds me of something, a friend once said to me, "This might sound weird, but for some reason, since you're really into tea, do you happen to know about dragons?" Funny enough, I had done a lot of research on different types of dragons about a month before he asked, but found his hypothesis interesting. Tea, dragons, shouldn't be any relation, but he found one apparently.
âNo, left over right. The other way is for the dead.â
You grumbled and readjusted the juban you were wearing. Hanzo has to adjust the back again so the seam lined up with the middle of your bared neck, hair twisted into an elaborate fashion. The jade beads from the kanzashi sticking out of your hair swung minutely as you reached for the next layer.
Hanzo beat you to the punch and gathered the folded nagajuban carefully into his hands and unraveled it. He draped the stark white fabric over your shoulders, adjusting the fabric until the middle was lined up just right. He held out both sleeves in a silent bid for you to put your arms through them. You do so with minimal trouble.
âWhatâs this one for?â You wrapped the front together (right side first, then left side over it) and hold it there.
âProtecting the kimono from your body,â he said as he wrapped a stringâmore of a thin sashâ around your middle. You bristle a bit. You werenât dirtyâyou took a proper bath, washed your hair, face, and washed your hands again for good measure. âThe kimono is thick. You will sweat,â he added. A thick cloth wrapped around your middle, hiding the string.
âSo? We can just wash it right?â
The archer made a sound that sound like a mix between an exaggerated sigh and an indignant grunt. âKimono are silk. They stain easily, and are notâŚsimple to clean.â
He pulled the collar of your nagajuban back gently but firmly into a standing position, continued until the was enough space to expose the nature of your neck and the edge of the juban underneath. There seemed to be more he wanted to say, but either because he couldnât find the words for his thoughts or heâs too busy trying to dress you, he just fell silent. You let it be, and just let your eyes wander as Hanzo worked.
The room was small, a dresser with ornaments and cloths of all shapes on your left. It took a long time to determine which would be suitable for you. Genji was here up until moment you had to put on the juban. Prior to that, he was arguing about color and pattern coordination with his brother. Attempts to interject were shot down with the reasoning that they knew why they were talking about.
âMint green leaves with orange?â
âItâs contemporary, brother! Pink with ivoryâare you marrying her off?â
It was hectic, you thought with a fond smile.
The feeling of even heavier fabric upon your back snapped you out of your thoughts. You turned and spied beautiful light pink with patches of ivory and small motifs of green leaves toward the edges of the entire thing. Again, Hanzo carefully aligns the middle with the center of your entire being. The man held out the sleeves, and again you slipped your arms through it, albeit with a little trouble as the nagajubanâs sleeves got caught. Hanzo seemed to have already anticipated this, already helping you get your sleeves to behave in the kimonoâs even bigger sleeves. You note with a bit of curiosity that the kimono seemed too long for youâthe excess was pooling around the swath of cloth you stood atop of.
Hanzo slipped around to your front, a bundle of silk in his teeth. He knelt before you and pinched the edges of the two halves of the kimono. Before you could even ask why he was doing, he pulled the fabric toward him and with ease, folds the excess fabric in on itself so that the end of the kimono no longer touched the floor, but just barely covered your ankles. He brought the folded halfâs one of the other, left over right, and holds it there with one massive hand. You watched with a dry throat as he took the ribbon of silk from his mouth and wrapped it around you, once, twice, before tying it into a tight knit around the folded section of your kimono.
He stood and made his way behind you again, pulling the collar of the nagajuban and kimono, making minor adjustments until the white of the nagajuban was shyly peeking out of the pink, ivory, and green of your kimono from all sides of your collar.
There was another rustle of cloth before he draped part of a folded fabric, this time much thicker than the kimono, over your left shoulder from your back.
âHold this.â You complied without complaint, admiring the red and gold patterns that adorned it. He wrapped this around your waist several times, before pulling the fabric you held away. Before your knew it, more silken rope had made its way around you, except this was much thicker and nicer than the two underneath your layers.
Something was shoved around you and into the obi, barely showing it colors.
These clothes were really constricting, you vaguely thought. It was difficult to breath, and with an experimental shift of your legs, you realized itâd be even harder to walk. How were you ever going to be able to complete this mission if you couldnât even maneuver your legs?
A few more well placed tugs and knots, and a grunt from Hanzo signalled that his work was done.
The ship itself rattled with the promise of a surprise freefall and dropping each and every agent in its belly out of the sky and straight into their graves regardless of its passengers' wills. It was hardly a stealth model, hardly even anything from this century with its death rattle and even more flimsy frame; free of the automation that existed on modern day ships, but also free from being detected by many modern day radars. "This isn't /old/ technology! It's /reliable/ technology!" He could hear her whine so clearly in his head it was as though she were next to him; it made his lips twitch a little. --- The intercom crackled to life, amplifying the terrifying death keels of the plane. "Hold tight, guys!" He felt his stomach drop before the ship did--several thousand feet. The cabin screamed--he wasn't sure if it was the other gents screaming or the plane itself. --- When the ship stabilized, he marched into the cockpit area and yelled, "Damn it agent, that wasn't even /remotely/ necessary!" He expected her usual non-committal "Yeah, yeah," or some other nonchalant response--even a middle finger would've been expected, but all he could hear were the whirring of the plane's blades and rattling of the below-safety regulations sheeting that surrounded the plane. Something was wrong. "Agent...?" The plane lurched for a moment, and the very walls groaned in protest before a flurry of motion from the pilot's seat seemed to have stabilized the plane and coaxed the noise level back from brick-shitting to just mildly alarming. As he approached on less than steady footing, he could finally see her hunched over the controls, practically eating away her lower lip as she poured over the manual controls and radars which seemed to indicate something was...chasing them? Oh yes, those were indeed blips on one of the radars. Closing in at an alarming rate. Very close. Dangerously close. Shit! He lunged and gripped the edge of the pilot seat as he approached. "Agent! What's our status?" She didn't even look up from the various aging gauges beside her. "Two ships, Talon. Seven thousand yards at 2 o'clock, one 8000 yards at 5. They act like the new Nimbus B-790's. Too big to be fighter jet, though." Her eyes did a quick sweep of the control panel and room. "No idea what weapons they've mounted on those. We've got no speed boosters, no weapons. Fuel is decent, but not for what those guys are capable of. We're too heavy for advanced maneuvers." Her voice was tight, her grip on the steering wheel even tighter. "Well, what /can/ we do?" "Either drop the payload or drop all of you guys. Pick." "Be serious, agent! What are our options for escape?!" "Few. Either we land and surrender, get blasted out of the sky, or we drop everything to try and run." "Negative. Get us out of here /with/ the payload and all agents in tact!" She finally whipped around with an incredulous look. "This is a /cargo/ ship, you asshole! Designed for transporting the fucking payload and staying off any frequencies that are used nowadays--not for stupid aerial fights like one of D.Va's video games!" "Agent!!" "Fine!" She turned her attention back to the controls, jutting out her swollen lower lip in a scowl. The way the ship pitched almost launched him straight onto the controls, but the hand on the chair instead forced him to pivot straight into her. Before he could even attempt to catch himself, she straightened up and folded in /on top/ of him, her elbows dug into his back and forced him on his knees and visor-first into her lap. His indignant shout was muffled by the thick puff of her vest, but he could feel her working desperately above him, grasping at levers, reaching to flick switches. He could hear her, "Adjust cabin pressure. Wind speed is...Coming from...OK! Course. Due west, 20 degrees--3000 feet. Hold on!" The ship rocks violently as a blast from one, or perhaps both, of Talon's ships skim the ship. Did it even skim it? Hit it? He doesn't even know anymore. He felt his body momentarily attempt to defy gravity as the ship tilts to avoid the strikes, and her upper body pinning him to her lap. The voices of the other agents were largely muffled by the rattling. Talon knows better than to carelessly fire at a vessel in international skies like these. But that only means they will try to end this as quickly as possible. The first rounds were most likely a test to see the minimum requirements needed to bring this thing down. He hoped that test didn't damage anything important. "These planes can run on tin foil and tape. We're fine," he once recalled her saying right as he saw her try to take off with a partial wing. Her attempt was quickly vetoed despite her eagerness to prove her words. It was against all safety protocols to let her fly that way, and it was against everything he did for to let someone go off in those conditions. However, his expertise at aerial warfare was mediocre at best, and while he is in charge of the mission, it doesn't mean he wouldn't deflect to someone with more knowledge if the situation called for it. "Agent, what can we do?" There's a terse silence. She picked up the speaker with resolute determination, and declared over the crackling announcement system and rumbling of the plane, "State of emergency. Strap yourselves down. Stay away from all doors and windows. Sorry about your ears." She placed the speaker in its cradle and lifted her elbows off his back, and nudges his stomach with a short jolt of her knee. "Get in the other seat." He hauled himself off the floor--his knees hurt--and buckled himself down in the co-pilot seat. He watched her work to keep this vessel in the sky long enough for their cargo and all members on board to make it back home in one piece. Without compromising the location of the watchpoint, of course. --- He knows with no small amount of certainty that she could outdo those Talon ships. An average person whom has had a brush with death on every single flight she's been on prior to her education, she had been determine to learn how to pilot planes with an unmatched passion, even if that passion stemmed largely from a near obsessive sense of self-preservation. --- "Don't underestimate my skills, you third-rate /trash/!" He's sorely tempted to correct her on her choice of words, but another sharp turn forces him to snap his mouth lest he wants to be short a tongue or several pints of blood. --- "What was that?" He snapped. "...lost an engine. We're good, though." If he wasn't who he was, he'd faint right where he sat. As if sensing his trepidation, she added, "This thing doesn't actually need all that many engines. One or two isn't going to kill us." --- He didn't let himself breathe a barely audible sigh of relief until the sweet embrace of safety became more of a reality. --- "Cargo ship or not, this thing is me and Winston-approved." He doesn't even want to know what that entailed. From experience, he could surmise that this agreement was the result of a back-and-forth tug-of-war between Winston insisting on outfitting the planes with newer technology and her biting back about the reliability of foregone technology, which no one but her would be able to use, by the way. "Talon doesn't even know how this stuff works, so they won't be able to hijack it!" Winston would add with no small amount of scathing, "It's essentially a hunk of junk, so they wouldn't even bother taking it." That would start a new fight. Or an "intellectual conversation", as you both would put it. --- Hana prided herself on being able to easily handle one of the most technologically advanced pieces of combat machinery that this era has to offer, whereas she takes pride in knowing technology that the rest of the world has abandoned, ancient machines whose inventor have been long buried and the technology practically extinct. If she were gone, there would be no other person who'd be able to pilot this. Hana has tried, found she didn't enjoy it especially if it wasn't equiped with technology from this century. Many of the items had to be manually calculated, and requires an extensive amount of knowledge to properly manipulate. With enemies like Talon, mistakes were not affordable. But neither are top-class drop ships, she had said with barely concealed smugness. Yes, but these things were practically antiques meant for museums, not delicate missions by which a good portion of Overwatch supplies were delivered by. It was madness to have only a single pilot and a single ship for this purpose. This was why backups and contingencies exist. --- "One of the straps--the cargo--it's snapped!" Both their heads whipped back at Tracer. Barely a beat passed, but he almost tripped himself at the speed at which he launched himself out of the cockpit. "Keep the ship steady!" He yelled without looking back. "Like a scale!" He didn't have time to even argue about how little sense that made or how that was not a comforting analogy in the slightest. --- She made no move to leave her seat, body still hunched and hands clasping the steering wheel with a death grip. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Agent. It's over...good work," he added. She nodded slowly, eyes glued to the windows in front of her where there was nothing but the innards of the hanger, but he could see her in her head, flying thousands of miles in the sky, still looking out for the enemy ships, ready to start flipping switches and reading gauges, and do whatever necessary to live. He landed a heavy hand between her shoulder blades with an audible 'thwack', and she finally jumped. "What's that for?!" "Time to go, soldier. Get off this hunk of junk and rest." He didn't even turn on his heel before she pried her hands from the wheel and unbuckled herself in a hurry, muttering profanities under her breath. "--not a hunk of junk! I'll have you know this 'hunk of junk' saved your asses, not to mentioned it carried that giant payload here without dropping it, /and/ we got the slip on Talon--" He kept walking, her usual complaints bounced off his back as they and she followed him off the trusty old vessel that almost got them killed, but also brought them home. "Don't ignore me! You take that back!" Yes, home sweet home.
He takes a quick survey of the server room and hums, pleased, when he spots labels at the very top of each rack. He makes his way down the rows of towering, humming cages--A1, B1, C1--makes a turn at D1 and finds the one. D4.
He looks the rack up and down, taking note of each server that has been meticulously labelled with a serial code and the cables for each machine has been looped together and set off to the side, giving an unfettered view of the back workings of the machines. It was a beautiful rack, if he ever saw one. He thanked the person who was responsible for this--both because the level of organization was flawless and worthy of praise, and because it made his job just that much easier.Â
The lock for the rack that held these machines gives way easily under his picks, the door swings open with an unceremoniously click and he is rewarded with a cool blast to the face from the wind of the many fans in the rack.
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He runs his hand through his greying hair in frustration. His hairline will recede a lot more at the rate this conversation is going. âNo. She did fine.â
âThen you have no excuse.â
âShe is not cleared for this mission!â
âAlready taken care of.â
âBut I didnât give her clearance!â
She levels him with a look; the same look that silenced the boisterous ones in the crew, and had the more serious ones lower their gaze and head and call her âMaâamâ. His neck strains with the effort to not lower his head or eyes.
The temptation is difficult to resist, but he manages.
She speaks softly, but with a thinly veiled bite behind it that will accept no protests or compromise. âShe will participate in the next mission. Your personal feelings are just that. Do not left it interfere with your thought process.â
His gut twists at her words, but he takes the last bit for the dismissal that it was, using every ounce of his self-restraint from flinging her baseless assumptions back at her face like a child throwing a tantrum, and exits with the dignity he manages to maintain. It isnât until heâs out the door that he realizes with frustrating clarity that it always feels like hell to argue with her when sheâs right.
âIâm afraid.â
His head snaps up and to the side in surprise. Her voice betrays no trace of the fear she voices; nothing in her body language screams âfearâ, but here she is, speaking of it as though it were the realest thing she has ever said.
â...Weâll get through this.â
The nearby gunfire gives so very little credit to his words; they are both left without any weapons, healing aids, or method of escape. Their only hope was this flimsy shelter of fallen rubble in the midst of this wasteland where one misstep could easily compromise their position. He places a tentative hand on her thigh, which tenses even more so than it was previously--it must be the nerves, no matter how many missions youâre on, if youâre about to die, itâs only natural to be nervous.
âI promise.â
She regards the scenery beyond the single piece of fallen rubble that covers them from enemy sight with cool regard before she closes her eyes and leans her weight against him. Itâs his turn to tense, and his heart just aches at the sliver of vulnerability she shows, but he returns the gesture and shifts some of his weight toward her.
âI promise,â he repeats, surer this time.
She doesnât argue, but smiles a rare indulgent smile that makes him believe that may, just maybe theyâll be able to make it out of here.
She let out a hiss and took in a breath. Then exhaled loudly again. Her hands deftly rolled up her sleeves to her elbows as she sucked in another breath and let it out, as though it would release some of the heat from her emotions. When she looked at him finally, her lips were drawn in a hard line with eyes to match. She gripped the armrests of her chair so hard that he could easily make out the very definition of her forearm muscles in the dimmed room against the light of her many computer screens.
She had always been cautious about it; hiding any semblance of strength she held in her lithe frame with bitter determination in the form of ill-fitting clothes and layers. For her to not realize she was showing off meant one of several things. âSheâs angry,â he thought absentmindedly. The thought should terrify him, but it doesnât, not when her dark eyes shine with a glassy sheen of someone who was only several choice words away from tears.
Those words though come from her first in a hushed and harsh whisper, âI,â she ground out, punctuated by a hand to her chest, âAm expendable. You arenât.â
He cannot recall the last time he wanted to a punch a woman in the mouth so badly.
He regarded the woman curled on the couch with a look of aloofness that barely masked a tinge of disgust. Who sleeps on a couch in the common area where others sit and make merry? What sort of inconsiderate person would so shamelessly sprawl across the entirety of the main couch that faces the big screen with their fluffy geometric triangle blanket of pinks, purples and whites? In their pajamas no less? Does she not have a room?
His companion must have noticed the annoyance that began to creep up on his face. âAh, thatâs our resident cook. She usually sleeps here because she...â The rest of his explanation fades away when he realizes that the other had begun to make a swift exit. He sighed softly and looked back at the woman resting next to him, mentally apologizing to her before he followed the departing man.
The steady, and monotone voice of Blanche was the anchor that grounded their wits amidst this calamity. Even though Spark knew Blanche himself was just as stressed and unsure as the rest of them (there was a paleness to his lips that rivaled the color of his hair and the slightest beads of sweat trailing down his neck--Blanche never sweats; bastard's always as a cucumber), it was enough to calm the tremor in his hands. As long as Blanche was good, so were they.
The opponentâs Dragonair circled its trainer protectively, elegantly, and hung above her like an Arbok about to strike its prey.
"Give it up, Blanche. Your water pokemon can't beat my Dragonair!"
Such blatant haughtiness caused Blancheâs eyebrows to shoot up. Something in his eyes light up; Candela has seen that look when Blanche makes a breakthrough or produces a particularly articulate sentence for a complicated matter on a research paper.
"Water?"
A bland chuckle forces itself out of Blanche's chest. The laughter, originally humorless, transitions into amused and thoughtful snickers, and then snowballs straight into full-blown hysterical and uncharacteristic (potentially maniacal) laughter. The trainer is taken aback, as are all others whom has never witnessed this before.
It was endearing, Spark thought vaguely.
"What is water to a dragon?" Blanche asks to no one in particular, sweeping his hand in a dramatic motion. The mock philosophical question hangs in the air like his outstretched hand, the answer is a silence that mimics the ringing laughter mere moments ago. All eyes were on him, enemies and allies alike. Blanche chuckles again, and from his other hand previously hidden, he produces a single minimized pokeball.
And then Blanche hisses with barely concealed sadistic glee as he presses the button to expand it, "What is a dragon to ice?"
Before anyone could respond, the leader of Team Mystic pitches his pokeball before him in a well-practiced straight line before him. Spark barely had a moment to process that he recognized that pokeball (there was a deep scratch right over the side of the button over the two hemispheres from when Blanche fumbled it upon the pokemon's capture), before the ball popped open in a brilliant show of light.
Spark and Candela do not even have to see through the shining light to know who was summoned. They can feel it; the chill that sinks into their bones through their layers of clothes, the crackle of ice formations creep along the ground and walls, the stifling omnipotent presence of the legendary bird that hovered over them.
Articuno.
It is highly inappropriate, but something bubbled up from deep inside Spark.
This was originally a character study for Fukutomi, but I just canât bring myself to finish it. This is what I have, a lot of my thoughts arenât complete, but I just wanted to get this off my chest even though itâs not finished.
Disclaimer: This is purely my opinion or my view on Fukutomi Juichiâs 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 peopleâs. 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 hasnât been challenged like that in a long time. It feels nice to be challenged by someone who doesnât 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.
He places all his remaining faith in Manami. But please remember, at this point, Fukutomi has realized his limits, and surrendered to the fact he can't surpass Imaizumi.
I donât have any confidence that I can finish this, but I also donât think itâs fair to have this go on without a conclusion, so this is the closest thing I can do. My apologies for not finishing.
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. Arakitaâs eyes exude patience, and not even half the fire and irritation that heâs used to. There is none of the familiar snarling or snappish comments. His shoulders are the slightest bit tenseâwaiting, 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.
Itâs the same look the cycling clubâs manager gave when she confronted him about his injury.
The same look the schoolâs doctor made when he treated Kinjouâs 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 personâs 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 painâit wasnât 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 didnât realize it before.
<i>âHe should understand better than anyone what injuries can cost a person."
"Arakita used to play baseball. It was everything to him..."
âWhere do you get off on talking like you know anythingâwhat 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.
âIdiot.â
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."
Thereâs a pause and Arakita slaps him hard on the back. It almost knocks him off his seat.
âCome on. Letâs get you fixed.â The fire in Arakita's voice which held unspoken promises and assurance spreads and burns Kinjou from the belly-up. Yeah, itâs 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. Arakitaâs 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 doctorâs visit which Arakita insisted on accompanying him to. When asked where the money came from, Arakita wouldnât answerâinstead just gave a vague, âSomewhere.â It isnât until Kinjou refused to go into the storeâand no amount of pulling, cursing, bribing, or any amount of force could get him to go insideâthat Arakita tells him the source.
ââone,â he mumbled.
âIâm sorry?â
â-eryone.â
Kinjou gave him a confused look. âOnce more?â
âEVERYONE, okay?!â He yelled. âEveryone! Sohokuâs brats, Fuku-chan, Shinkai, even that weird beetle haired guy! Everyone, okay?â
He couldnât bring himself to stop Arakita from pulling him into the store after thatâhe 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 Arakitaâs or the store associateâs mindâthat was the brace for him. Any other wouldnât 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 goodâwell, as good as a brace framing an injury could look. It wasnât gaudy, but it was bigâit looks strange and somewhat out of place. Itâs 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 didnât 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 Kinjouâs leg hungrily. Their thoughts frame their faces quite clearly.
âEasy prey.â
âWhat a weakling, he wonât last.â
âThat thing is so heavy, he wonât be able to ride.â
Kinjouâll show them. Heâll show them all.
However, something else does not fail to escape his notice. There are a select few with the decency to eye Kinjouâs 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 Kinjouâs.
âDonât overthink that shit. Iâm carrying you, so ride like you usually do.â
Kinjou blinks slowly at him before regaining that smirk of confidence that he usually possesses. Â âAh. Iâm counting on you.â
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. Itâs 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 yearâs 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 wonât let that happen, he decides as he continues his lazy cruise toward the goal where he is sureâso sure he can almost taste itâKinjou is waiting for him, bulky brace and all.
<i>âArakita-san?!â
Arakita took a deep breath through his nose. He wasnât 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 couldnât 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 sheâll 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. âOnoda-chan, I need you to listen.â
âY-yes! W-w-wh-what is it?! Iâm listening!â
That sort of earnest stuttering almost brought a smile to his face. It was enough to keep him going. âOnoda-chan, listen. Kinjouâs in a bad spot.â
He had to jerk the phone away from his ears. âKinjou-san?!! What happened, Arakita-san? Did something happen? Is he okay? Sh-should I call the police?â
âNo, no. Kinjouâhe,â Arakita paused. He wasnât even sure how to explain this, but the memory of Kinjouâs flashing eyes and anguished voice in his ears forced him to find way. âHe needsâŚencouragement.
âHow do I encourage him?â Onodaâs 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. Kinjouâs smile turns fond, and Arakita begins to yell about what a bother the race was.
âBut you did great, Shingo.â
Kinjou opens his mouth to respond as per usual, but he stops. Did he justâŚ
The back of Arakitaâs ears are pink, as is his neck. Kinjou covers his mouth for a moment to suppress the awkward half-words that couldnât come out. Heâs glad that Arakita has his back turned so that he canât see Kinjouâs face match that color of his brace and glasses. Instead, he slaps the embarrassed assist on the backâhalf to steady himself and half to return the favor.
âYou too, Yasutomo.â
The hard muscles underneath his hand stiffens and it is flung off and he is attacked by flailing arms. âDonât call me by my first name, damn it!â
Well, he could wait, he decides. He can wait.
Theyâre both green in many ways. Life isnât just one straight path, after all.
There is a saying in the world that states all humans are incomplete creatures, once whole, but torn in two, condemned to search for their other half. The world, to prove its point, grants each person with the name of their other half at some point in life. However, the world is not so kind as to make it easy. Only part of the personâs name will appear, the full name will be revealed when the two people have touchedâbut only if both sides have their markings. There are stories of people whose soulmateâs name was carved in a location where the bearer cannot see, worse even, in a different language.
So, on a night shortly after InterHigh, to Arakita Yasutomoâs 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 ă was written, and then a ă. Shi-nâŚ
The rest disappears into the scar at his elbow.Â
The entire Hakogaku dormitory wakes up to incoherent screaming.
After multiple complaints and banging contests against the wall, the morning light eventually peers through Arakitaâs 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.Â
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 nameâthe thing is tiny! The scar was there first, for crying out loudâthe name shouldâve at least been written over it.
At least heâs not one of those people who have their soulmateâs name written on their face. Those people have it rough for more reasons than one.
Even among those with âShinâ in their last name, the numbers are depressingly small. While he knows itâs astronomically impossible for his soulmate to be in the same school and be the same age as him, he canât help but let his eyes linger on the few names with red stars next to them. ShinâŚ
It canât beâŚ
His heart speeds up just a little bit at the thought, his lips presses together into a line that canât seem to decide which direction it wants to go. If Shinkai is his soulmate, then thatâd be good because they wouldâve found each other, but itâd be bad because they know each other, going from friend to soulmate isnât unheard of, but itâs Shinkai. ItâsâŚ
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 doesnât keep the team from training still. Heâs 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 anyoneâ
That quiet Shinji guy from class 3-B, or that glasses kid in kendo clubâŚShinpachi 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 ifâhe 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 havenât 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 Shinkaiâs 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.Â
For the rest of the year, Shinkai arranges as many meetings between Arakita and the people whose names begin with âShinâ, most are brief with a nervous handshake in between. Shinkai has even suggested the possibility of the personâs name being only âShinâ, 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 Arakitaâs 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 theyâre together. But thatâs not really a surprise, Arakita even thinks it suits him to be so distant from this. Itâs good to get away from having to constantly think about the other half of your freakinâ 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 desperationâshort of actually going on social media because thatâs not the worldâs business, he is introduced to his sisterâs friends and his parentâs 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 peopleâs 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 heâll 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 heâll 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 soulmateâare 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. Itâs been months, he has gone over this. His parents told him before that itâll take time, and to just be patient. Donât think about it, they had said. But the incompleteness of the name makes him even more anxious than when he didnât even have one.
ShinâŚ
The hiragana could be written in many different ways in kanji.
ăć°ă like in Shinkaiâs name; new.Â
ăĺżăas in âheart and mindâ; he scoffs. How cheesy would that be?Â
ă俥ă meaning âtrustâ or 'believeâ.Â
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 doesnât 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 heâs destined to be one of those incomplete people. Incompleteâlike the stupid name of his soulmate.
When he meets Fukutomi the next day, they talk about literally anything other than the soulmate issueâthough Arakita also desperately wants to ask if the stoic captain has already found his. Even if he did, he probably wouldnât 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, thatâs surely how itâd 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 otherâs 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, orâ
âKinjou will be at Yonan,â says Fukutomi, sounding the slightest bit pleased. Itâs hard to tell with him considering the only thing he smiles at are puppy videos. But thatâs not an issue. Arakita can smell the slight change in mood.
Arakita can only nod his head in vague interest. âThat so?â
âYou should work with him as soon as possible. He isââ
âStrong, I get it already.â Arakita smiles a little. Good old predictable Fuku-chan.
The blond doesnât respond, fiddling minutely with his phone. Arakita wonders if this is Fukutomiâs way of encouraging him, telling him that Kinjou is there and so he doesnât 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 isnât so important, heâll probably see Kinjou at the cycling club anyway being the strong rider that he is. Chances are theyâll end up working together regardless. The club at Yonan canât be as big as Hakone Gakuenâs.
âHey, Fuku-chan.â
He grunts.
âBuy me a bepsi?â
There is a slight pause and Arakita almost retracts his request as a joke. âI suppose. Youâve done well to enter into Yonan.â
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 shouldnât be in a rush, soulmate or no, he has other people who make him feel like heâs complete.
Graduation comes and goes abruptly with little incident (unless you count Toudou bawling his eyes out as everyone sang the school anthem and Fukutomiâs bottom lip trembling the whole time as âlittle incidentâ). Though, heâd be lying if he didnât say heâs proud, too. Itâs been a long three years. Goodbye, his high school life. Thank you for everything.
Spring is about the begin, and so is college. Itâs 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 heâs moving to Shizuoka that theyâre 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 doesnât 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 couldnât bike away fast enough. Whatâs 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 familyâs disbelief and to his neighborâs 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.
Itâs not until he settles into his own dorm at Yonan does he realize itâs too quiet. He wonders if the rest of his days at Yonan will be like thisâsilent and calm.
His room is not yet set up, all possessions from home are left haphazardly by the door. Heâs 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 doesnât return to his new home until heâs thoroughly soaked in sweat and almost too tired to go up the stairs. Itâs 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 possibleâforget his sistersâ advice about smiling more often so he doesnât scare away any potential friends or any other potential anythings. He doesnât 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 Fukutomiâs advice, to seek out Kinjou. Though, he figures heâll see him once the clubs begin recruiting and activities begin. Heâs 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. LikeâŚ
Wait, wait. He said he was in no rush, right? Right?
âSohokuâsâŚcaptainâŚ?â
The man in question turns around calmly, eyes instantly crinkling into a smile. Arakita leans back for more distance. Friendly bastard.
âI had hoped to see you again, but I didnât think itâd be so soon.â
Arakita snorts. âYeah, me neither.â
He looks down to see Kinjou extend a hand and look at him expectantly. He narrows his eyes at him.
âDonât get so friendlyâjust because weâre in the same college and raced each other at InterHigh. Donât go thinking that means weâre best friends, got it?â
Kinjou opens his mouth to retort, but is interrupted by the professorâs 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 isnât 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 teammâex-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 oneâs health and how to properly address oneâs mother.
Though, Fukutomiâs messages were a little moreâŚspecific. He asks if Arakita has met Kinjou yet. Arakita answers, it must be because heâs eager to see the strength of a new combination.
ăI did. Heâs in my morning class.ă
ăI see. Congratulations.ă
ăCongratulations for what, Fuku-chan? ă
There is a long pause from the usually quick-to-reply Fukutomi. Itâs nearly bedtime when the blond cyclist replies and all he gets is a simple, ăItâs nothing. Good night.ă
He returns it and puts himself to bed, mulling over what he couldâve possibly meant. In the end, he decides itâs 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 Arakitaâs 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. âI told you, I donât need you getting all chummy with me. Even if Fuku-Chan recognizes you, youâve still got a ways to go with me.â
âIs that a challenge, Arakita?â Kinjouâs eyes twinkle slyly at him from above his frames. Arakita grimaces. âWhen we join the cycling team, I was hoping youâd be able to give me what you gave Hakogaku.â
âThatâs a lot of confidence youâve got there! Bring it on, I donât pull for just anybody.â
âWell, I hope I can meet your strict expectations.â
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 doesnât 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 doesnât understand Kinjouâs 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 itâs just Sohokuâs 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 backpackâs strap when he realizes what heâs 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 shouldnât 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.
âWait, no! Augh!â
Angry screeches fill Arakitaâs 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.
âDumb cat,â he grumbles to no one.
âArakita?â
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.
ââŚyou.â
âYou seemed to be in a rush after class ended, but I didnât expect this.â
âPiss off.â
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 catâs struggle. Itâs been less than a week and heâs already in need of a new article of clothing. When the cat is secure in Kinjouâs 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 âShinâ.
ăăăăă ăă ă
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 Kinjouâs face, which looked up to meet his eyes with equal shyness.
His eyes are the color of moss, of grass, of trees, of lifeâa new life.
ââŚyou?â
Kinjou lifts up his shirt with his free hand and turns slightly to reveal his ribs.Â
ăăă ăăăă¨ă
Engraved over some faded scars five fresh characters, all which contribute to formâŚ
Arakita Yasutomo.
âI was afraid my soulmate was going to be a famous mangaka or something. I wouldnât know how to approach them,â Kinjou jokes nervously, adjusting his shirt back to itâs 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. âBut Iâm so glad itâs you.â
Heâs glad? That itâs him? Of all people?
âIf you wonât pull for me, will you let me pull you up?â
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.
â
Shinkai looks up from his phone with a whistle. âJuichi, Yasutomoâs found his soulmateâit turns out itâs that Kinjou Shingo from Sohoku.â
The blonde law student nods at his watch and stands, âMm. I have to go, class is starting.â
Shinkai types out his congratulations and salutations and sends it out, taking the time to type out Fukutomiâs share, too.
âDid you know?â Shinkaiâs 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.
âHe told you, didnât he?â
Fukutomi doesnât 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.
â
Does this mean written language has always existed? Or did soulmates only come into existence when written language was created? Or was there a different method for finding soulmates prior to this? Does this mean that this world has a high percentage of literacy? There are so many questions.
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Arakita keeps his past carefully guarded in his heart, whenever asked about it, he would clam up and pretend he didn't hear anything. Kinjou never asks because it's unnecessary. They wordlessly agree to never speak of it regardless, but it's clear that if either of them needed to, the other would listen.
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.Â
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.Â
"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 howâd 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 heâs 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 canât help the smile that grows on his face. Good old (or young, in this case) Arakita.Â
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 doesnât 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.Â
Kinjou canât control himself from yelling, "Arakita!"Â
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.Â
Kinjou looks back at the youth who is waving off his teammatesâs concerns and is staring down his opponent. He flexes his arm experimentally and prepares for his next pitch.Â
âDonât do it,â Kinjou wants to shout. âYouâll regret it.â
But this Arakita doesnât know that.Â
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 umpireâs shout alerts the whole field to âStrike two!â He has only this one chance.
Kinjou takes a breath. Arakita would be able to live his dream of playing baseball. Heâd never have to suffer those lonely years in which his team hated him and he was shunned by his peers. He wonât have to cry over a broken arm that will hinder him for the rest of his life.Â
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 doesnât mean that some time in the future this wonât happen again. Itâs only a temporary solution. If they never meet in the future, he canât warn him again.Â
Kinjou shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, this is too complicated. Who is he to decide someone elseâs future? But he can still do it. He can still save Arakitaâs future even if it means that he wonât be in his. He can still...
âSTRIKE THREE!â
He knows he has no more chances when he snaps open his eyes and watches Arakitaâs 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.Â
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. Arakitaâs 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 Kinjouâs hands. No one hears him shouting Arakitaâs name, it seems.Â
âYasutomo!âÂ
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.Â
âAre you okay, you were turning in your sl--â
"Arakita, if--if you could redo the past, would you?"
"What--whatâs with you all of the sudden?â
Kinjou doesnât have time to explain, but he needs to know. âAnswer me, please!âÂ
âIdiot. Of course," Kinjou's heart sinks fast. "I would totally do it all over again if it meant that I could meet you."
Kinjouâs 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 fianceeâs stomach.Â
"Geez," he hears Arakita say fondly above him. "What's gotten into you?"Â
Kinjou feels Arakita stroking his back gently, grateful that he canât see his tears and that he doesnât ask about them.Â
After the painful incident a week ago, Arakita has put it upon himself to teach Kinjou the basics of fighting. Or at least how to throw a punch as last week's one-sided (for whom, though?) left him very aware just how little his friend knew about physical fist fightsâof how vulnerable they both were. Which is why they were here in Kinjou's sparse apartment, melded into one another as Arakita attempted to correct Kinjou's form.
He held fast onto Kinjouâs shoulders and twisted his upper body toward himself and nudged at Kinjou's feet with his toes. If anyone saw this, they couldâve 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 werenât quite dating, but they were extremely closeâit 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 itâheck, 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 facesâcowards.
âFirst-years at Yonanâs cycling club, eh? That you two? The new upstarts?â
Arakitaâs mouth pulled into an unpleasant snarl. âWho the hellâs asking?â
He pointedly ignored Kinjouâs subtle tug on his sleeve and urgent whisper of, âArakita, donât.â It was useless anyway, these guys undoubtedly came for a fight, if that one bastard holding a baseball bat was any indication, and they wonât 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.
âYou donât need to know that. Just do us a favor and stick out your necks.â
Arakita resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the clichĂŠ 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, âNecks? You arenât the boss of us.â
âExcuse us, but we donât want any trouble. Could you please let us leave?â
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 âthwackâ 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 friendâs. This didnât 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 couldnât blame him, heâs scared, too.
There was the sound of movement from behind Arakita, and he knew that Kinjou was in danger.
âKinjou!â
Kinjouâs back pressed hard against his, there was the sound of a punch and an âoomph!â It sounded as though someone got hit. Arakita wasnât safe eitherâthe guys in front of him began to move, too.
âBring it on, you fucks.â
âArakita, please donât goad them.â
He couldnât 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 wasnât 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 âthunkâ 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 comradeâa 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 somethingâanythingâto 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 couldnât breatheâit 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 didnât know what to do other than to over himself as best as he could with his arms. At least they werenât going after Kinjou just yet. Probably because heâs 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 didnât 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 wasnât 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 schoolâs name as soon as he regained his balance, and looked at the cause of the meleeâs 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 personâshorter 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 Arakitaâs and Kinjouâs previous efforts.
âVice-captainâŚâ The title dropped from his open mouth in shock upon recognizing the man. What the hell was he doing here?
The Yonanâs 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 couldnât 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 couldnât let his senpai get injured or possibly killed because he didnât 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 taughtânot English nor Japanese. The humming reminded him briefly of a very small brat, draped in reds and yellows.
The bat-assailant movedâclosed 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 batâit 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 wouldâve 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 situationâwithout 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 thugsâone 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 wasnât 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 thugâseemed to be the leaderâfell into a fighting stance. One fist up, one fist low, back straight, hips lowâit 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 movedâslammed his foot into the ground and then charged. The senpai spun on his heel, away from the thugâs 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 hisâpassively 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 visageâs ascent, but that missed when it could no longer follow the vice-captainâs 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.
âAre you a man or a monkey? Fight me seriously!â
The only response that elicited was a slow blink. Somehow, Arakita felt offended in the place of his senpai. How fucking dare this guyâhe couldnât even get a single hit in and here he is, goading the very person who he canât even touch.
The opponent grounded himself once more before he charged, clearly becoming impatient with his opponentâs antics and lack of decisive action. His punches were becoming sloppierâthe 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 clarĂŁo 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 beachâsome 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 guyâs 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 clubâs 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 personâs condition.
He whispered again in the strange language that Arakita did not know.
âNum vale-tudo com o karate, o Capoeira vencer.â
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.
"âŚcan you stand?â
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, heâs 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 heâd 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 yesterdayâs incident took place. He spent the day slightly jumpy at everyone and everything, but his main goal was to confront the Yonan cycling clubâs 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 didnât 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 doesnât seem as though heâs 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.
âAre you okay?â 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 Arakitaâs confusion, and answered, âThey were from a rival school. Those assholes have been acting suspiciously, but to think that theyâd do thisâŚâ 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.
âIâm so sorry this happened,â He said quietly, bowing. âTheyâre being dealt with by the police right now. We got their student IDs, and turned them over. Weâd prefer if you let us handle it, and you just focus on your recovery. Iâm really, really sorry this happened.â
Arakita wasnât sure what to say. He didnât know whether to be angry or what. It wasnât the captainâs fault or anyoneâs fault, it was just the act of jealousy from a rival group.
The only thing he could say was, âThe vice-captain saved us. He fought them off.â
The captainâs spine snapped straight up, the wrinkles around the corners of his mouth grew deeper. Â
"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 wasnât 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 annoyedâor 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 didnât 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.
âDonât worry about it, Arakita,â he said when he was approached. The upperclassmenâs voice seemed hoarse, like he was screaming. âThe captainâs justâŚworried about the team. Please donât tell anyone else in the team what I did.â
When Arakita questioned itâhe saved them, shouldnât everyone know thatâhis senpai shook his head. âI canât have everyone knowing what I do. ItâsâŚcomplicated.â
They both fell silent until his senpai sat down beside him, a resigned slump in his shoulders.
ââŚitâs related to my familyâs history.â He shook his head. âIf people knew it, they wouldnât handle it very well. So please, please donât tell anyone what I did.â
After Arakita agreed, he decided that heâd have to train. Not just in cycling, but in fighting, too, so that heâd never have to trouble anyone else again. He had to make sure that Kinjou, too, was able to defend himself even if he wasnât 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 himâasking 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 secondâŚâ
"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, howâŚreliable. 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 nightâKinjou mustâve gotten in a few hits. They were standing for quite a while before their senpai came to rescue them. That mustâve meant that Kinjou was able to hold his own during that time. AndâŚthe baseball batâŚ
That shove! The one before the bat hit KinjouâŚ
âYouâŚtook that hit for me. The one from the bat.â
A shaking hand reach over to touch the patch of gauze on Kinjouâs head. He flinched a little bit, but didnât move away. Instead, he flushed a little and looked down.
âI couldnât let you get hitâŚâ 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 sadnessâso many things. He gritted his teeth and grabbed Kinjouâs hand off his shoulder and brought it to his lips.
âForget it,' he decided firmly as he laid a gentle kiss onto each of Kinjou's knuckles. âForget this shit.â
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 doesnât mesh very smoothly. Â
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 familyâs history (ie. his parents are immigrants from Brazil whose grandparents migrated from Japan). The captainâs 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, itâs just ineffective in the hands of an inexperienced person. This is true for all martial arts.Â