Chapter Text
It takes less than a day for Nobuo's threat to crystallize: only the night after their meeting, a doubtful morning, and one intolerably slow lecture lay between it and the moment Arakita reaches the clubroom the next day. He’s early, jittery, already sweating through his clothes.
Ejiri is waiting---and not patiently. The captain is pacing, vigorously wearing down the dirt path in front of the open door. When Arakita squints he can see Sakai looming inside it. Inexplicably, Ejiri is in a dress shirt, although Sakai wears his normal practice clothes.
How long have they been here? Arakita barely has time to wonder, and then Ejiri spies him.
“Well?” He demands, his voice booming in the open space.
“Well what?” Were he one for flinching, Arakita might have done so. Instead he steels himself as Ejiri stalks up the path towards him.
“I’m sure you remember what I told you regarding Nobuo.”
“Yeah...” How could he forget?
“Well, I’m waiting to see what you have to say for yourself,” Ejiri says grimly, looking down his nose at Arakita.
“Not much,” Arakita mutters. “What did he tell you?”
Ejiri sucks in a breath, but Sakai cuts him off.
“Ejiri, the time.”
The captain sighs. “You heard the man. You better figure something out, because we’re late.”
“Late for what?”
“For a disciplinary meeting, a real one this time.”
“A--what, like with a committee? Why the hell didn’t you let me know sooner?” Arakita takes in Ejiri’s clothes again, his agitation, and swears under his breath.
“Because I didn’t know about it.” Ejiri trades a dark look with Sakai. “Nobuo went over my head and complained to the director of athletics, no doubt making villains of us both, and today happens to be the only day the director will be on campus for the next, oh, six weeks so that’s why they’re seeing us today, now, literally now, come on ,” Ejiri pushes Arakita off the path, propelling him towards the parking lot.
“Arakita?”
Arakita looks to his right, where Kinjou has shown up for practice. He slaps Ejiri's hand away. “All right, all right!” He looks over at Kinjou and shrugs.
“Nobuo got what he wanted,” Kinjou guesses calmly. Arakita nods, and starts to move towards him, but Ejiri blocks his path.
“He’s not invited.” Ejiri says firmly, and then rushes past them, unlocking the beat up subaru. He’s not fast enough that Arakita’s glare is lost on him, though, and rolls his eyes. “Get in the car, tough guy.”
Arakita gets in the car, although his legs feel jellied.
“Yasutomo!”
Arakita’s head jerks up at Kinjou’s voice. He doesn’t quite hear what comes next, because Ejiri’s tires are shit and the squeal that they make fills his ears as they peel out of the lot, but it looks like Kinjou is telling him everything will be fine.
He’s not so sure.
“So where’s Nobuo?” Arakita asks as the club room disappears from view.
“Already there, I bet.”
Arakita notices how tight Ejiri’s grip on the steering wheel is.
“You’re really pissed,” he realizes.
“That idiot doesn’t know what he’s done,” Ejiri says lowly. “People only go to the director in cases of gross misconduct. The message here--” he pauses to laugh--- “is that you’re terrible, and I’m incompetent. This is the last thing the cycling team needs.”
Arakita’s not sure what this has to do with the team has a whole, but he doesn’t argue. He watches Ejiri scan the road for a turn off.
“Where are we going?”
Ejiri, who doesn’t deign to answer him, pulls to a stop directly in front of the main athletic building. Well, main athletic building in name. It housed, among other things, the Yonan baseball team's locker rooms, and the rear of it opened out onto the baseball diamond. Arakita can see the scoreboard from the car. Looking at the pristine building, it was clear the baseball program was the star of Yonan's athletic offerings.
Ejiri raps his knuckles on Arakita's window. “Get out!”
Instead of heading inside, Ejiri circles around to the trunk, pulling two ties out of a bag.
“We're lucky you're already in a shirt and vest. Put this on.”
Arakita accepts the navy tie and knots it as best he can. Ejiri regards his efforts with a sour face.
“It's better than nothing,” he says in a tone that implies the opposite, and trots through the doors.
As his heels click on the tiled floor, Arakita feels a sense of deja vu. The building is far removed from the facilities at his middle school, but it has the same feel, the same smell, even, and when the hall ends in a towering display of plaques, memorabilia, and shining awards, Ejiri has to yank him away from the glass.
“What's the matter with you, never seen a baseball bat before?”
“Why are we meeting here?” Arakita huffs. Ejiri is practically running down the hall towards a set of double doors.
“The director has two offices, one on the main campus and one here. He pretty much only uses this one.” He skids to a stop in front of the doors. “After you,” he says, pulling one open.
No less than seven heads turn to greet them. Only one is familiar to Arakita, and that’s Nobuo, looking more smug than Arakita knew people could be.
While Ejiri announces them, and apologizes profusely for their lateness, Arakita’s eyes rove over the assembled faculty members. Most of them are middle aged men with builds that speak of past athleticism---broad shouldered, soft bellied, similar to many coaches he’s seen. There are two exceptions: one a young woman with shoulders as broad as some of the men and zero softness about her. The other, at the head of the long metal table that has clearly been dragged here from somewhere else, looks to be more husk than man, and about a hundred years old.
Arakita is seized by the sudden notion that this man could very well die before business is concluded.
Who’s the geezer? He wonders, turning to Ejiri to ask that very thing. Before he can try, Ejiri jabs his ribs with an elbow thrown so subtly no one but him blinks.
“Director Okazaki, we’re ready to begin,” the woman says, turning to the husk. She gestures to two chairs set beside Nobuo’s, and they sit down, facing the long row of faculty.
Arakita tries not to fidget as the old man---no, Okazaki---reaches into a pocket and withdraws a pair of reading glasses with a shaking hand. He examines a typed sheet in front of him---Nobuo’s statement?---for only a second before looking up.
“Yes, well, why don’t you start, Ms. Arii?” He says in a voice as dry and paper thin as he looks.
Ms.Arii---Arakita has no idea if she’s a teacher, a coach, or something else---loses no time once the Director defers. She launches into a detailed complaint of Arakita and Ejiri’s behavior, apparently just for clarity as the other faculty check their phones and Okazaki stares pleasantly into the middle distance.
Her words are clipped, just shy of cutting, as Arakita hears the words:
Unwarranted aggression.
Lack of sportsmanship.
Feels unsafe.
And for Ejiri:
Failure to report.
Blatant favoritism.
Aside from snorting at the favoritism bit, which earns him an unamused stare from Ms. Arii, Arakita finds it difficult to focus. A man at the end of the table has a small laptop out, apparently transcribing the comments.
More than the table, more than Nobuo’s grin, or the ancient Director, or the stifling tie around his neck, the typing is what impresses on him the gravity of the situation.
“Excuse me,” Ms. Arii says pointedly, looking right at him.
“What?” Shit, he’d lost the thread of things.
“In lieu of a written statement, if you could explain in your own words…”
Somewhere in his mind, Arakita knows he’s sunk. First he thinks about catching up to Nobuo later, and giving him a real reason to feel unsafe. He thinks about how the faculty members look bored out of their minds, and boy, does that piss him off. He thinks about Fukutomi telling him to move forward, and Kinjou telling him things would be fine, and he takes a deep breath.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he says.
“Do you refute the statement?” One of the men ask.
“No. I did what he said I did. But we’re a week from our season opener and I need to be on the track, not here.”
“Young man, this is serious,” Ms. Arii begins, even as the Director looks blearily at the sheet in front of him.
“Who? Who is this?” He mutters. The man beside him points to a spot on the page.
Arakita looks at Ejiri, aghast.
“If I may,” Ejiri says.
“You may not,” Ms. Arii interjects. “We will hear from you in good time.”
Arakita is just wondering how Ejiri enjoys taking his own medicine when the director claps his hands together. “Twenty-eight to eight,” he says.
“Mr. Okazaki?”
“Ms. Arii, this was before you were with us. Nakamura, you were there. Six years ago, I think.”
Ejiri gives Arakita a desperate look. “He’s lost it,” he mouths.
But Arakita has frozen, and oddly enough, so has Nobuo.
Ms. Arii is starting to look impatient. “I don’t understand, Director, do you know this student?”
“No, no. A handful of summers ago, I saw him play at the middle school national game. Nakamura?”
The man who has been typing looks up at Arakita, eyebrows raised. “It was more than a handful of summers, Director.”
“I said, we should keep an eye on that one. There were high school talent scouts from Tokyo already circling, and it’s good to know these things.”
“There were,” Nakamura says, like that wasn’t forever ago.
Like it matters.
The Director is scanning the page with renewed interest. “My word. A starter.”
Ejiri is looking at Arakita like he’s grown another head.
“Such a coincidence...you,” Okazaki takes off his glasses, revealing a sharpness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, “are a talented young man.”
Ms. Arii clears her throat. “Director, he still hasn’t---”
“Director, if I may?” Ejiri chances an interruption.
“Ejiri,” the Director focuses on him and makes an affirmative humming sound, “Haven’t gone mad with power with your coach on leave, I hope.”
Arakita looks sharply at Ejiri, who ignores him as he leans forward to address assembled faculty.
“With respect, Arakita might have had a small tussle with Nobuo in the library, but it’s my fault. I tried separating the two instead of getting to the root of the problem.”
“And what do you think is the root of this problem?” Okazaki waves the piece of paper.
“I keep a close eye on the dynamics of the team. Arakita is sullen. He talks back. When he started, he had a chip on his shoulder.”
“Pitchers,” Nakamura sighs.
“But he soon adjusted. He’s shown incredible promise. As for Nobuo, he’s sullen, talks back and he still has a chip on his shoulder. He’s not a team player. He went so far as to fail to mention this very meeting to me, hoping, I’m sure, that we wouldn’t show up.”
“Is this true?” Ms. Arii turns to Nobuo, who currently has the complexion of a dead fish.
“You never quite got to the root of the problem,” Okazaki says evenly. “Although it’s good to have you as a character witness.”
“Right, I guess I didn’t. The truth is that one---” he nods at Nobuo--- “hates Arakita’s guts. If you ask me, Arakita’s no danger to Nobuo. But the reverse isn’t true.”
“I see.” The Director pushed his chair back and stood up. His hip made a cracking sound and Arakita winced in sympathy, though the man didn’t seem bothered. “I’m going to leave this in your hands, Ejiri. And Arakita. I don’t remember just any score. It was a shame not to see you in the high school tournament, but I see you have been working hard. Nobuo---”
Nobuo glares up at the director. “---you said that you felt unsafe around Arakita. But you seem to have been fine sitting next to him during the meeting, eh? Ejiri, we expect good things.”
Arakita finds himself spacing out as he trudges out of the room, staring at Ejiri’s back. He spares no glance for the decor this time and breathes a sigh of relief when the sunshine hits him outside.
Ejiri stretches with a groan beside him, then reaches into his pocket. “Shoot. Must have dropped my keys, hang on.”
Knowing the warren of hallways will take Ejiri a minute, Arakita wanders off the pavement into the grass, pacing towards the dugout.
He thinks about dialing Kinjou’s number, but he’s out cycling, after all.
He can’t believe someone like Okazaki would remember him. He is about to step into the shade of the dugout when someone pushes him from behind. Not hard enough, though. He retains his balance and calmly, like he’s done this before (although he hasn’t), hooks his foot around the person's ankle and pulls.
Nobuo topples to the floor.
“I don’t understand,” Arakita says, “what kind of idiot you are.”
For a second, when Nobuo twists, his eyes are filled with rage and Arakita braces himself. But it lasts only as long as the sinuous motion takes, and when Nobuo pushes himself to his knees he seems to deflate all at once.
“Get out,” he says, sounding as tired as Arakita feels.
He doesn’t have a right to sound that way, Arakita thinks. Like I started any of this.
“No.” He hesitates. “I don’t know if this is because you think something’s...between me and Kinjou, and you’ve got a problem with that. I want you to know; I don’t care if you call me a dog. Call me whatever. I chased you down once, and I can do it again. That’s all that matters.”
“I said get out,” Nobuo hisses.
Arakita considers, then turns away just as Ejiri approaches the dugout.
“Cosy in there?”
“Not really,” Arakita says, hoping Ejiri doesn’t go inside.
“Good, I don’t care. Let’s get out of here before anyone ruins our good luck.”
Arakita nods, and leaves the dugout without glancing behind at Nobuo.
Ejiri is silent until he pulls out of the parking lot, and glances at Arakita, then back towards the field. “So, what did you do to him? I saw him follow you.”
“Not a fucking thing,” Arakita scowls.
“I guess that was it.”
“You’re not making sense,” Arakita grumbles, but it’s half-hearted. He wants to tell Kinjou that he was right. And he wants to get on his bike.
“Well, when I ran back in there, Coach Arii---who’s pissed at us, by the way, so maybe stay away from the pool---let me know something. You guys attended the same middle school. You really don’t remember Nobuo?”
He doesn’t.
Ejiri nods. “Must have been eating at him every time he saw you.”
Okay, now he’s mad. “You’re telling me I went through all this shit because I---what, I didn’t say hi to him? It’s not like he told me!” He’d barely remembered Nobuo from high school races. Had they really been younger classmates?
Ejiri shrugs. “Don’t ask me, I figured it was something like this. Figured it was that or he had a crush on you. Or both. Look, he’s a piece of work. Don’t worry about it.”
“I wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t threaten to kick me off the team.”
“I was trying to keep the peace.”
“You were trying to cover your ass.”
Ejiri considers this. “Maybe a little. I’ll have you know Okazaki is not known for his generous rulings. He’s usually more hands off. It just so happens he loves baseball more than anything.”
“You’re not usually in charge of the cycling team,” Arakita remembers.
“Nope.”
“You’re not going to elaborate on that?”
“Nope.”
“You are mad with power,” Arakita says sourly.
“Oh, no.” Ejiri laughs. “That’s why we have Sakai. He keeps me in check.”
Arakita raises an eyebrow, but says no more.
Later, he struggles with what exactly to tell Kinjou. Ejiri seemed content to let the team know that everything would proceed according to plan, for which Arakita is profoundly grateful. He tells Kinjou enough to tide him over through practice, but they find each other later, after struggling out of sweat-soaked jerseys. Arakita finishes changing first, and watches Kinjou exchange his sports glasses for his regular rectangular frames, a transformation he enjoys.
“You must be relieved,” Kinjou says, smiling widely.
Arakita nods, trying to smile back, but it slips too soon. “Feels a bit like I’m going in circles.” And he tells Kinjou everything.
Kinjou frowns twice: once when their absent faculty coach is mentioned, and once when he relates how Nobuo came up behind him.
“I’m fine,” Arakita assures him when he notices Kinjou’s fingers twitch.
“He attacked you.”
“Yeah, but he did a bad job.” Another weak smile.
“You said you were going in circles?”
He is---the trouble with Nobuo lay with his time spent playing baseball, and that same time was what got him out of trouble. Fukutomi pulling Kinjou from his bike reminds him of the loss he felt back then, but Fukutomi is the one who pulled him out of that feeling.
And he’d said he was done with unrequited feelings, but here he is, right back where he started. The sun outside is even setting with the same color and intensity it had on the day he confessed. Could he...no.
Beside him, Kinjou’s eyes glint with light from the sun, a brilliant green.
No, definitely not. He would not risk this man’s friendship.
“Just a...stupid thought, Kinjou.”
“Arakita, I…” Kinjou looks away as his phone buzzes, then shakes his head slightly. He puts his hand on Arakita’s shoulder. “I am here for whenever you want to talk.”
Arakita nods, and stands up. He makes some excuse about laundry and turns away from the bright light of the sun, each step he takes a fight against the urge to stay and ruin everything with more talk.