Chapter Text
Truth be told, Arakita couldn’t remember the last time he’d liked someone as much as Fuku-chan. It was, maybe, the crush to end all crushes, the kind of crush you can only get on someone who had maybe saved your life, if being obnoxiously earnest and good and kind could do that. (It could. Arakita gets restless when he considers what he might have done if Fukutomi hadn’t shown up when he did.)
And maybe, somehow, he’d gotten those wires crossed. The I’m-grateful-for-your-assistance-in-pulling-me-out-of-this downward-spiral and the you’re-perfect-and-I’ll-make-you-mine wires. Those.
Passion came back into his life through Fukutomi. It only made sense that this passion was all mixed up in the tall blonde boy. Arakita had felt intense desire before, but never so persistently, and those desires had been strictly sexual. Oh, he wanted to be with Fukutomi. He spent whole nights lying awake with the afterimages of long practices dancing before him, Fukutomi lounging in the shade, Fukutomi standing in his saddle, Fukutomi’s legs working away and straining right in front of him…Arakita could have composed a poem about Fuku-chan’s legs. Really, that kind of romantic behavior was what set this crush apart. Arakita didn't just want to be with Fukutomi as in sleep with him, he wanted to be with him as in...just, be with him.
There was something so comforting about Fuku-chan’s unique brand of stoicism. Arakita was prone to keeping his real feelings relatively secret. It was strange for him to see Fukutomi address everyone with the same tone, to never flick his eyes to the side while speaking, to say exactly what he was feeling. Somewhere along the line, long after he was proficient at riding--maybe around the time he and Fuku-chan were starting to really sync up--Arakita quit thinking about his crush as something that must be kept secret at all costs. Maybe, just maybe, Fukutomi felt the same way. Every time his captain smiled at him, clapped him on the shoulder, praised him, his confidence built.
The confession was terrible.
They were cleaning up after practice, and Arakita lingered at Fukutomi’s request, and it was one of those days where the sunset cast this golden light everywhere and there was something in Fukutomi’s voice, too, when he said “You’ve done very well these past few weeks.” Fukutomi stepped towards him, until they were mere inches apart. Something in Arakita’s stomach tightened. All of a sudden, it wasn’t safe to look at Fukutomi’s steady gaze, his mouth, his shoulders. Anything under his shoulders was definitely not safe.
Arakita doesn’t like to think about what happened next, but he does. Fukutomi leaned forward even more, and Arakita naturally took that as his cue to grab his jersey and pull him in for a rough kiss. It took a second for him to realize the captain wasn’t kissing back, at which point he drew back only for Fukutomi, stone like, to say: “I was just pointing out a stain on your uniform.”
And then, ever so gently, like Arakita is one of Shinkai’s bunnies who are all too easy to accidentally harm: “please take your hands off me.”
That was that.
Thankfully, Fukutomi forgave him. He really did. He didn’t get angry with Arakita, or hold him at arm’s length, although he did sometimes give Arakita questioning glances as if to ask, “is it okay that I’m this close to you?” because Fukutomi is obnoxiously earnest and good and kind, even to fuckups like Arakita.
That was all in the past. It still hurt like hell, stung at random moments, but it was over and done with. Arakita resolved to not repeat those particular mistakes, to focus on cycling and his new college courses and try to keep his nose to the grindstone. In fact, ever since Fukutomi he hasn’t looked twice at anybody. It isn’t until two weeks into the semester that Arakita notices a familiar face in some of his courses.
There’s really no mistaking the former captain of Sohoku, with his sleek buzz cut, deep tan, and red violet sunglasses. He doesn’t pay his former rival much mind, but when Arakita joins the group of freshmen who show up for cycling team tryouts, unintentionally comparing each body he sees with his old teammates (everyone is clearly inferior) he finds Kinjou Shingo to his direct left. Kinjou smiles and nods to the campus lawn. “It’s a beautiful day for cycling,” he says.
“Whatever,” Arakita snorts, irritable because 1) it’s true, and he likes to be contrary on principle and 2) a small part of him wanted to smile in return, because that is exactly what Fukutomi would say.