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The first time Arakita visited Fukutomi’s house was just before the start of eleventh grade, back when he called Fukutomi “Stoneface” in his head more often than “Fuku-chan.” He had been impressed by the size of the house, yeah, and by Fukutomi’s cool older brother, but he was even more impressed with the sight of Fukutomi crouched in the gigantic, brightly-lit garage, putting together a kid’s sized pink bike.
“My sister’s,” Fukutomi had said. He was holding a screwdriver. “She rode straight into a tree yesterday. But the frame is strong.” He ran a hand over the pink frame. “What’s broken cannot always be fixed, but the least one can do is try.”
And Fukutomi had fixed it. The bike was as good as new, Arakita realized when the kid sister took it out for a spin. Amazing, Arakita had thought, and he wished that it was as easy to pound and twist other things back into working order, like his elbow.
Arakita isn’t sure to this day if that afternoon in the garage is what caused him to choose engineering as his major: it could have been his mother’s suggestion, maybe, or just him being practical and thinking about how it’s important to have money and that engineering is the fastest way to get at that money. But he does remember that day when he is graduating from Yonan, when he is getting a paper that says that Arakita Yasutomo has a B.S. in Mechanical Engineering. He remembers that afternoon and Fukutomi saying in that deep voice that Arakita has become so fond of, “The least one can do is try.”
“Thanks, Fuku-chan,” Arakita says as soon as the ceremony is over.
Fukutomi looks at him with a puzzled expression. “What for?” he asks.
Thankfully, Toudou butts in at this moment, yelling about how he has never heard Arakita say thanks before and is Arakita getting soft in his old age. Arakita has an excuse to turn away from Fukutomi and yell. By the time he has finished chewing Toudou out, Fukutomi is more concerned about lecturing Arakita than asking about earlier.
And then Shinkai is there too, adding his congratulations and his own words of encouragement. Shinkai and Toudou are both standing unnecessarily close to him and Fukutomi, like this is the last moment they’ll have together. Pathetic. What’s worse is the weird lump Arakita has at the back of his throat.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he says, waving his arms in hopes that they will move away. “Enough with this sentimental bullshit. Let’s go celebrate!”
After four hours of dinner and karaoke (their last nod to celebrating university-student-style, probably), Fukutomi and Arakita go back to their apartment building. When they reach the elevator in the lobby, they find a paper stuck to the doors, declaring “SORRY.”
“Those dipshits on the fourth floor must have been riding it up and down again,” Arakita says. He takes out the fountain pen his mom gave him for graduation and scribbles “Stick your sorry up your asses, dipshits” underneath the SORRY.
He puts his pen back into his pocket and then glances at Fukutomi, who is already a little flushed and leaning heavily on his left leg. But Fukutomi makes no move to reprimand him. Either Fukutomi is tired, or he’s also angry about the elevator.
Arakita says, “We can go crash at Toudou’s place. Hang on, let me call a cab.”
“I can take the stairs,” Fukutomi replies, heading for the stairwell.
Arakita knows better than to argue. He follows Fukutomi up the five flights of stairs, yells three times about how slow Fukutomi has gotten, slow like a shitty old man. Back in the apartment, Arakita warms up a heat pack and then presses it to Fukutomi’s right knee. He kisses Fukutomi hard on the mouth, swallows all the protests about how Fukutomi is “strong” and is “just fine, put the heat pack away, Yasutomo.”
***
The thing is, even though Arakita studied engineering and likes the field, it was always a fallback career for him, something to do when he was too old and injured to carry Fukutomi to the finish line in their pro races. But then Fukutomi decided that he wanted to become a coach after graduation rather than go pro. Arakita had felt a little dejected, and angry, about the fact that he would have to give up his place in Fukutomi’s life sooner than he had previously thought.
He was still hoping for a while that Fukutomi would change his mind, but then Fukutomi tore up his right knee during their final university cycling tournament. So, coach it is, and engineer it is.
The weird thing is that Fukutomi still seems to want him around, so they got an apartment together last month, and Arakita accepted the first job offer he got, even though it’s about as interesting as a straight-up salaryman job. The first Monday after graduation, he puts on an ugly suit and takes the 6 A.M. train to work.
“It’s not a salaryman job,” Fukutomi says that night, Arakita’s first night as a model citizen. “You’re part of a team that is building better, safer cars for people.”
“It’s just research,” Arakita protests, cheeks warm. He pokes at the soggy rice Fukutomi has made for dinner. “I just followed some suits around and took notes as they felt up some cars. Boring, right?”
Fukutomi says, smiling a little, “No need to complain, Yasutomo. Soon you will be the one feeling up the cars.”
Arakita wants to laugh, but he doesn’t want to encourage Fukutomi, who has gone from having no sense of humor to dangerously-close-to-daddy-jokes territory since they graduated from Hakone Academy. And he’s kind of embarrassed about saying, “You’re the only one I want to feel up, Fuku-chan.” So, Arakita says, “Good thing you’re starting work soon. Then we can get Toudou to cook for us.”
“We can’t impose,” Fukutomi says, frowning at the rice. “I will cook before going to work. Your mother said that there is a wonderful gadget called a Crock-pot. We can put the ingredients inside, and the meal will be cooked by the time we return home. I’ll buy one and try it out. I don’t mind.”
“I mind!” Arakita says, and when Fukutomi looks sad about this, calls over Puppy, their eight-month-old poodle.
Puppy starts sniffing Fukutomi’s socks and whining for food, and Fukutomi is smiling gently again, like Arakita knew he would be.
***
Fukutomi doesn’t like to talk about his problems, at least not with Arakita. He prefers to work them out on his own or confide in Shinkai. And that’s okay because Arakita has always been bad with his words. He doesn’t hold back usually, but he tends to compensate for his lack of eloquence with an increase in volume, until he’s shouting at the top of his lungs and sometimes frothing a little at the mouth. What could he have said to Fukutomi about the knee anyway? That’s too bad? Sorry you have to go to therapy every month? Sorry you couldn’t get a position at Meisou or a better university because of the knee? I’d do anything to fix it for you? I’d give you my right knee?
(He wishes he could, he wishes he could. Fukutomi hasn’t been able to fix the elbow, but he fixed another part of Arakita, the part that was lonely and aching and miserable. Fukutomi had stitched it up with his words and his faith in Arakita. There’s a thick red thread holding the wound closed now, like the stitches in the tough leather of a baseball.)
“Go get ‘em, Fuku-chan!” Arakita says the morning of Fukutomi’s first day at work. “Show those bastards how it’s done.”
“They’re not bastards,” Fukutomi says, pulls so hard on his tie that he starts coughing.
When he has finished his coughing, he continues, “They are young cyclists with dreams about going pro.” He nods to his mirror reflection. “They just need a guiding hand. Maybe not too strong of one.”
In the kitchen, Fukutomi tries to crack an egg into Puppy’s food bowl. “You’ll be great!” Arakita says, taking the egg away from him. “Just do what you always do, right? Assemble a strong team! It’s no different except you’re not going to be the ace. See ya later, okay?”
“Okay,” Fukutomi replies, pouring coffee into the frying pan.
Arakita waits for Fukutomi to sit at the breakfast table and then he gets on his knees and sucks Fukutomi off, nice and slow. The tension leaves Fukutomi’s body after that, but as Arakita is leaving, he sees Fukutomi checking the roots of his hair in the microwave door.
As he is walking to the train station, Arakita regrets the fact that he wasn’t able to soothe Fukutomi’s nerves. Shinkai would’ve had the right words, and Kinjou wouldn’t have needed to say anything at all. Kinjou would’ve just put his hand on Fukutomi’s shoulder, and Fukutomi wouldn’t have had a moment of self-doubt after that.
Whatever, Arakita thinks, squaring his shoulders. He did what he could. And he isn’t going back to the apartment now. That kind of shit is too embarrassing anyway. They’re both grown men. All that mushiness is a slippery slope. The next thing he knows, they’re going to be calling each other “honey” and “baby.”
***
By lunchtime, Arakita is itching to leave work. He kept checking his phone for messages from Fukutomi while he was out at a Toyota factory with his research team, and now that he is back in his cubicle, he keeps opening his desk drawer to look at the framed photograph he has of Fukutomi. The picture was taken at Fukutomi’s last birthday party. Fukutomi is in the process of cutting his strawberry cake in it, looking very serious, a ridiculous yellow party hat perched in his bleached hair.
Arakita really wants to see how Fukutomi behaves as a coach. It’s probably no different from how Fukutomi was as a captain, but Arakita wonders what the students will make of their new stonefaced coach. They probably won’t mess around too much because they’re too old for that, but they could be dismissive and make Fukutomi feel like he’s not needed. Fukutomi is already suffering enough with that knee. He’s already lost some of that unshakeable confidence he had in himself before.
Arakita gets up and walks to the boss’s office. After promising the old guy tickets to the opening ceremony of this year’s Tour de France – the Fukutomi family always has extras lying around because of the elder brother – Arakita manages to get permission to leave two hours early that day.
***
Arakita takes the train to Fukutomi’s university. He remembers, just before stepping onto the platform, to fix his tie.
He has to be imposing, Arakita tells himself. Kind of like a yakuza boss. Show those students that Fukutomi shouldn’t be messed with or things will get very unpleasant very fast.
He marches up to the facility designated for the bicycle team, kicks the doors open, and saunters in.
“Oi, brats!” he shouts.
The brats look his way. Arakita hesitates.
They’re much younger-looking than he had expected. Short guys, with pimply skin and chubby cheeks. Some of them are on the rollers, already sweating buckets even though they’ve probably been at it for less than an hour. Weaklings.
And the rest are hanging around Fukutomi like Fukutomi is the best thing that has ever happened to them. One of them, a guy with a mean look and bandages covering his elbows, is actually holding onto Fukutomi’s sleeve.
“What the hell?” Arakita says.
“Watch your mouth, asshole!” the mean-looking guy says. “Fuku-chan says we can’t use bad words.”
Arakita is so angry, he sees red for a moment. When he comes back to himself, he finds Fukutomi pulling him outside.
“We’re going for a ride in a few minutes,” Fukutomi is saying, his hand cupped around Arakita’s elbow. “Over on those hills. Why don’t you meet us there, Yasutomo?”
Arakita glances at the guy who dared to call his Fukutomi “Fuku-chan.” The guy laughs.
Arakita hasn’t finished his conversation with that jerk, but he doesn’t want to get Fukutomi in trouble. So he says, “Fuku-chan, don’t get involved with your students! It won’t end well.”
Fukutomi raises his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?” he asks.
“Never mind.” Arakita pokes his head back into the training room, yells, “I’ll be keeping a close eye on you brats today! A very close eye, got it?!”
***
It feels weird, not riding up those hills with the students. He and Fukutomi are standing on the roadside like a pair of spectators. Just last summer they were racing towards a goal.
The first-year brats keep stopping during their rounds to ask Fukutomi questions, stupid no-brainers like “how was my time, Coach,” especially the guy who called Fukutomi “Fuku-chan.” He stops only after Arakita promises to replace his wheels with heavier ones for some “extra special training.”
The older guys aren’t asking questions, but they listen when Fukutomi tells them to fix this or that, and they make adjustments accordingly. Even the current captain, who’s one of those prettyboy types.
Arakita can’t remember ever being that dependent on a coach or a manager. He’s always been fine listening to the captain, back when he played baseball and later, of course, with Fukutomi. And in Yonan, Fukutomi’s voice continued to be at the back of his mind.
Fukutomi is advising his students in a much gentler tone than he ever used with his own teammates. There’s also too much unnecessary praise. Arakita has had to work hard to get comments like “you did well” from Fukutomi.
But whatever Fukutomi is doing is working because none of them are muttering about Fukutomi being a stoneface or a hardass. They aren’t commenting about his knee either. Good, because Arakita really doesn’t want to have to mete out some good old corporal punishment and then get hauled off to jail.
“They seem to like you, huh?” Arakita remarks, after about an hour of this.
Fukutomi looks surprised as he says, “I suppose so.”
His breath hangs in front of him for a moment before vanishing. Another cold spring evening. The shadows are lengthening, softening the edges of Fukutomi’s face.
Arakita says, “What’s with all the supposing, Fuku-chan. They should like you. You’re giving them pretty solid advice, right?”
Fukutomi glances at his clipboard, where he has been taking notes. His handwriting has gotten progressively sloppy over the years, and Arakita can’t read any of it anymore.
“I hope I can continue to do so,” Fukutomi says. “I can’t express myself too well, as you very well know.”
“That’s my line, Fuku-chan,” Arakita says. He pokes Fukutomi in the ribs.
Fukutomi moves away, frowning.
“You’ll be fine,” Arakita says. He considers telling Fukutomi about that day in the garage, the way it has stayed with him for all of these years, but that’s hard to put into words, too close to the heart. He says instead, “I figured out how to understand you, right? You were great with me, right? Look at how I’ve turned out.”
Fukutomi looks at Arakita. “Thank you,” he says, “but you’ve turned out well because of the choices you have made.” And then, smiling a little, “You’re strong, Yasutomo.”
Arakita clenches his hands. Damn Fukutomi and his straightforward, heartfelt words. Just blurting them out at any time and any place. Comforting Arakita when Arakita wants to be one doing the comforting.
It takes Arakita a few minutes before the tight feeling in his chest eases and he can breathe again. By this time, Fukutomi is back to watching the kids.
Arakita loosens his tie. He says, “This is what getting old is like, huh?”
“It’s not bad,” Fukutomi replies. He rests his hand on Arakita’s shoulder. “Thank you for being here with me.”
Before Fukutomi can take his hand away, Arakita turns his head, presses a kiss to Fukutomi’s fingers.