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If you ask Arakita in any given moment what his opinion on Shinkai might be, he'll give you a scoff along with his signature glare and probably call the bunny loving sprinter an idiot. As many times as people have asked him about Shinkai, his responses are always the same—unless you knew him you might think he hated the guy.
Arakita has never been a man of kind words. Saying mushy things about people, to people, messages that conveyed all sorts of sickly sweet romance wrapped in a bow, that wasn't for him. He was already wary about telling people he liked them; the few times he did that he couldn't shake his new followers for a few days. He idly reminisces about a tiny cyclist with coke bottle glasses beaming at him. Yeah.
He never planned to look at Shinkai any other way than that one guy who was on his team that always had a power bar between his lips. He never planned to stare at him, daydream about him in class, keep a slight eye on him at practice and in the halls. He didn't plan to fall head over heels for him. It just sort of, happened. It was a slow build, something along the lines of Arakita's incessant denial and inability to look away from thick lips anytime they mumbled his name, or laughter bubbled over them, or the way they glistened after he licked his lips clean.
It fell on him like a ton of bricks one morning though.
It was after a bout of angry sex, entangled in hot bedsheets and an even hotter room—because Shinkai can't figure out how to run the fucking AC properly (Arakita finally got it to work).
The two fell right asleep bundled together tight—because Shinkai is a cuddler and that's just something that Arakita had to accept along the way of their whacky and unconventional relationship—with Shinkai's arms wrapped solidly around Arakita's frame.
It's just shy of daybreak when Arakita wakes up. He cracks an eye open, looking around the hazy blue room, letting his vision fall into focus. It's nothing outside of a usual morning; him trapped between Shinkai's biceps, the slow, steady breath warm on his neck, cat curled into a pocket just before his hips,. He groans slightly and nuzzles into his pillow, wincing as the the morning sun begins to creep through the window behind him, bouncing off of the walls and bringing the room to a new level of sunshine.
He'll lie here for about thirty minutes, maybe an hour, and then he'll battle Shinkai's iron grip for another ten minutes before he finally shouts at the hibernating bear to wake the hell up. He puffs a lock of bed hair out of his eyes and arches his neck, shivering when the spot Shinkai's breath had been warming catches the light draft in the air.
He recedes back, pressing himself further into Shinkai's chest out of pure reflex. He immediately regrets the decision, since Shinkai is set to automatically adjust his grip anytime the poor bastard flinches. This kid definitely grew up sleeping with a teddy bear or something.
Sunlight is full bore in between the blinds, creating bars of light across the length of the room. Arakita thinks to try wrestling Shinkai early this morning, but before he can commit to his battle of arm wrestle, he suddenly grows curious.
They always sleep like this, Shinkai as the big spoon, Arakita huddled in a ball pressed against his chest.
He's never seen Shinkai's sleeping face.
A devilish grin slides across Arakita's lips for a brief moment. It's probably hideous. He may not snore, but he probably sleeps seriously ugly, maybe his jaw hanging open, or tongue out, something like a resting demon mode. Arakita tries to form a mental image, and he has to grip sheet of the bed tight to keep from laughing. If his face is as ugly as Arakita is imagining, he needs to grab his phone and snap a few photos. He reassures that his phone is nearby on the nightstand, gives one nod, and shifts his weight, rolling himself over just enough to peek at Shinkai.
Ugly. He's so ugly , Arakita thinks with a self-satisfied smirk.
His smug attitude gets hit with sunlight and goes flying against the wall. So does his breath.
Ugly isn't even a fathomable word right now.
He's deep in sleep, post sex-bed hair tousled, tangled, resting on his forehead, brows furrowed ever so slightly and lips curved, relaxed, full and swollen from heated, warring lip locks back at two in the morning. He's close, closer than Arakita thought he was, sunlight illuminating flecks of gold in his sienna-auburn hair, dusting over his tawny skin and creating shadows in the dip of throat. He smells musky, a mix of well sated lust and his endless supply of power bars, blended with this warm sunshine.
Arakita runs over every detail twice, three times over, his fingers twitching against the fabric beneath his fingers. His breathing is finally back, despite the slamming of his heart into his ribcage so hard he thinks Shinkai might feel it beneath his hands. His eyes are still tired, riddled with sleep, but they're fixated on what's in front of him because it's early in the morning, the room is bright and Shinkai is fucking beautiful.
Arakita didn't ask for all of these damned feelings. They just came washing over him at once when he was at a loss for words, mind blank with no concept of anything outside of the irrevocable elation jostling through his bones and turning his mind to complete mush. It's similar to the mindset he gets when Shinkai's voice is heavy in his ear, erratic breathing and the slapping of skin the only sounds in the room. But it's heavier than that. It holds commitment, something endearing. It strikes a chord of fear and excitement in him and twists knots into his stomach, punching out any attempts at gathering oxygen normally.
When he asked Toudou about it once—which he can't remember why he did but that's not the point—the self proclaimed expert said that falling in love was weird, unexpected, painful. And you know exactly the moment it happens.
What do you know, that headband wearing loud mouth was right.
That's what this is. It's love.
At 6:08AM, huddled beneath warm blankets, Arakita was sucker punched by unwanted affections towards a weird bunny fanatic who got excited over the dumbest things and ate way too much food; who giggled at awkward times and showed way too much affection in public. He'd fallen hard for a guy that clumsily shared a first kiss with him on the side of the road beneath a tree, and tried to seduce him in broad daylight, terribly.
It feels amazing, and it hurts like hell, and fuck if Arakita could look away for five goddamn seconds he might be able to breathe right, but he doesn't want to. He wants to soak in every drop of an incandescent Shinkai that sends Arakita floating to the curve of the earth.
“I hate you,” Arakita mumbles low, his voice hoarse and fatigued. “Why couldn't you just be ugly?”
It he tried hard enough he could flood Shinkai with a fusillade of mushy words between kisses, at the expense of his pride and the slight possibility that Shinkai would wake up on him—because although he's a heavy sleeper, the powers that be just hate Arakita so much that they'd probably wake Shinkai up just for shits and giggles.
He decides he'll keep the sentiment to himself, and instead he rolls over and cuddles himself closer to Shinkai, butterflying a trail of pecks in that dipped shadow of his neck. Stopping when he reaches his jawline. He nuzzles himself further into that shadow, warm against Shinkai's skin and sighs, fatigue retaking his mind and body. Thank goodness it's a weekend and they can sleep in. He bites away the small smile curving at his lips when Shinkai's grip adjusts around him and absentmindedly kneads into his lower back before drawing him closer.
Someday he might actually say the words, when he figures out how to not turn beet red and look for the nearest object to throw and match it to a curse word..
Shinkai's been the first at everything else. Maybe he'll be the first for once.