Chapter Text
For the fourth time during this practice, Arakita notices Kinjou's speed drop. However, it is the first time that Kinjou's speed has dropped so drastically that Arakita easily sails ahead and barely has time to whip his head around to see Kinjou get swallowed by a crowd of first-years whom they are supposed to help lead through this course. He immediately stops pedaling, the cyclists behind him to slow down and split around him. The captain at the front yells for them to keep following, which they do with some scrambling hesitation. Arakita pays them no mind, instead watches the horizon behind them, waiting for the familiar flash of pink to appear.
The seconds tick by, pins and needles of apprehension line his back and creep their way into his stomach. He sniffs the air quickly but get nothing except the cool spring and the smell of hard work and sweat. There's nothing unusual. It is reassuring, but explains nothing.
Wait.
He sniffs again, furrowing his eyebrows. A distasteful grimace crosses his face, revealing his canines and gums. There's something there, hidden under all the other smells toiling in the wind—a faint but pungent and heavy scent. It's unpleasant.
"Kinjou!" Arakita yells.
He waits a beat, and then another. There is no answer. He tsks and decides to cycle back against the flow of the non-existent traffic. He is only vaguely aware of it as he pedals back, no other cyclist, not even the lagging first years who were dropped early into the practice, had passed him as he was waiting.
His stomach churns. What happened?
It didn't take too long to find the reason why.
Arakita can see it. Kinjou's Trek is left haphazardly on rails surrounding the trail, helmet tossed to the side. The left-over cyclists off to the side, observing the scene in hushed whispers. The unpleasant scent becomes suffocating, heavy and sharp. It invades his lungs and brings back vivid memories of years long past. He comes to a veering stop right behind an upperclassman, the one responsible for picking up the dropped members, kneeling before Kinjou.
Kinjou looks worse for wear, sitting heavily on the rail like he had no energy to keep himself up, an apologetic smile on his face. Sweat is running down his arms and temple, the sunglasses keep his eyes and expressions hidden. The upperclassman fires question after question, hands prodding and poking at one of Kinjou's knees, which is very red and very swollen.
The pleasant spring air does nothing to dissipate the overwhelming scent of pain that threatens to choke him. It's enough to make him nauseated.
The noon sun above shields itself behind several clouds, as though hiding its rays for better visibility of the scene—or hiding itself from what's to come.
"What...the fuck happened to you?"
***
Kinjou sits neatly on a chair, a pack of ice wrapped in a handkerchief on his knee. The nurse who gave him the ice pack tells him to stay where he is and left immediately after as though remembering something important. The room is quiet for the most part, a few students around who look sick to their stomachs or lack sleep. The doctor, a kind and understanding gentleman with a bit of a limp, is tending to his next patient after wrapping Kinjou's knee. For a moment, Kinjou debates picking up his bag from the ground and leaving.
A mere second after that thought, Arakita rounds the corner hastily and undignified. The nurse must've told him and let him in. Kinjou wonders briefly how long Arakita has been outside. He knows at least half an hour has passed since he was taken to the school infirmary. It is not beyond the realm of possibility for Arakita to have been waiting this whole time, but that's just wishful thinking. Maybe he just has really good timing.
"Kinjou," Arakita declares loudly, startling the few people in the vicinity including the nurse who has returned, "You're all good now?"
Kinjou considers the question carefully. It's true that he's 'all good now' because he has seen a doctor. However, the reality of the matter is that the combination of his knee pain and the practice from this morning is taking more of a toll on him than he'd care to admit.
Without an MRI or an x-ray or further analysis, it was difficult to determine the full extent of his injury, was what the doctor said as he bandaged the knee with knobby hands. Without such things, deep inside in the back of his memory, Kinjou already knew the cause. He had been made very aware of it a long time ago.
"I recommend seeing a specialist, sports injuries can be healed in taken care of properly and early." He knows, he knows. "If possible, I would like you to take a few days rest from cycling. I can only give you ice to keep the swelling down. When you get home, please do fifteen minutes with heat, then fifteen minutes with ice. Repeat this at least twice and keep it elevated when you sleep. Take pain medication if it becomes worse."
"Yes, sir," He said automatically. He had heard this all before, and hoped that would be the end of it. The doctor finished placing his final touches on the wrapping, but did not seem finished with the situation. Kinjou could see the internal struggle on the doctor's face through his deepening wrinkles. Somehow, he knew he wasn't going to like what would come out of his mouth.
"Listen, that knee..." The doctor hesitated. Kinjou straightened his back instinctively.
"That knee...do, do take care of it." The doctor looked up and stared straight into Kinjou's eyes, weary and desperate—no, there was more than that, but what? Regardless, that look sent shivers down Kinjou's back. It unnerved him just a little. It sounded like he wanted to say something more, but unable to find the right words. However, he knew what the doctor wanted to say.
'That knee has been badly damaged, I don't know how much longer you should continue.'
Those unspoken words hung in the air and over his head. He knew it, the doctor knew it. If said out loud, Kinjou wasn't sure what he'd do. It would not change reality, but it would change Kinjou's perception of reality. It would make reality all the more concrete. So he pretended not to hear him, just like all the other doctors.
Kinjou gives a well-practiced smile.
"The doctor said to just take it easy for a few days, nothing serious," he says smoothly.
Arakita's face contorts into some scowl—Kinjou doesn't recognize the meaning behind it, but it looks close enough to annoyance that it doesn't matter. He just hopes this will sound just as convincing and casual when he repeats it to the captain and the upperclassmen.
"Idiot," Arakita says finally. "That's what you get for doing reps at five in the morning." He bends down to grab Kinjou's bag off the ground.
"Morning reps are important," Kinjou says with a hint of indignity as he gets up. He holds out his hand, ready to receive his belongings. Arakita ignores him with a, "Yeah, yeah, you freak," and starts to walk away with both his and Kinjou's bags on his scrawny shoulders. Kinjou almost wants to throw the ice pack at Arakita's back for acting so cool.
"Hey, Arakita, that's mine."
He instead rushes—hobbles—to fall into step beside his scowling assist, and attempt to retrieve his bag again. The bag is jerked away from his reach, making it very clear that as long as he is around, Kinjou will not be carrying anything.
Kinjou laughs merrily down the hall, much to his companion's annoyance. He sure is lucky to have a friend like Arakita.
***
The rest of the day goes by without further incident. It’s nearly nightfall when their final class ends. All afternoon, Arakita made a point of carrying Kinjou’s bag to his next class with all the pomp and circumstance of an unwilling and annoyed cat even if it made Arakita late to his class. The numbing effects of the ice pack has long faded by the start of his last class, leaving the nerves on Kinjou’s knee a flame. The bandages feel far too tight, forcing a dreadful limp in his steps.
Kinjou does not lift his pants leg to check even once throughout the day.
Like the previous times, Arakita comes to pick him up from class, though Kinjou notes that Arakita’s class is on the other side of the campus. He must have sacrificed the last few minutes of class to make it here in time. Something gentle and warm squirms in his stomach, and he can’t help the smile that makes its way onto his face. Arakita immediately scowls disapprovingly.
“Finally, slow-poke.” Arakita snatches the bag from Kinjou who makes it through the door frame. Kinjou’s smile only grows.
“Sorry.”
“Che.”
Arakita walks ahead, loud complaints about needing to go to the clubroom to “make sure no one fucked with his Bianchi” spews from his mouth. Kinjou indulges him in his request, though he’s sure that his bike has been properly secured. Arakita is meticulous like that. Regardless, the clubroom isn’t so far away from where they are anyway. But as they walk, and amidst the light conversation, Kinjou’s attempt to conceal the limp in his leg becomes harder and harder. There is a frequent twitch in his mouth as he tries to keep it from falling into a frown or grimace. He keeps his replies short, knowing that he’d let out indication of his pain otherwise. His breaths become deeper as though it would contain the pain. It doesn’t, but he likes to believe it does anyway.
When they finally reach the clubroom, he congratulates himself on a job well done and plops himself on a bench while Arakita rummages through his locker. Kinjou closes his eyes and allows himself a moment of reprieve before he has to make the short ten minute trip home, made all the more treacherous by his unforgiving knee. It throbs angrily under the bandages which are definitely too tight now, and he can feel his neck flush with the exertion of managing his pain for the whole day. Though his doctors would argue that this isn’t anything remotely like pain management, he ignores it and blanks out the nagging concerns in the back of his mind.
It’s not clear how much time has passed until a weight drops into Kinjou’s lap. His eyes snap open and his legs jerk in response. Instantly, he regrets it as a jolt of pain shoots up through his body. He barely manages to contain his agony, gritting his teeth so hard they ache. Arakita does not miss it, and he’s sure that even Onoda wouldn’t miss it with his glasses off. So he doesn’t stop Arakita when kneels to roll up his pants leg and inspect the injury. Kinjou looks up at the ceiling, like a child who won’t look at his own arm as he’s receiving an injection.
A hiss alerts Kinjou that his leg probably looks as bad as it feels and the bandages and his bandages are probably strangling his leg’s circulation. Arakita removes them hastily, and Kinjou exhales a short lived sigh of relief as the blood—and pain—begins to circulate freely. When all the bandages come off, Arakita gets up and starts a tirade of curses and locker bustling. Kinjou turns his attention to the thing that was so rudely thrown on his lap, squinting his eyes to avoid seeing his leg.
“Kinjou,” Arakita starts sternly when he returns to kneeling on the ground. “How did you let it get like this? Why didn’t you say anything?”
Kinjou pretends to look busy reading the label on the back of his Bepsi that Arakita was kind enough to give him. He hears the crinkling and ripping of new packaging and the tearing of wrappers. He raises his leg when prompted, still without looking at his friend. His foot is situated precariously between Arakita’s bony hip and the elbow. The thick smell and cooling relief of medical patches make themselves known as they are carefully plastered on his knee. Kinjou tightens his lips to kill off any sounds he might make—even the slightest pressure feels like fire. The medical patches won’t solve the underlying problem, not that it’s any of Arakita’s business. He’s helping after all.
Arakita presses the end of a new roll of bandages onto his thigh and begins his meticulous and well-practiced wrapping with the same gentleness he reserves for cute kittens and small animals.
“Hey, Kinjou. How long have you been like this?”
He hums, not quite wanting to answer such a complicated question. Kinjou wonders absent-mindedly if the Salty Watermelon flavored Bepsi is available yet.
Not even another firm call of his name or even an extra tight tug of the bandages manage to get Kinjou’s attention, though he does grunt—it hurts. He hears Arakita curse again, and feels him rushing to undo his work. He knows that Arakita hates to be ignored, but he just doesn’t want to explain. It’s too heavy.
The bandages are undone and redone carefully, despite the rough grumbling that fell like a river from Arakita’s mouth. Kinjou glances at the top of his head. Normally, when Arakita is ignored, he’ll keep nagging until he gets the attention he feels he deserves, but for him to abstain from that must mean either he’s growing up or this work is more important to him than his questions.
A few moments of peaceful silence passes, even Arakita’s grumbling quieted down, focusing everything into the wrapping. Not too tight,
“It’s done.”
Even Kinjou has to admit, as he flexes his leg, it’s a lot better than what the doctor did—maybe even better than what he could ever do. Before he could get up from the bench, before he could even express his thanks, before he could finish admiring the job well done, Arakita stands over him, and judging by the way his eyes flash, his anger is back with a fury. Kinjou mentally prepares himself for battle.
“Kinjou. How. Long?”
He musters a smile.
“It hasn’t been very long, really.”
“Bullshit.”
Arakita leans closer, “Bull. Shit. Our last inter-high was two years ago. Two years. You’ve had it since then, and longer, haven’t you?”
So he was watching back then, too? The smile on Kinjou’s face falters just a touch. He didn’t expect him to have noticed back then.
“What have you been doing? Have you even been taking care of it properly?”
Kinjou could almost hear the doctor’s instructions to go see a specialist in his ear, and something inside him starts to crumble.
“Yes, I’ve been managing it,” he says carefully.
Arakita doesn’t look convinced. Sharp.
“How?”
Thinking back to all the times he actually did manage his knee properly, he would say quite a lot. Though by a doctor’s definition resting when only necessary and taking medication when the pain became crippling is far from adequate treatment. But Kinjou is the man who never gives up.
“I rested, and took medication. What more would I need?”
Seeing the deadpanned look on Arakita’s face, Kinjou laughs a little—even he doesn’t know why, it could be that he wants to diffuse the situation or he’s nervous about being discovered. It sounds dry and strange, even to his ears.
“I did, I really did.”
“Damn it, Kinjou! I’m not playing around here! What is your condition and how long have you had it, you idiot?” Arakita grates again, clearly reaching the end of his patience.
Kinjou debates dodging the question again, or at least try to quell Arakita’s worry, but one look at his face forces him to rethink his decision carefully. He stays quiet for a moment, adjusting his glasses.
He takes a breath and says as casually as possible, “Torn ACL, three years ago.”
Arakita opens his mouth wide, supposedly to yell at him before he closes it, taking deep breaths. He has a few false starts, before giving up entirely. Kinjou could see his fingers tick off, counting down. Arakita wipes a hand down his face and holds his hand over his eyes. When he speaks next, he does so softly.
“…what have you done to take care of it? Brace? Physical Therapy?”
“…none of that.”
That is the last straw apparently.
“Do you WANT to end up in the hospital?!” Arakita screeches, slamming his left fist straight into the lockers behind him. The metal caves slightly in under his hand, the impact and his voice reverberates throughout the room, ringing deep in Kinjou’s ears.
“Is your head screwed on straight!?”
He didn’t exactly expect this sort of reaction, though he’s not sure exactly why it matters so much. They’re teammates and that’s a good reason for concern, but to this extent? Arakita’s angry yelling warps into meaningless noise—just like the doctor’s. The contours of Arakita’s throat are bulging out and make themselves very defined, he needs to eat more.
When it became clear that he is being ignored and his concern is being minimalized, his anger skyrocketed. He grabs Kinjou by the front of his shirt, much to his surprise and leans down to meet him. “Don’t you sit there like an idiot? Don’t act like a know-it-all all the fucking time, stop trying to be cool! This isn’t good for you.”
Kinjou blinks at him.
“Go fucking rest, you idiot! Take your meds, go do PT, or whatever you need to! You can’t just pretend that everything’s okay and ignore it! It won’t get better like this!” He’s heard this all before, long ago. And he’s tired of it.
“You should know this, as an ace, as Sohoku’s captain! Don’t be such a stubborn idiot!”
Something deep inside—old and rusty, heavy and dense, kept bound and crushed for the last three years—rattles violently, ready to unleash itself.
A hint of desperation makes its way into Arakita’s voice and his grip on Kinjou’s shirt tightens. “Just how bad do you want to be crippled for the rest of your life? How badly do you never want to bike again?!”
Kinjou stands up so quickly the bench clatters and his head almost knocks into Arakita’s face.
“Don’t act like you know what’s good for me!” He finds himself yelling. His voice carries and echoes—just as he learned to make it do as captain. Arakita snaps his mouth shut, and watches him with wild eyes. That in itself is disturbing, but even more so is that he can’t seem to find the self-control to make himself stop this.
“Of course I want to bike,” He bellows.
He pulls Arakita’s hands off with more force than he intends—or with not enough. Arakita regains his senses and his jaw tightens, his shoulders raise, ready to continue this. He pushes himself into Kinjou's space, a challenge in his step.
“Then fucking act like it!”
“Act like it?!” With a growing horror and a twisting in his gut, he can feel every word gain momentum out of his mouth—no, out of the very depths of his core. “Don’t you make a fool of these past years!”
“These past years all you’ve been doing is killing yourself!” Arakita spits.
The blood slams its way into Kinjou’s face, and he no longer has any control over his buried emotions and wayward tongue.
“Do you understand what I’ve been doing this whole time?” He cries, “Do you even understand what breaking my ribs has done to me?!”
Arakita’s mouth drops. All color drains for his face, and all fight leaves his shoulders.
“Do you know how hard I tried to catch up? To Hakogaku? To the Kings?! To Fukutomi?!!” Louder and louder, his voice goes. Kinjou takes a step forward, Arakita takes a step back. The years of self-hatred and anguish pours out in volumes—wave after wave, like a flood, destroying everything in its wake.
“Of course I know what I’m doing to myself, but what choice did I have?
“If I didn’t continue, if I had stopped, I might never have been able to continue!
“It wasn’t fair! My ribs, then this knee! What’s next?! How much do I have to lose before this ends?!” The heavy flood storms against the back of his eyes, demanding to be freed. It burns, just like the rest of him.
“Where do you get off on talking like you know anything—what these injuries have cost me?!” His knee jitters, and his ribs throb in response. He slams a hand into the lockers beside him, a satisfying bang and the feel of cool metal folding underneath his hand is his reward.
Kinjou looks hard at Arakita, eyes rimmed with red, and brows furrowed deep behind his glasses.
“What…would you even know about this pain?” He hisses finally, throat hoarse and stinging. The question rings hard in both their ears, and the silence that follows is jarring.
For a split-second at the fall of his crescendo, mortification and horror jabs him straight in the chest—clearing his conscience, but he pushes past it like he pushes past a frozen Arakita. He walks as quickly as he is able, snatches up his bag, and doesn’t look back. If he did, he would’ve seen the last of Arakita sliding to the ground, cradling like arm. But he doesn’t and storms his way home instead. He doesn’t even make the effort to avoid bumping into people on the street, resulting in dirty looks from those offended by his inconsideration. If he was less involved in his own self-loathing and such, he may have made an honest attempt to apologize. But he wasn’t. Instead, the all too warm feeling of anger propels him forward and his knee continues to protest against his heavy footsteps.
When he reaches home, he does little for the remainder of the night except rest on his bed, wondering bitterly if he should or how he should apologize for his embarrassing behavior. The aching in his knee serves as a reminder of his hastiness, and the bandages remind him of his callousness.
***
The moment the doctor told him his ribs were recovered, he wasted very little time. He wrote a schedule for himself the moment he left the office and continued to adjust it on the train platform, and throughout his short train ride home. That night, he stayed up late to the light of his desk lamp, hand cramping from the numerous plans and schedules he had written and scrapped.
Kinjou didn’t have time, he had to catch up—catch up to the man who held him back several months because of some foolish pride. He believed that with all his heart—he needed to catch up in order to bring his team a chance at victory—no, not a chance. He will be the team victory because a half-hearted conviction like “a chance at victory” can only foster doubt and hinder him. Their opponents were “Kings”, after all. To overthrow a king, you must overcome yourself. And that was exactly what Kinjou planned to do.
As he wrote more details into his seventy-first training schedule, a voice in the back of his head whispered that may he, too, is foolish in his pride. But he does not heed that until many, many weeks later.
He followed his schedules fiercely after finally deciding on one. Makishima’s and Tadokoro’s faces twisted when Kinjou showed it to them.
“That’s just insane, Kinjou,” the lanky climber said, a hand dragging down his face.
Tadokoro covered Kinjou’s shoulder with a hand. “You just recovered, don’t push yourself too hard.”
Kinjou smiled at his friend—almost a grimace, but who could tell? The large hand on his should felt far too heavy, and he patted it away tenderly.
“I won’t, I’ll be ready for the next Inter-High. I’ll make up for last year.”
“Ou, we’re counting on you, Kinjou.”
‘We’re counting on you, Kinjou. We’re counting on you. Counting on you.’ The words echoed incessantly in his head as he put on his jersey. His lips are pulled into a stern line, and he steeled himself. Yes. His teammates are counting on him.
The words hung around him heavily for the next few months. His days would begin and end with biking practice as per his self-imposed training schedule. At least three times a day minimum, he would practice—allowing himself a day of rest only whenever his muscles no longer had the ability to even help him get up off his chair. Those day, he would study old videos of Inter-High races and formulate strategies—all while attending his classes, of course. There was no point in training if he was forced out of the club for having bad grades. This was how Kinjou’s second year continued, until one day, all this abuse came to a head. He was practicing with the other Sohoku members, it was a normal day like any other, and he was about 500 km into the practice when it happened.
Snap.
A simultaneous sensation of pain and horror shot through him, stemming from his knee. He did not hear the sound audible, but the sensation of the breakage rippled through his body—time stopped for a mere second. The world became silent.
He slammed his feet onto the pedals harder, forced himself into a dance, upping his cadence to such an extent that he flew past a surprised Teshima and Aoyagi. His knee burned and throbbed, but he kept riding furiously—this wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening. This can’t happen.
The fear was catching up.
He kept going, even as his lungs burned and his muscles seized. If he stopped, if he even slowed—Kinjou yelled and surged further forward, unwilling to know what would happen.
The fear caught up.
He found out, after a reluctant check-up with his doctor, he had injured his knee. He was redirected to a specialist, who told him after an MRI that it was a ligament injury. She explained to him the full extent of the damage and what it meant for him as a cyclist. Kinjou did not—could not—hear any of it.
“What should I do?” He asked shakily.
The doctor gave him a blank look over her glasses before redirecting her attention toward the light box above her desk which held images the images of his inner leg. Kinjou refused to look at the image.
“At this stage, it should be still manageable. It’s possible to deal with this through physical therapy, but the other option for injuries like this is surgery.”
He held his breath. Surgery? Now?
“However, you’re still young, so you have the ability to keep this under control without surgery. But that requires moderation, proper pain management, and physical therapy.”
She paused and took another hard look at the scan.
“Listen, your knee will continue to suffer if you abuse it like this. I don’t know how much longer you should continue this cycling of yours.”
Kinjou’s head snapped up so quickly, it almost dislocated his glasses. She wasn’t looking at him still.
“Surgery is a heavy burden for someone your age. You’re at an age where you can still take care of it. If you take your pills properly and cut down on your training, go to physical therapy, you will still be able to ride a bike later on in life.”
White noise filled his ears. What was she saying?
“For now, you should stop and think about your future. Crippling a perfectly healthy body by forcing too much on it will make you miserable later. Think about your choices.”
The setting sun draped its rays lazily across the tiled floors. The clock ticked away steadily.
“I will think about it,” he said quietly.
His doctor nodded her head in what seemed to be understanding, and gave him pain medication which he would throw into the corner of his room later that night. He does not return to that specialist ever again, and kept his knee a secret from everyone he could. His primary doctor kept expressing his concern for the knee, but every time he did, Kinjou tuned him out and answered with only "Yes, sirs" and "Of course, sir." He had no time for this.
He buried his growing bitterness deep inside on night he was forced to nurse his knee. Along with that bitterness, he buried his desire to scream and curse and cry at the cruel, cruel world that threatened to take away everything. There was very little time until the next Inter-High, the new year was coming and he will be captain. He could not afford to take any more breaks if he hoped to beat Hakogaku. Surgery, physical therapy—all of those options had no room on his schedule. He had to keep going. He had to. His team was counting on him. His knee was in the way.
On days when he was especially bitter, he would think to himself. What a painful existence to be gifted with infinite possibilities except for the one you truly wish for—the one possibility that would keep the fire within you ignited and alive. How cruel was that? How unforgiving was this world to take everything you did and throw it back in your face? To have every path to your dream blocked by the limitations of your own body?
If a straight path wasn’t available, then there must be another way. A hidden path, another possibility. Kinjou was determined to find this possibility—to make bring his team victory in Inter-High despite his injury. He was the man who never gives up, after all.
Years later, in his apartment by the university, after he had thrown everything he has tried to suppress these last few years into the face of a friend who was only trying to help, he wonders again if he was too hasty. If his pride has bested him. If it’s time for the man who never gives up to finally give up. It seems the consequences of his past decisions have finally caught up.
His tears have never been so bitter.