Work Text:
xcvii. shiny new tires on a bike
.
Seijuro shows up at his front door in the early morning, too rich and too pretty to be on Chihiro’s doorstep (really, Chihiro, of all people.)
He wants to ask why, but a new bike is hooked to his fence and Seijuro says, “Let’s go for a bike ride.”
What Chihiro really wants to know is why he listens.
They spend the larger half of the morning biking on dusty pathways without a word between them, without anything between them but the sound of tires on sand. It’s a little embarrassing for Chihiro when he looks from Seijuro’s fancy, new bike to the old hand-me-down his dad used (it’s older than Seijuro--hell, it’s older than Chihiro), but it doesn’t really matter.
Seijuro keeps his eyes on the heat ahead of them, and Chihiro notes the sleep-lines on his face and arms, the unbrushed hair bearing night in their tangles. For a moment he wants to think of how he’s an entirely different person off the court and out of the Rakuzan uniform, but he’s not stupid. Seijuro still has all the grace without being the backbone of plays or the king of the team, and Chihiro’s still obligated to listen to him.
(Isn’t, Chihiro reminds himself. He’s doing this because he wants to. Somehow, that only makes it worse.)
When they reach a stretch of sand on water, Seijuro hops off his bike and sits there, sticking his legs in the sea. The sun above him and hours of biking has turned his face red, and Seijuro pulls a bottle of water out of his pack, taking a sip. Chihiro watches water slip down his face and throat, slowing at his collar bones before disappearing into the near-translucence of his shirt.
He tosses the bottle to Chihiro, still not saying a word. Chihiro’s never seen him look so free, even with his upbringing keeping his back straight and his face guarded.
(Maybe.)
“Why did we go so far?” Chihiro says, rolls up his pants and slides his own feet into the water.
Seijuro draws patterns into the sand with his forefinger. “So maybe we don’t have to back.”