Archive of Our Own ^beta

First off, what was the point?  

It’s film, ink, time wasted— forget it, fuck that noise.

What good does a memory do, anyway?

Let the past stay the past, Arakita decides after he quits baseball, pushes aside his albums, the frames that might have held awards and signed memorabilia.

No use for those things anymore.

No use for him, least of all.

Arakita’s always hated the thought of being famous.

Yeah, sure, it sounds great.  Get up there, do whatever shit you do well, keep your sponsors and managers and fans happy.  It’s a guaranteed success story.

Right— and he’s well on his way to pitching at Koushien.  Ha-friggen-ha.

Theories of hard work paying off don’t interest Arakita any sooner than Hakone Academy’s oh-so-amazing bicycling club does.   But even after months of reconciling with that fact, he finds he’s a minority.

Fortunately, he’s found a few guys who agree to run wild with in the meanwhile.

And it’s good for the first few weeks.

The first few months.

The first year since the move.

Bbut he rises in the ranks all too soon (sharp teeth bared, tongue accent-heavy and comeback-quick, ‘a wolf,’ the others murmur, ‘seriously’) and – before long – the novelty of ordering around the other groveling second-years and fresh meat isn’t even what fades away for him first.

It’s when he gets fed up with pretending that something’s working for him – that he’s no longer running – that Arakita meets his match.

Arakita’s always hated how strangers looked at him.

For as long as he could remember, people he didn’t know sized him up. stared him down.  Started judging the instant they laid eyes on him.

He’s gotten used to it, now, if only under some world-worn policy of Since You Don’t Know Shit About Me I’m Not Gonna Give A Shit About You.

It’s worked well enough.

Gotten him this far – on a night’s ride into morning on his Vespa, funds waning on wanderlust separate from his frustrations – to Hakone’s edge.

That’s when Arakita notices him.

Or, rather, when Fukutomi Juichi notices him.

The first thing he notices about Fukutomi isn’t that ridiculous haircut.

Or that glaringly bright dye job.

Or those.  Things on his face.  Damn thick-ass eyebrows.  Whatever.

It’s what he notices long after he’s watched the nearby machine vend his water and how the thick line of Fukutomi’s throat works to swallow it down.

It’s what he notices when he comments on Fukutomi’s bike, his own arrogance, how he should have known he’d get exactly what he’s asked for in the form of a decidedly different fight from an opponent more unusual than anyone else he’s ever taken on.

It’s the way Fukutomi…looks at him.

How he looks right at him like he’s looking through him.

How Arakita – who hates having his picture taken, who hates the idea of being scrutinized and studied and regarded as someone worthy of praise – can’t find any reason to look away, either.

(“Arakita,” Fukutomi doesn’t make an immediate turn after the race is over, doesn’t offer a hand to his opponent slumped half against his scooter and halfway sprawled across the grass, but he speaks with such sureness, a command that’s compelling in its confidence, and there’s something about it that resonates for the former baseball player from that day forward, “let’s race again sometime.”

From his place on the pavement beside the school gates, Arakita laughs, looks up at Fukutomi with a disbelieving echo of “sometime.”

Sometime, though Arakita hadn’t believed it then, would be the first of many times he would think of Fukutomi’s words and take them to heart.)

Arakita can’t remember the last time his heart and his head were at odds.

He’s always thought himself an honest.

A little too honest, maybe.

A little too loud.

A self-prescribed rebel.

Listen, the imprints of his heart on his sleeve yell.  Take me seriously.

Because, like it or not, I’m not going anywhere.

Bicycles never were his thing.

They still aren’t.

He still takes leisure rides on his Vespa when he visits home every other weekend.

It’s more because he wants to, not because he has to, that he drags out the Bianchi that Fukutomi let him borrow (indefinitely) every morning.

And it’s not so bad.

Early morning rides before classes mean decent weather, a gossamer sheen in the open air, and blissful quiet.

When it’s just him on his bike, nature’s splendor and all that shit around, Arakita doesn’t feel wild or rebellious or too honest at all.

It takes ‘till his fourth late-night ride to complement his morning ride and yet another exhausting stint on the rollers till Arakita realizes just how far he’s fallen.

When he falls, literally, into the grass off the beaten path, he shuts his aching eyes to the soft curtain of moonlight above him.

Arakita swears he just imagined the cool grazing touch of a hand on his forehead as he lets sleep take over his senses.

It’s all in his head, Arakita’s mind insists, that every time he passes out in the training room.

It's all in his head, Arakita has to tell himself, when the rollers turn off without a sound and he’s somehow managed to get from the floor to the bench right before he forgets everything else.

It’s all— what was that word again? the one their damn English teacher won’t shut up about— conjecture, Arakita remembers, though even the mere suggestion from Shinkai has him doubting that Fukutomi would be watching him from afar, helping him on his self-imposed bicycling training, no interest in him least of all, because what could he possibly offer anyway?

It’s about rising to the occasion, Arakita tells himself, and taking on a challenge presented to him.

For that ‘sometime’ race, the one that’s got him on his bike three times a day and reading up on cycling and finally cutting his damn hair after months of saying he would.

It’s absolutely not – no way, no how, no fucking chance – because Arakita’s started to think Fukutomi Juichi isn’t so bad after all. 

Nope.

(But if Arakita’s being completely honest, he doesn’t feel much like himself these days – and he’s pretty sure it’s all Fuku-chan’s fault, too.)

Out of all the annoying regulars on the team, Arakita minds Toudou the most.

Probably because Toudou literally won’t shut up and he comes off as self-absorbed and he’s so damn touchy, Arakita learns right off the bat – though the former is what really bothers him and the constant physical contact doesn’t repulse him as much as he expects.

It does make him wonder why he doesn’t mind that, though.

Is it because he’s never been able to get used to relatives like strangers giving him smothering hugs upon arrival?

Do the excited pats and overzealous clinging to his arm remind him of his sisters or his favorite cousin – also a vain type, Arakita recalls, but she liked the same music as he did and they’d clink Bepsi bottles together like wine when they played house as kids and he always had a companion whenever he was bored out of his damn mind during family get-togethers so they were always close – before she moved several prefectures away three years ago?

Is it ‘cause he’s loud as all hell too or, Arakita wonders when he’s wiped out on the floor of the training room, is he envious of Toudou’s not-quite rivalry and competitive spirit?

Or is it because he reminds Arakita of the traits in people he’s always admired?

Resolve.

Dedication.

An unshakable sense of pride.

(Nah, Arakita thinks with a roll of his eyes as Toudou scrambles to run for his phone as he hears an too familiar ringtone and a screech of “Maki-chan!“— definitely not for any of those reasons.)

But where Toudou’s loud, Arakita thinks Shinkai is the worst of them all.

Because at least Toudou’s fun to tease.

At least, Arakita thinks, Toudou isn’t impossible to ignore.

Shinkai’s got at least nine different habits to piss Arakita off something fierce.

One: constant snacking if not signs of an oral fixation.

Two: an affection for rabbits that rivals Arakita’s own for cats.

Three: that annoying as all hell point-and-shoot motion because ugh.

Oh, wait.  There’s a fourth – the most impossible problem of all about Shinkai – and it’s something Arakita can’t possibly ignore.

Unlike Toudou, Shinkai has a thing for reading people like Fukutomi.

And him.

Shit, and if Arakita doesn’t hate that about him.

But he doesn’t hate Shinkai, because that’s like ignoring a stray that takes to sitting next to you when you’re feeling lonely or denying one of those big-eyed tiny-eared kittens pets when they’re practically purring already just rubbing their nose into your side.

Not that Shinkai’s the slightest bit catlike.

Or much for purring.

More like a growling animal, in fact, as Arakita discovers as he watches Shinkai’s character change on the road for the first time just the other week.

But Shinkai’s never in a bad mood and he’s always up to talk or hang out with him before if not after practice and he’s just like those little buggers Arakita finds most endearing, tugging at his sleeve and making a great appeal for pats on the head.

So – since Shinkai shares snacks and treats him like a person way sooner than the rest of the team – Arakita doesn’t find Shinkai nearly as irritating as he does Toudou.

“Juichi keeps mentioning how much you’ve improved,” Shinkai tells him, though not before Arakita’s ears feel the flush rising first, “and I’m starting to see what he means. You’ve got natural talent, Yasutomo.  We were lucky to find you.”

“I don’t wanna hear that from you,” grumbles Arakita, shoving at Shinkai’s shoulder even as the redhead’s smile broadens.  He really doesn’t. “‘sides, when did you suddenly become Fuku-chan’s spokesperson?”

“Good point,” Shinkai concedes – and, suddenly, with renewed indulgence. “Maybe you’d be a better choice for that role, then.”

(Arakita pushes Shinkai so hard he’s surprised the sprinter doesn’t tip over.

But Shinkai does laugh, a soft show of sincerity that shows on his face.

Arakita has no choice but to hide his own half-grin with a towel he snatches from Shinkai’s side of the bench.)

When Izumida rises in their ranks, when Manami joins them, Arakita learns ‘Arakita-san’ and ‘senpai’ aren’t as odd to hear as he expects.

“Don’t make such a big deal out of it.” Arakita gets tired, though, of Izumida’s effusive praise and too-earnest aura. “I’m nothin’ special.”

“That’s not true—!”  Izumida counters while, at the same time, Manami’s cherub face emerges from the showers to add, “not to our captain.”

“You’ve been hanging around Toudou and Shinkai too much,” huffs Arakita, nearly cutting his shaking fingers on his soda can, “cheeky brats.”

Izumida could a bit overbearing at times – though not anywhere near the extent toward Arakita as with his beloved Shinkai-san.

But Manami?

Manami was a real trip, Arakita knew, out of this world from the tips of his flyaway hair to the soles of his dainty little feet.

“Toudou-san and Shinkai-san never had to say a word for me to know,” Manami says, like it’s an announcement to be broadcast nationwide. “You’re captain Fukutomi’s favorite, Arakita-san. Anyone with eyes, ears, and a mind of their own can tell.”

It takes exactly three days of thinking about the claim Arakita (vehemently!) denied before he brings it up on a night ride with Fuku-chan.

“That’s not the first time,” Fukutomi tells him, more matter-of-fact than resigned, “someone’s accused me of favoring you.”

It’s not?! 

Arakita sways in mid-pedal, like he’s about to start dancing down the straight, till he decides on a better response to that.

“A-Anyway.  So what if I am?  S’not any business of theirs what you think.  You’re captain, besides.”  Arakita doesn’t place any such faith in hierarchies and traditions, but— well, like it or not, that was Hakone Academy. “You could always tell ‘em where to stick it.”

“Arakita.”  There’s a minute frown on Fukutomi’s face, barely discernible, and he sounds so disapproving Arakita scowls back.

“What,” Arakita shoots back, teeth bared.  Old habits die hard and – captain or not – Fukutomi’s not any older than him, dammit, he’s not being scolded and resolving himself to a lecture right now.

It’s the same way Fuku-chan (why did he even give him that stupid nickname, why did Fukutomi even let him call him by that, anyway, so familiar and casual and not at all like two people who were at odds about just about everything except for their views on bicycles) always managed to surprise him.

A way that Arakita hopes he’s the only one to have seen.

Fuku-chan doesn’t let his emotions show on his face very often.

He’s a solemn, serious sort of guy— always has been, for as long as Arakita’s known him.
stone face with ridiculous eyebrows, if the other third-year were to describe him to a stranger, was not how Arakita would describe him now.

When Fuku-chan smiles – even the smallest, most chagrined and reluctant of smiles – he looks less like someone forced to grow into a leader of the pack and more like a person.

A person who knew he was inexperienced in these moments, who still welcomed with a tilt of his handsome visage a certain reaction from Arakita he was likely already expecting.

Just like Fuku-chan always seemed to know him from the moment they met.

“As my ‘favored’ domestique,” Fuku-chan’s smile waxes, wanes, but Arakita still feels an exhale caught in his throat at the words, unsure of how to answer even when Fuku-chan goes on to say, “I’m sure you’d make them eat their words faster than I could.”

(Later that night, long after the cycling’s over and Fuku-chan’s rare smile disappears everywhere except in Arakita’s memory bank, it takes just over three hours and eight minutes to fall asleep.

Exhausted as he is, it takes that long for Arakita to settle his thoughts down.

Because, yeah, his head’s pounding and his body aches like a mother – that’s typical of him, being too hyped up after a night ride that wasn’t rigorous enough for him to pass out cold.

But hearing what he did from someone as tightlipped as Fuku-chan, having his image of Fuku-chan challenged from just one offhand remark over a joke gone wild, is enough to make Arakita feel more alive than ever.

Surer than ever, too, that he’s made the right choice.)

In life, Arakita doesn’t know what he wants most.

At one point, it was ‘a scholarship.’ Specifically for baseball.

For recognition of his pitching.

For a good college, a good future.

For Arakita, once upon a time, that was his highest goal.

In Hakogaku, Arakita’s not sure what his place is.

He knows his reputation - always has, then and now.

Yankee type.  Wild wolf child.  A wayward sort, best left to someone else who could ‘handle him.’

But he’s never felt like an animal.

No more than he’s ever felt as alive as he does given a second chance…and a bike.

“Indefinite loan” isn’t an unfamiliar term.  

Sometimes, the guys he used to run with joked that was Arakita’s favorite phrase— whilst their own loans continued to pile up and away, sky high.

Arakita – who always paid his dues back in full – couldn’t imagine it being true here too.

In Fuku-chan, Arakita has a loan vested with interest.

Not just for the white Bianchi he’s borrowed on undefined terms, either.

Fuku-chan trusts him.

Arakita’s known that strange, strange fact that haunts him since he agreed to mount a bike instead of his Vespa.

Ever since Fuku-chan told him, a valuable lesson, to look nowhere else but straight ahead while he rides.

Ever since Fuku-chan – privately, not expecting any to follow, huddled into himself and covered by the towel thrown hastily over his head – let Arakita see him cry.

Or, really, it was mostly a matter of hearing him cry after their second year at the Inter-High.

At first, Arakita couldn’t even be sure.

It sounded a bit like snuffling, like an animal, but the closer he drew to the dressing tent, the more he watched the tremble of Fuku-chan’s shoulders, the more Arakita put faith in what he should have known all along.

He’s the only one – despite having not been there to witness when it happened, not having ridden beside Fuku-chan at the time – who hears it.

There was a minute quake in his voice, a hollow reverb to his request when Arakita was milliseconds from turning away and leaving him be:

“If they ask, don’t let them know.”

He never asks for an explanation nor clarification as to who they and what they shouldn’t know.

He never has to.

He’s the only one who – despite having not been there to witness when it happened, not having ridden beside Fuku-chan at the time, only the aftermath of scraped palms and blood tracks that weren’t Fuku-chan’s, and holy shit was that a relief, but if not Fuku-chan’s, then whose? – notices the grimace on Fuku-chan’s face in Sohoku’s supporters’ direction when he told Arakita the truth.

The only one who isn’t surprised when Fuku-chan takes a train to Chiba not even a week after they return to normalcy.

Or some semblance of it.

Just as Arakita is not surprised when that night’s ride and the unvoiced offer are impossible for him to accept right away.

He almost says it.

Almost lets it be known, the day after they come back from that second year’s Inter-High.

He nearly hisses out loud when Manami charges into practice with a cheery hello and shatters any of Arakita’s remaining nerve for steadfast declarations.

But then Fuku-chan, stubborn selfish bastard that he is, tells him first.

“There isn’t anyone else I have in mind, if that’s what you’re worried about.”  As if he hadn’t made it clear from the start.

As if he knew.

Arakita does say yes, in the end.

But that shouldn’t surprise anyone, least of all himself.

And—well.  Even if he still feels unworthy of a title like domestique, if Fuku-chan says it, then he doesn’t really have a choice.

Anything Fuku-chan says goes, Arakita laughs, more self-depreciating than sardonic.

Fuku-chan’s vague smile, as always, the reason why.