Side blog mostly for fanfic ideas, writing practice, original, and little fics that don't warrant enough importance to post to other accounts. I'm pretty (now VERY) embarrassed by the stuff here.
Olá! Big fan of your kinara works, you write them wonderfully! It's not a very popular ship and the pedal fandom has been dying out but the dedication and love emanating from your work is awesome! Thank you so much! Obrigada!
Hello there! Firstly I'd like to say that my experience with the pedal fandom, even as it gets smaller day by day, has been positive and it’s really people like you who I’m thankful for.I always saw this as a very domestic and stable ship so lots of mundane, everyday interactions or taking the fantastic and making it subtle. It’s pretty evident I do this when I write, and I think sometimes "man, is this too simple/boring?” but I’m glad to know that it carries along well enough.So thank you for reading! I’m glad my work carries heart. I don’t upload as much as before due to real-life commitments, but I’m still working on more stories about these two that I would definitely love to share.
He wouldn’t be running if he wasn’t going to be running late.
Arakita curses under his breath, does a little step around a sign, and pulls the zipper to his jacket up further. It’s cold today and he forgot his scarf and gloves back at his apartment. His ears are red at their tips, his breath comes in little puffs into the air, and he hides his hands inside the sleeves of his jacket near the fleece lining.
There’s a little alley he can cut across coming up ahead, Arakita remembers, it saves him a few minutes and a stoplight. When he reaches the alley he turns right. Then he stumbles.
Arakita trips over a piece of trash. He curses under his breath again and remembers why he hasn’t cut through here before – it’s dirty. A little piece of city that no one bothered to remember. A stain on a white cotton shirt. It doesn’t even feel like animals cross through here. He steadies himself by holding onto a wall and shakes a candy bar wrapper from sticking to the bottom of his shoe. Arakita uses the time to catch some of his breath. Then he checks the time on the phone, messages Kinjou he’ll be there soon, and continues to run.
When he reaches the restaurant the heat on his skin and the smell of cooking food eases him. He tells the waitress he’s meeting someone, looks around, and sees a hand waving in the air.
“You’re late,” Machimiya says.
“Yeah, well now I’m here.” Arakita takes off his jacket and looks at the empty seat across from Machimiya. “Where’s...?”
Machimiya furrows his eyebrows. “The washroom?”
“Wasn’t there supposed to be someone else with us?”
“I don’t know. Did you invite somebody else? Should I ask for a bigger table?”
Arakita checks his phone again. He scrolls through his messages, sees he texted Machimiya that he would be there soon. But.
Arakita sits down.
“Whatever, guess I’m just imagining things.” He sees two menus on the table. “Did you already look at what you were gonna order?”
“Yeah,” Machimiya responds, “I’m gonna get the special.”
He doesn’t feel right.
Arakita doesn’t know what he feels except for off. There’s a pebble in his shoe. Or maybe it’s that expectant feeling that never arrives when you get over a bout of hiccups. Misplacing something after you just set it down. It takes a form of a pressure in his head when he tries to remember, and a hole in his heart like a piece is missing.
Life hasn’t changed though. He goes to work, to school, and to bed. But sometimes Arakita finds himself going somewhere like the north entrance of the school building instead of the southern one – the one that gets him closer to home at the end of the day – and he curses under his breath at how he can make such a simple mistake even though he has been at Yonan for a while now.
He sees friends and family. Friends more often than family as of late since he’s more than just an hour or two away from home but they call him often enough that they never felt far. He has grown use to ignoring the blank in his thoughts with the laughter and conversation that flows around him, but Arakita slips up sometimes. Sometimes is finding himself scrolling through his phone for a contact that doesn’t exist, or ordering food he doesn’t like much but still eats anyway, or having little triggers in his heart he can’t quite place. Like right now.
“You’re blind,” Machimiya says. It’s before class. He takes the glasses off a friend and puts them on himself, then squints. “It’s all a blur.”
“You look weird.”
“Do I?” Machimiya turns to Arakita. His eyes have grown even smaller and Arakita thinks that the cobalt blue frames doesn’t flatter him at all.
Arakita grimaces.
“It doesn’t suit you.” Arakita takes the glasses off Machimiya, turns them in his hand a few times. “Don’t look like yourself.”
“Who do I look like?”
He blanks.
“Hell if I know.”
After that, Arakita looks through the crowd of strangers he passes on the way home for the face he thinks he was looking for.
He’s doing things without knowing why.
He sleeps pressed against the wall and leaves half the mattress unoccupied. He tip-toes around his apartment in the morning – who is he going to wake up? Arakita realizes before stomping around like usual, but even that doesn’t feel like enough noise somehow. Then he pulls a cup from the cupboard before turning the kettle on, and reaches for a second. It almost touches the kitchen counter until his hand stalls as he notices from the corner of his eye the white ceramic of the previous cup.
Is his memory that bad? He’s been pulling spoons and dishes for two without a reason for the past week. Or maybe he’s just tired, Arakita’s not much of a morning person.
Yet.
He places the second cup down onto the counter anyway and it’s the least off he’s felt in a while.
Staring down at the counter, Arakita feels the hole in his heart has grown.
He’s about to be late again.
Arakita does a little step around a sign, and pulls his scarf tighter around his neck. Thankfully, on this cold winter night, Arakita does remember to bring his gloves and his scarf.
He pulls out his phone and checks the time. Crap. Machimiya has been waiting for him for at least twenty minutes now at the restaurant. If he didn’t take that nap he probably would have already been there by now. But instead of regretting the extra sleep Arakita focuses on pushing through and arriving at the restaurant as soon as possible. He’ll apologize to Machimiya face-to-face.
Arakita almost slips on the snow and has to find support by placing his hand against a streetlamp to stay standing. He takes the time to catch his breath, inhaling the cold night air. Then he notices from the corner of his eyes the alleyway.
It’s dirty, Arakita reminds himself, even though he knows that going through it will save him a few minutes and a stoplight. He has tripped over trash inside of there. It’s also night, which makes it even more dangerous. But as much as he tries to convince himself Machimiya can wait a few minutes longer, something about the alleyway is pulling him in and it has nothing to do with saving time.
He does it. Arakita runs through the alleyway and thankfully makes it through without tripping on something in the dark. Then he keeps running until he reaches the restaurant, out of breath and cold, but finally there.
“I know, I know – I’m late,” Arakita says.
“It’s okay,” Machimiya replies, “Kinjou is too.”
“Kinjou?” Arakita says. That name. “He’s here too?”
“Just arrived,” a voice behind Arakita says.
Arakita turns around fast.
Standing there, with snow on his shoulders and foggy glasses, is Kinjou with an apologetic smile. He waves to the both of them before being surprised when Arakita suddenly hugs him tight. Machimiya begins laughing.
“Where were you?” Arakita asks.
“I was caught up giving directions,” Kinjou says. Concern laces his voice as he asks, “Arakita, what’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” he says. At least not anymore. One week was all Arakita needed to know that it would hurt if Kinjou wasn’t there. What a weird world he entered into. “I just miss you.”
Kinjou’s face flushes hot. Not knowing what to do with the sudden burst of affection outside the home, Kinjou returns Arakita’s hug with as much grip.
I JUST DISCOVERED THIS LITTLE FIC BLOG OF YOURS AND IM DELIGHTED TO SEE SO MANY KINARA FIC YOU HAVE NO IDEA. I'm going to read them all tonight before bed and i can't wait
OH MAN, HELLO AND WELCOME TO THE TRAIN RIDE. Unfortunately I haven’t been able to write as frequently but I’m still working on KinAra fic, among other things, here and elsewhere.I think they have a good dynamic that is super fun to write, I wish we could see more of their interaction.
And thank you! I’m glad, even if it turns out to be just one fic, that you found my writing interesting enough to take the personal time aside to read. Storytelling has always been one of my favourite hobbies.
Machimiya howls. He bangs his fist against the table, and laughs with his mouth so wide open that Arakita could see the chewed up bits of food inside.
“Shut up, you’re being too loud!” Arakita looks around the office lunch room. Thankfully no one had walked by the door. He didn’t want anyone to overhear them talking and get mistaken for a fan. Damn, why does Kinjou make him feel so self-conscious? “Besides, it’s not like I actually gave my number to him or anything.”
It was then Machimiya stops laughing.
“You didn’t? Why?”
Arakita shrugs. “First time I’ve ever really talked to the guy. I don’t know, felt weird.”
“The guy saves your life and you can’t even give him a few digits?”
Arakita leans back. “Can you please swallow your damn food before talkin’?”
“Whatever” - Machimiya swallows - “what I’m saying is that’s a pretty damn huge perk to have a superhero on speed dial and you say no. What happens to life attempt number five?”
“It’s not gonna happen if I’m careful.” Arakita points a finger at Machimiya when he opens his mouth again to speak. “And I’ve been more careful than I ever have been in my whole damn life.”
“Why do you have such a thing against this guy?”
“I don’t really,” Arakita says. At least not anymore. He stabs his chopsticks into his lunch. “I don’t know how I feel about him.”
Heels click into the lunch room as their co-worker walks in to have her break. Thankfully Machimiya has enough sense to know to stay quiet on the subject now it was no longer just the two of them, but he’s still giving Arakita a toothy grin.
Arakita grimaces, and shoves the rest of his lunch into his mouth to finish it.
“Anyway, I’m going back to my desk.” He looks at the clock on the microwave. “We got four more hours to go.”
Arakita covers his face with a pillow and groans. It’s almost midnight, and if he can’t sleep now he knows he’ll feel tired when he gets to work in the morning. But every time he closes his eyes he ends up cringing.
I should probably get back because of work and all.
Liar. You little – big – liar. It was a Friday. Arakita can only feel so lucky Kinjou didn’t call him out on his bluff when he could, once at the dinner table and the second time on the porch as he was leaving the house. Maybe he should have went in on the Saturday and put in his full eight hours so he wouldn’t feel like such a phony. He can’t believe this is the second time Kinjou has made him lose sleep.
He’s been left thinking about it still while eating breakfast, or typing away at his desk, and in instances like right now in line at the grocery store. His little basket of vegetables and ready-cooked meals and soft drinks, he wants to throw it into the air from frustration. Why does he always remember the stupid things? But he’s an adult, Arakita tells himself, he’ll keep his composure and eventually this weirdness will pass, hopefully after tonight when he stuffs himself full of his favourite foods and falls into a calorie induced sleep. What time is it anyway?
Arakita checks his phone. It’s not too late, there probably will still be sunlight when he gets home. He puts his phone back into the pocket of his trousers, and when the lady at the register greets him he looks up, says hello, and –
Shit.
He made eye contact with Kinjou in the other line again. Is it weird to look away right now? Crap. He did it a bit too fast to be considered casual. Now what will he do? Arakita fumbles with the change in his hand when he gives it to the lady, grabs his grocery bag, and makes haste for the exit. But then he stops at the sliding doors, takes the receipt he shoved into his pocket, and tries to flatten out the crumples. He’s still in his work clothes, maybe there’s a pen somewhere on him still. When he finds it he puts the receipt against the wall and wants to yell as he writes.
When Kinjou walks out the door Arakita gets right in his face.
“Here,” Arakita almost yells it. Almost. He deserves some points for self-restraint.
Kinjou takes a step back.
“What?”
Does he really have to say it out loud?
“It’s my number.” Arakita offers the crumpled receipt to Kinjou. “You don’t have to take it if you don’t want it anymore.”
Really, Arakita doesn’t know which would be the better option at this point.
Kinjou has recovered from his surprise, and his hand motions forward. He almost takes the slip of paper but hesitates before he can touch it.
“Are you sure?” Kinjou asks.
“I’m positive.”
“I don’t want to force you to do anything.”
“Take it.” Arakita grabs Kinjou’s wrist and drags it toward the receipt. Kinjou’s eyes grow wide. “Take it before I change my mind.”
When Arakita blinks the paper is gone and in Kinjou’s hand instead. His own hand is left outstretched still in the position as if it was holding onto something. Damn, that was fast.
“Thank you,” Kinjou says. He’s still wide-eyed.
“Don’t mention it.” Really. Please.
Arakita straps on his helmet and jumps on his bike. The weather is sure hot today, it’s not his cheeks burning. That wasn’t awkward at all. Now he can go home and have dinner. Really, it’s not like Kinjou is going to actually call him after that. Arakita starts to pedal away.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” Kinjou yells after him.
Arakita raises a hand in the air as a response so Kinjou can see that he heard him. He can’t bear to look back.
It's pretty nice in here, Arakita thinks as his eyes roam around the kitchen. Being in here for five minutes and it already feels cozy. There's the lingering scent of a cooked dinner in the air, and the sound of a television that, even with the volume turned down low, can be heard from the other room. Everything was organized and tidy to the point that even the exposed shelves with mismatching cups and plates looked orderly instead of mashed together from lack of space. That was something that surprised Arakita – Kinjou's home was average in size, if a little on the smaller side just like his own. He expected with the side money coming in from doing the odd heroic job Kinjou would have bought a bigger house. Yet.
When he was walking down the hall toward the kitchen area Arakita darted his eyes around Kinjou's home but found there were no framed newspaper clippings, no medals or keys to the city, or fan mail stuck onto his fridge. He did notice one thing though that alluded to his heroic deeds – a framed picture of Peak Spider, Human Bullet, and Kinjou all smiling with their arms around each others' shoulders. He's heard about those guys before; Peak Spider moved his base of operation overseas indefinitely, and Human Bullet stayed in Japan but moved further north. He wouldn't have ever guessed Kinjou has superhero friends with how private and out of that world he seemed to want to be. Did they still keep in touch?
“Would you like some water or tea?” Kinjou asks.
“Uh, tea. Please.”
While Kinjou moves around with comfort and ease, Arakita's back is straight stiff against the chair. Why couldn't he have posture like this while at work? The home itself is inviting, but knowing that it belongs to Kinjou makes Arakita feel unsettled. He fiddles with his fingers, taps them on the edge of the table, and scratches an itch on the back of his head. Kinjou puts a cup down in front of Arakita along with some milk.
Arakita looks up at Kinjou.
“Ah, sorry,” Kinjou says, “this is the only tea I have left right now.”
“What is it?”
“English breakfast, given to me by a friend. Apparently it's a good brand.”
He sees Kinjou's eyes dart quickly to the photo in the hallway. So they do keep in touch.
Arakita pulls the cup across the table closer to himself, and adds a bit of the milk to cool it down. Kinjou sits across from Arakita, puts two plates down on the table and opens the cake box. Arakita's face starts to burn, he didn't plan on sticking around when Kinjou opens his gift.
“Thank you for this,” Kinjou says.
“Yeah.” Arakita says, sinking down into his seat. He watches the steam rising from his tea until he notices a slice of cake appear beside his cup.
Kinjou takes a bite from his own slice.
“This is good.”
Arakita can't really tell when he takes his own bite. He's not quite focused on the food and only notices its sweetness on his tongue. For once in his life Arakita wants to make small talk if only to cut through the awkward quiet around them. It was quiet enough that he can make out the words being spoken from the television, and hear the clatter of their forks against the plates. He's even conscious of the sound of his own chewing, and Arakita wonders if Kinjou can hear it too, so he slows down his bites. Find something to say, Arakita thinks. He looks around and notices a book on the kitchen table.
Kinjou notices and saves the day again.
“Do you like to read?” Kinjou asks.
“Uh, not really. Haven't read a full book since university.” He takes a sip from his tea. “I like comics here and there though.”
“Interesting. Which ones do you read?”
“Manga. Some western ones too. Stuff like that.”
“Which one do you like better?”
“Depends on my mood.” Is he in an interview? Arakita sure feels like it. Instinctively he reaches up to adjust his tie, but realizes he wasn't wearing one at all. He fiddles with the collar of his shirt instead. “Anyway, what book are you reading?”
“This one right here is about a man whose character is misunderstood by his neighbours because of the way he lives life.” Boom. Right on the money. Arakita takes a long sip from his cup and doesn't even care that he's burnt the tip of his tongue in the process. “It's like a societal satire, because everyone sees him as an oddball because he's so honest, while everyone else has a dirty secret.”
“Sounds fun.”
“If you're ever interested I could lend you the book.”
How is Kinjou so good at carrying a conversation? In comparison, Kinjou must feel like he's talking to a brick wall. Arakita attempts to add something to the conversation that wasn't a simple reply.
“The comics I read, they got one guy who comes back from the dead to get vengeance. This other one is superhero stuff that's pretty cool.” Ah shit, Arakita thinks when he sees Kinjou smile lightly at that. He tries to correct himself. “I mean, it's not bad. The art and story-telling is good, that's what makes the comic good. Not because of, y'know, the heroes and powers crap.”
Kinjou is still smiling. Now instead of being boring Arakita thinks he's said too much. When he looks closely at his face, Arakita notices Kinjou's eyes are green, and his pupils are not quite human, more oval instead of round. Kind of like a snake.
Arakita clears his throat before speaking again.
“Anyway look at the time, I should probably get back because of work and all.” He rises from his chair. “Thank you again for inviting me in. Er, and for all the other stuff.” The cake. The tea. The whole saving my life thing. That's a weight off his shoulders now.
“Anytime,” Kinjou replies. “Let me walk you to the door.”
On the front doorstep, before Arakita has a chance to sprint back home and think about how awkward this mess has been and lose sleep over it, Kinjou says his name.
“Yeah?” Arakita replies.
“I'm sorry to bring this up, but you seem the type to land into a lot of unfortunate situations.”
Arakita rubs the back of his neck and grimaces. “Just sometimes.”
Why is Kinjou bringing this up now? Aren’t they supposed to part ways and never talk again? Except maybe at the grocery store, saying hello to each other, that was the exception.
“Do you know how to defend yourself?”
“What?”
“Self-defense. Do you know it?”
What is he gonna say? Fighting? Yeah, I've gotten into some scraps in my life. I've seen some shit. I've fought sure, but not defended. Is he really gonna tell that to a damn superhero though?
Arakita settles on an answer. “A bit.”
“I can teach you more, if you'd like.” Kinjou brings out his phone. “May I have your number?”
Kinjou calls it intuition but he knows it’s more than that.
He’s learned the meaning from when he was a child. It begins with a simple touch, the first skin-on-skin contact, and then he knows. The sensation is like a prickle, similar to having his hand fall asleep without the discomfort, but then it’s over in a matter of seconds.
He feels it in the first high-five with Tadokoro, the first tentative handshake with Makishima. It’s a deep shiver and then Kinjou smiles; that’s how he knows he can trust them. Tadokoro is competitive and loud while Makishima is observant and reserved – and they’re both good people. He places that trust in them throughout his first year of high school, transforming from strangers to friends and eventually into teammates during his second year at the Inter High.
The sun is hot, his legs feel heavy, and he’s not about to give up - not even when he feels a tug on the back of his jersey and he finds the sky blends with the ground in a swipe of blue and green, then grey and red. It hurts. Right there. On his side.
He cries the first night home, angry with himself that he couldn’t fault Fukutomi, not after he feels that same sensation creeping into his skin the way it had with Tadokoro and Makishima during the fall. But he eventually learns to accept his decision to not hold a grudge and continue on with his life, so when Fukutomi comes to Chiba with a formal apology the rest of his regret disappears when he realizes he hadn’t been wrong to live and let go. While Tadokoro gets upset at him for forgiving so easily, Kinjou can’t bring himself to be mad at such an honest person.
He’ll just build a stronger team next year. And so will Fukutomi. It’s part of their agreement. As his third and final year of high school begins he places that same trust he gave to Makishima and Tadokoro into three odd first years, ones who carry determination, support, and a whole lot of heart. It works.
Sohoku wins. Kinjou finds himself crying again at an Inter High competition in a medical tent, and Naruko is jumping up and down on the bed, screaming Onoda’s name loud enough that even Kinjou tells him to calm down.
Then Izumida walks up to Kinjou, his shoulders and back stiff, and sticks his hand out.
“Congratulations,” he says, even with the disappointment in his voice evident.
Kinjou wipes his tears away with his left hand as he sticks out his right, taking Izumida’s hand into his own and giving a firm shake. The feeling in his hand is there and Kinjou smiles knowing that he genuinely means his words.
“Thank you.”
When they release their hold Izumida returns to his seat, and then Kinjou turns his gaze toward Arakita still lying down on the bed. When they make eye-contact Arakita looks away, pretending that he hadn’t watched them. But it would be rude not to acknowledge him after that, so Kinjou stands from his chair and walks toward him.
“You have a very strong team,” he says.
Arakita stops staring at the wall and looks at Kinjou’s outstretched hand. Kinjou knows he’s reluctant and is hurting from the sting of loss, but after a few seconds Arakita reaches over anyway and gives his hand a shake. Then Kinjou holds his breath, feels a strong sensation – the most intense he’s ever felt – and is stunned.
He’s never experienced this before.
“You can let go of my hand now.”
Arakita’s voice brings Kinjou back to the moment and he loosens his grip, realizing that he had begun to clench down on the other’s knuckles.
“I’m sorry,” Kinjou says and lets go.
Arakita gives him a suspicious look and slowly, gently lowers his arm back to his side. Then he quickly returns to looking at the wall.
Kinjou hasn’t felt that with anyone else. He has encountered friends and classmates, strangers and family, and can’t remember ever feeling that sensation with anyone before or after. He thinks about it a lot and wonders what it means. But he’s thankful for this gift and for all the people he has added into his life because of it.
He does, however, learn its meaning – but it’s not until months and months later after meeting Arakita for a second time at university. Their encounter was at first was a surprise, and it became friendship, until Kinjou kept thinking about him, then he learned that Arakita kept thinking about him too, and now they are here.
Kinjou is warm underneath the blankets and Arakita is here next to him. For being in the city, outside is snowing quite a bit and they can hear the wind whip past the window.
He feels Arakita shifting on the bed.
“Are you alright?” Arakita asks. “You’re being quiet.”
“I’m just thinking,” he answers. Kinjou believes he still would have fallen for Arakita without his gift, just it would have taken him more time to realize it. The feeling from touching Arakita’s hand for the first time is similar to the one now slowly burning in his chest, but instead of a quick pulse up his fingertips and into his bones he knows it’s here to stay.
Arakita huffs, brings one of Kinjou’s hands down to his lips and kisses his palm. He drags his arm around his body, curling it over his chest and pushes up against Kinjou further.
I miss them fruits so this is a rated lemon fic haha;;;
Kinjou is good with his hands, Arakita thinks as a gasp leaves mouth. Kinjou is really, really good with his hands. Especially now, with one gripping the side of Arakita’s hip and the other moving up and down the length of his cock. He doesn’t remember how he ended up like this, palms against the wall and Kinjou pressed up against his back, curving into each other, but his thoughts become muddled and he forgets again when he hears Kinjou’s breathing hitch. Arakita’s belt was unfastened and hanging loosely from the waistband, jeans unzipped, threatening to completely fall onto the floor with every grind back.
“Kinjou,” Arakita breathes his name against the wall, hips slanting forward when he feels a thumb brushing over the head, slicking precome over the pad of a finger and then across the length of Arakita’s cock, his hand moving up and down quicker. Kinjou slides his tongue up along the side of Arakita’s neck before placing a firm kiss to the side of his jaw.
Arakita is trying to remember.
How was it that they ended up like this? He wants to say they’re under the influence – but of what? He can’t blame it on the alcohol when they’ve had nothing to drink. He wants to blame it on the heat of the moment, but the desire has been long crawling underneath his skin, rattling Arakita’s bones. He just didn’t know Kinjou felt it too.
Kinjou's hand moves away from his hip and sneaks under and up his shirt, his open palm moving over the skin of Arakita’s stomach until it stops at his chest. His hand is more than warm, and just a little rough – working hands, then Arakita feels fingers rubbing and rolling his nipple.
“Does this feel good?” Kinjou asks.
Now the air is feeling heavier, and it’s a little harder to breathe.
He has to lean his forehead against the wall, needs more support to keep his legs from giving out under him. Kinjou is still grinding his own erection against his backside. Arakita’s jeans are threatening to fall down his narrow hips any moment. He’s panting against the wall, and in a second of clarity he hopes the drywall isn’t so thin that his neighbours can hear.
It’s coming back to Arakita a little bit more now.
It started as soon as they walked through the door. Kinjou is getting too use to treating Arakita’s apartment like his own home. He kicked off his shoes skewed and scattered across the ground, leaving a hazardous walkway for Arakita, who tripped and would have almost fallen if he hadn’t slammed his fist against the wall for support. Apologizing, Kinjou came darting back and promised not to do that again.
Fifteen minutes later they’re still here by the door, by the wall. How did an apology turn into this?
“Arakita.”
Kinjou’s hand is moving south again. It drags away from his chest, and Arakita almost wants to grab his wrist and keep him there – he won’t admit out loud that’s where he likes fingers on him playing the best – when it goes back to his hip. Only this time he’s not holding him still, but Kinjou is tugging down Arakita’s jeans and briefs further until it falls to the floor around his ankles, the buckle on the belt making a thud against the floor, and Kinjou’s hand begins to run up and down between Arakita’s thighs.
His skin remembers everywhere Kinjou has touched him, where Kinjou has kissed and nipped and marked leaving a sensation in their wake. He’s moving his hands in rhythm with each other, one still pumping Arakita’s cock and the other making Arakita’s legs tense and shake as it teases and just like that he feels a twisting in his stomach, a spark down his spine and he can almost –
“Wait. Just, wait.” It takes Arakita all his willpower, but he manages to remove a hand from the wall and lightly push Kinjou back. “Fuck, Kinjou” – he’s trying to explain himself without sounding desperate –“not like that.”
“What do you mean?” Kinjou’s voice still sounds low with want, but there’s a hint of concern. His hands, once so confident in their skill mapping out the muscles and bones of Arakita’s body are now retreating to his sides with uncertainty. But that isn’t it.
Arakita turns his head and his eyes trail down. He can see the outline of Kinjou’s erection pushing up against the front of his pants, ignored this whole time.
“Take off your pants,” Arakita demands, kicking his jeans to the side and spreading his legs apart.
For a moment it looks as if Kinjou was prepared to ask another question, but it takes a second for the demand to ring through his brain before his eyes grow dark again. His confidence is back, like it was never gone, and his hands fly to the front, unzipping his pants and exhaling deeply relieved sigh when his cock is finally free from its constraints. He takes that one step he was pushed back in to close the gap between him and Arakita again.
“Are you sure about this?” Kinjou asks. He is running his fingers up the curve of Arakita’s spine.
“Do it before I change my mind.”
It’s a lie, just a scare tactic to make Kinjou move faster. Arakita has been thinking about this for a while now ever since he’s been packing a condom into his wallet (just in case, just in case). It’s not a secret, most other guys he knows carry one, and when Kinjou picks it out from his own wallet Arakita laughs. He wasn’t one of those guys Arakita knew.
“Were you expecting this?” Arakita asks.
“No but”– he grabs a second foiled package from his wallet, coats the contents onto his fingers –“always prepared for it.”
It was Arakita who cracked first. He remembers now that it was him who kissed Kinjou. When Kinjou was busy stammering apologies for kicking off his shoes haphazardly Arakita was not impressed, but waved off the incident because he didn’t actually fall. They eventually laughed it off, and Kinjou’s body was so close to his own when he tried to help Arakita up from his almost doubled over position. Then he leaned forward and brushed lips with Kinjou, drawing back almost immediately when he realized his mistake. But then Kinjou’s lips found Arakita’s own again, Kinjou’s lips found the skin on Arakita’s neck, on his collarbone, the shell of his ear. Then Arakita was turned around and made to support himself against the wall.
Arakita feels a finger slip inside him. Then two. He inhales deeply, focuses on Kinjou rubbing small circles at the base of his spine.
“Let me know how you feel,” Kinjou asks.
“I’m fine.”
When Kinjou’s fingers are gone there’s the sound of a second wrapper being opened, and then something thick is pushing up against him.
“Last chance,” Kinjou says. “Are you sure?”
Arakita pushes back and nods.
Then he can feel Kinjou’s cock pushing into him – slowly, slowly – every inch going deeper until Arakita feels Kinjou’s hips flush against him.
“F-fuck Shingo,” Arakita whispers, he always wanted to say his name like this, and he feels hands tighten on his hips. Damn, did Kinjou hear?
He begins with shallow thrusts, his thumbs rubbing small circles on the sides of Arakita’s hips. When Arakita begins to put his own weight into it and pushes back, wanting to feel hips slam harder into him, Kinjou takes the hint but he doesn’t go faster, he goes harder, pulling out his cock further to thrust in deeper. He’s building up a rhythm that has Arakita’s legs shaking, his fingers scrambling against the wall.
“S-Shingo,” Arakita gasps. He doesn’t care that Kinjou can hear him anymore. He brings one hand down from the wall and begins to stroke himself. His nerves are alight, his toes curling, and he hears Kinjou’s breath coming out shorter and faster.
“Yasutomo,” Kinjou says. His fingers are kneading into Arakita’s muscles, holding onto the sharp jut of his hipbone. He’s close just from listening to Arakita tumble his name from his lips between the moans, and Arakita’s voice raises as he tightens around Kinjou’s cock.
“I’m –” Arakita doesn’t finish his sentence, just pumps his hand faster and out of synch with Kinjou’s thrusts until his vision flashes a white hot and he’s coming.
It doesn’t take long after for Kinjou to feel the rush, and he comes deep, hips flush and stuttering against Arakita. He chases the pleasure for a few more seconds grinding against Arakita, then he slackens his grip and pulls out. They don’t speak, not for a good minute, until they both come down from their high. Then Kinjou kisses the back of Arakita’s neck.
“Are you alright?” Kinjou asks. Now that the heat is gone from clouding his mind, he wonders how Arakita might be feeling.
There’s a small pause before he responds, “I’m fine. Just tired.” Arakita laughs weakly. “Hell, how did we even end up like this?”
Kinjou looks toward the door and sees the shoes still scattered around.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not that. I meant this. I didn’t even know you, y’know” – he swallows – “liked me, I guess.”
“I do.”
“Well you made that obvious. Look at all the steps we skipped and went straight to action.”
“Two steps back then. Let’s have dinner.”
“After some sleep.”
Kinjou nods. He’s beginning to feel tired himself.
This time Arakita is shuffling his feet on the doorstep instead of watching Kinjou walk through the door. He remembers the house, Kinjou’s house, from the white Trek bicycle locked up near the front and the neighbour with the silver van two doors down on the left.
Arakita switches the bag in his hand from his left, to his right, then to his left hand again. He had bought a simple shortcake not from the grocery store where Kinjou would be able to tell which aisle it was located and the price, but from a bakery in the heart of the city. It had taken Arakita a good ten minute debate at his own kitchen table to decide whether he should have wrapped the cake container in something nicer or just bring it in the plastic bag when he realized it was pointless to waste time and brain cells on. It was just a simple thank you, he didn’t need to put flowers or hearts and ribbons on the thing. It’s not like he was trying to impress Kinjou.
If you don’t do anything to apologize maybe next time he’ll just let you die. Machimiya’s words play again in his head.
Just get it over with.
Arakita takes in a deep breath, inhales the humidity of the evening air. The sun isn’t down quite yet, and he hopes to get home before it becomes completely dark. And if Kinjou is as apathetic toward him as he was that day, this exchange will be over quickly.
He switches the bag in his hands one more time before knocking on the door and immediately regretting his decision when he hears footsteps approaching not a moment later. Maybe he could have written a thank you, taped it to the cake box and left it there, running back to his house before Kinjou could answer the door. Or maybe he could have –
“Hello,” Kinjou says when he opens the door.
Crap, Arakita thinks. Too late. He’s not good with emotions and heartfelt speeches, so even if he has rehearsed it in his head about twenty-three times before coming here the words are stuck in his throat anyway.
Kinjou is still staring at him and Arakita wonders when he’s going to slam the door in his face for taking too much of his time. But the cake would spoil sitting at home, he wouldn’t be able to crack open the box much less look at it if he were to run then. What a waste of money.
He musters up the will to speak somehow, even with the knowledge that this isn’t going to end the way he rehearsed.
“Hi,” Arakita responds.
“May I help you?” Kinjou asks.
Arakita offers a nod before offering the bag.
“Uh, this is for you.”
Kinjou looks confused. “What for?”
“Helping me out those last few times.” He nods again, and feels an embarrassed flush creeping up into face. “Thanks, I guess.”
He probably sounds so lame. He probably looks lame as hell too. Arakita’s hand is left hanging outstretched holding onto the bag, but Kinjou hasn’t taken the gift. He’s trying to send a message, repeating take the bag take the bag in his mind and hoping that was in Kinjou’s list of superpowers, the power to be influenced by telepathy.
Instead of doing what Arakita had hoped – which would be to accept the gift and part ways in a civil manner with some of Arakita’s pride still intact – Kinjou’s expression softens.
“Thank you,” he says. “Would you like to come inside?”
Hell no, Arakita thinks. Don’t make this any more awkward than it already is.
Arakita musters up a smile that shows too much of his teeth, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes either.
“It’s alright. I just wanted to give you this as a thank you.” He brings the bag up higher between them, insistent. His palms are feeling clammy. He doesn’t know if Kinjou is genuinely thick-skulled or just giving his own form of punishment outside of the legal scope; he’s not a villain, just a bit of an asshole. Does that really deserve this much penalty? Whatever it was, it’s making Arakita feel more and more regret for having his life saved this many times.
Kinjou doesn’t give him a choice when he opens the door to his home wider and moves out from the doorway.
Arakita has glanced one too many times at the clock. He has taken too many washroom breaks just so he has an excuse to walk away from his desk-almost-bed, and his fingers were getting dried out from using the soap in the washroom too many times. This soap with moisturizer will keep your hands clean and soft! It’s a lie.
Fingers are clicking away at the keyboards around him and there are the soft footsteps of shoes against a carpeted floor behind, but it’s all muffled to him. Arakita’s eyes keep becoming unfocused on the computer screen, and he has to keep his hands off the keyboard so he doesn’t type anything in he’s not supposed to. Maybe he can go home now, get some sleep, and come in early tomorrow to work. It’s a big project, but not due immediately, and he isn’t the only one working on it.
Arakita is thankful his boss doesn’t have his desk located around his own so he can see him slacking off. It’ll get done, he promises himself, just when he has the energy.
When he’s about to grab his coat and call it a day at three o’clock instead of six o’clock like usual, there’s a pat on his shoulder and a coffee in front of his face.
“Have you been getting enough sleep?” Machimiya asks.
Arakita went to university with Machimiya, then they got hired at the same company right after graduation though their interviews were separate, and found out they would be working on the same floor with their desks across from the other. Now it’s been three years in these exact spots. Arakita thinks he’ll never be able to get rid of him if he tried.
In school they bonded over sharing embarrassing stories of being absolute train wrecks and trouble in their teenage years. And sometimes, when Arakita glances away from his computer monitor and makes eye contact with him, Machimiya would break out into a grin. Look Mom, we made it. Respectable adults in the working world.
Arakita takes the coffee from Machimiya.
“Kind of,” he replies after taking a sip. It’s still too hot for his cat’s tongue. “I’ve just been thinking about stuff.”
“What happened?”
Where does he even start? He hasn’t been able to sleep these past few days. Guilt has been clawing at him for his behaviour. He should apologize or say thank you or both. He plays it over in his head, his meeting with Kinjou, and maybe if he showed a little less animosity and a bit more gratitude he could write off Kinjou’s curtness as his smoking gun, proof of his superiority complex.
He doesn’t feel like explaining too much, but he knows Machimiya would pester him until he confessed.
“It’s about Kinjou.” Arakita takes another sip of coffee. Nope. Still hot. “I think I kinda pissed him off.”
Machimiya wants to howl and laugh, but he just chuckles. He doesn’t want to draw attention at work.
“Eh eh eh, what did you do?”
“Nothing, I just kinda ignored him.”
“And you pissed him off because of that?”
Arakita shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Well, did he yell at you or something?”
“He just said goodbye. Like you, when you have to talk to that guy from sales.”
Machimiya frowns.
“Sato, he’s an ass.”
“Exactly.”
“We don’t have to like each other, but your case is different. I think you should play it safe and make it up to him.” Machimiya takes a sip of water from his own cup before he breaks into a grin again. “Four times now, was it? If you don’t do anything to apologize maybe next time he’ll just let you die.”
While the outside world was still full of dangers ranging from villains to distracted drivers, Arakita feels he can safely say he’s met his expectations of a normal life. He wakes up, goes to work, comes back home on the train, and sneaks in a dinner before he goes to bed. A month and then some has passed by since the incident with the car, and the only time he sees Kinjou is occasionally at the check-out line at the grocery store. They don’t say anything to each other, but sometimes when Arakita looks up from the change in his palm he catches Kinjou staring.
He supposes that’s what Kinjou does, watch everybody’s business since he’s got a toe in the gig of saving lives, but it makes Arakita’s cheeks burn when he remembers how many times he’s already gotten involved in his, so he’s always the first to look away.
Today marks the beginning of the weekend. Arakita would still be rolling in bed, but he finds himself awake unusually early and decides to take advantage of the morning cool to ride his bike. He likes it like this when there’s nobody on the streets except for little old grandmas and grandpas getting in some exercise, walking up and down the street, and if they’re feeling adventurous to the marketplace. Maybe he should wake earlier more often.
“Good morning.”
Or maybe he shouldn’t.
Arakita turns to the voice and grimaces.
“Hi.”
This is the first time he’s meeting Kinjou casually, no cars or rails or falling objects. Just Arakita on his bike. Kinjou is walking alongside.
“I’ve never seen you around here before.”
Yes you have, Arakita thinks, we see each other all the damn time at the check-out counter. But he has more tact than that. He knows what Kinjou means – not in danger – and he’s thankful Kinjou also has enough tact not to mention anything himself.
“I don’t come down this street often.”
It’s the truth. He really doesn’t. It’s further from his house than he cares for, but Arakita wanted to take the longer route. He keeps pedaling. When Arakita fails to carry the conversation Kinjou speaks up again.
“I never got your name.”
“Arakita Yasutomo.”
“Nice to meet you Arakita, I’m Kinjou Shingo.”
Why introduce yourself? Arakita wonders. Telling him that his name is Kinjou Shingo is like trying to sell him baked potato flavoured potato chips. Of course it is. Everyone knows that. It’s so obvious.
Maybe Kinjou is just polite or – or maybe he was a show-off, one of those kinds that rub it in your face so discretely that everyone else would think you’re a dick if you speak out against him. A fake. Look at me everybody I’m Kinjou Shingo; intelligent, handsome, and strong. But don’t be fooled because even though I’m made for better things (things better than you) I want to live like I’m normal. So he can keep a reason for disliking Kinjou he prefers to believe the latter.
Arakita makes a left on the road. And another left. Then another one. He’s pedaling in circles. The landscape is starting to look familiar now, he can tell when he’s about to pass the house with the silver van in the parking spot. It feels good to take his old bike out for a spin again, full-time jobs really don’t allow for personal hobbies.
“Well Arakita, it seems you don’t want any company.”
He scoffs.
“How could you tell?”
“You’ve been pedaling faster.”
Arakita hadn’t noticed. Now that he’s conscious of his footwork he feels just how fast he’s been going from the wind whipping against his face. Had Kinjou been keeping up with him this whole time?
“Oh,” Arakita says. He slows his pedaling until he’s at a leisurely pace.
“My house is just around the corner, so I’ll be taking my leave now. Goodbye.”
Kinjou walks away without waiting for Arakita to say anything back, and turns up the steps to his front door and enters his house. He doesn’t think Kinjou is angry, or disappointed, or even if he feels anything at all, but Arakita himself can’t help but feel a little rejected.
When he makes it back home and sits down on the couch, the regret kicks in. Maybe Kinjou really isn’t a show-off, and that’s why he feels like an ass for acting the way he did. If he’s being real, the only reason he doesn’t like Kinjou is because he’s embarrassed by how many times he’s saved him. And it’s a little unfair to dislike someone for saving your damn life. Four times. Without asking for anything in return, except for today when Kinjou asked for his name.
Arakita thinks he remembers where Kinjou lives. Maybe he’ll pay a visit soon and say sorry. Or maybe he’ll say thanks, since he remembers about a month and a bit ago all he said to Kinjou was that he was fast, but he never said thanks. Maybe then he can stop feeling like a jerk.
Arakita is walking towards the bench by the trees. Every lunch period he goes there to sit and take large bites from his melon bread and lick the sugar off from his fingertips. When he is finished eating all he can do is sit and drag his shoes across the ground, maybe rub at his elbow, and walk back to class before he was late. Facing the bench is a chain link fence that marks the end or beginning of the school grounds depending on which side you’re on, and sometimes when Arakita stares through the gaps he imagines finally crossing over. Home is far from here but the distance wasn’t so bad if he took his moped, yet Arakita isn’t sure that’s where he would be headed toward if he never looked back.
It’s been months now since he has been attending Hakone Academy and everyone around him seems to be accustomed to the routine of life here, but for Arakita it always felt like the first day. He walks through the door and is met with strangers, faces he has tried before to make familiar but every attempt ends with their turned backs. So he runs – he’s been taught to never trust strangers anyway – and always finds himself back at the bench.
He’s claimed the area now as his space. A retreat. It made him feel safe even if Arakita only managed to remember the stupid things here but that just meant it was no different than crawling into bed.
Why am I like this?
Since Arakita has been coming here he has always been by himself. It was too far from the school building for most students to even know about it, and if they did too out of the way if it ever crossed their minds. But today he’s surprised to find his spot on the bench already occupied by a stranger, and Arakita hesitates. He isn’t use to seeing anyone here before him except for the odd one or two students wandering past. He decides however to continue forward with slow, gentle steps so he doesn’t scare off his trespasser.
It wasn’t enough, and alerted to his presence Arakita ends up staring into eyes that refuse to blink.
“Hey,” he says. The cat’s ear prick upward but its body makes no signs of moving so Arakita takes another step closer. He reaches out a hand. He makes another attempt, softens his tone when he feels his first greeting sounded too rough. “Hey.”
Its head is almost at his fingertips. Arakita can already imagine the softness of its black fur against his skin, but then it turns away and jumps off the bench, strutting away in the opposite direction. The cat stops to look back only once before continuing through the bushes.
And that was it.
What was that about? He wants to yell at the cat – like at everyone else you know – but stops short when he realizes his fist had been squeezing and flattening his lunch. Instead Arakita looks behind himself, wondering if someone else must have frightened the cat, and then he’s reminded why he has chosen this spot when can see no one else. So he takes back his usual seat on the bench, unwraps his melon bread and stares out through the fence to the other side.
In class he looks out the window and tries to see a flicker of a tail moving underneath the bushes, and scouting through the trees when he’s walking to the dorms he wonders if they’ll ever cross paths, but all he sees are blackbirds.
He thinks about it later that night, what he’s done wrong, and of a million different excuses – none that makes sense, but he believes them anyway – why he’s meant to be alone.
Then in a few days’ time Arakita is surprised to see the cat again after believing he had scared it off. This time it’s not on the bench but standing just in front of him closer to the bushes. The cat’s tail hits the branches as it waves in the air and yellow eyes never parts from his own. He’s heard before that cats are smart creatures, and Arakita pats the space beside himself wondering if the cat would take his offer.
It does.
As it moves closer something inside of Arakita seems to feel warmer, somewhere in his chest – but it’s cut cold when the cat instead turns past him and down the concrete path. It runs into another bush and he can see the branches bouncing in place from where it has gone.
His hand is still placed down on the bench seat beside himself, but he moves it off when he realizes he hasn’t opened the packaging to his melon bread yet.
He’s been watching the bushes for a sign of movement, but there must be a small hole in the fence because for the rest of the lunch period it never comes back. How lucky, Arakita thinks, if he could wish himself smaller to the size of a cat he’d do the same.
What’s wrong with me? He’s not even fit for the animals.
This time he doesn’t feel the need to lash out, Arakita is getting use to the feeling of being alone. He thinks.
Then the third time he sees the cat it’s underneath the bushes. He watches the cat watch him eat, but Arakita doesn’t try to coax it out, or talk to it, or touch it. He has run the scenario a hundred times before he sleeps, all the different ways to reach out to the cat, but the version in his mind always ends the way he wants it to. He’s afraid that reality is different. So he does nothing.
Then for the first time since their encounters the cat breaks eye contact and turns away from Arakita. Its ears prick up, and he soon hears footsteps coming down the concrete path. Then there are voices. And now their faces are visible. It’s two boys he recognizes from class.
Arakita doesn’t think they notice him. They continue to talk and laugh, slowly coming toward him. His eyes flit back to the cat, who is now looking back at Arakita and away from the sounds.
They’re closer.
Arakita can see the dark pinstripes on their uniform.
They’re even closer.
He can read the crest on their jackets.
They didn’t seem like bad people, only friendly if a bit shy, from Arakita’s seat at the back of the classroom.
Maybe –
Just maybe –
They make eye contact.
“Hi.” Arakita says.
And then –
And then the laughter stops.
They look away and down, and he can hear the rhythm in their footsteps pick up until they’re unseen and away. His courage is gone, and Arakita wasn’t even aware that his heart had lifted until he feels it sink. Now he feels stupid all over again and wonders when this cycle will break.
It has always been like this. Whenever Arakita reaches out a hand no one seems to take it. When he tries to speak no one answers. They’re in their own little groups - but they at least have somebody - and he can only watch from the outside. How does everyone make it look so natural?
Then there’s a rustling as the cat appears from under the leaves. It looks down the path, and when Arakita thinks it’s about to run away again it hops onto the bench. Arakita is wary until the cat steps forward to brush up against his arm. Then he’s allowed to feel the fur on its head. The cat purrs under his touch.
He’s heard before that you should never pet a feral cat, but ones that are strays can still remember what it’s like to live with contact. He wonders if this one is just missing a collar or missing a friend. Free or abandoned - no one ever stays.
When the apple fell from the tree and hit the ground it changed the world. But Kinjou was only one person so it never made it into the news, or into his textbooks, and he kept it quiet enough that not even his friends talked about it if any of them knew – which they didn’t. He was probably so secretive about it that Arakita never noticed either, which was just fine for Kinjou, except for somewhere deep deep down in his mind or his heart or his gut or just possibly his whole body that wanted Arakita to actually know how he felt. But he was afraid the force of attraction was just too weak that instead of bringing them closer together Arakita would drift away. So he kept quiet.
If, however, someone were to open his practice journal and ignore the progress notes and instead look inside the margins they would see Kinjou was very vocal about his feelings. His nose would be buried in the pages and his pencil to the paper looking like he was he was always studying, but it’s really just him trying to figure out why he likes Arakita so much. He’s putting down what Arakita is to him, like excitable and competitive but there are so many words written that he hasn’t been able see a pattern. So if all objects fall at the same rate how come it only feels like Kinjou hit the ground?
When they go out with friends Kinjou finds himself upset if Arakita picks a spot away from him, and as they part ways he wonders how Arakita doesn’t even bother to glance back once after goodbye. He wants Arakita’s attention enough that sometimes Kinjou finds himself baiting him just to try to get a reaction. To Kinjou, it feels like his affections seem the type that would be found on a schoolyard, but secretly wishing that someone would notice you the way you notice them was better than pressing gum into their hair or pushing them off their bicycle because you didn’t know what to do about it.
He does feel a little immature – it’s his first time, please be gentle – about his crush. Writing in journals and wanting to share the same seat and wondering how much Arakita thinks about him, is it as much as Kinjou thinks about Arakita? Even by accident? When he’s not around? Arakita feels distant, so if two objects are separated from each other the weaker the force of attraction will be, why does it feel like Kinjou’s heart only grows fonder?
When Arakita laughs it’s invasive and loud. He’s foul-mouthed, and taunting on the road – sometimes directed at Kinjou. There’s no reason his heart should beat faster or for a sudden bout of self-consciousness, until something reminds him that Arakita is also honest and loyal and actually quite soft inside.
If their hands touch Kinjou wishes that a glove didn’t divide their skin from contact. When they say goodbye Arakita’s eyes disappear as he smiles. When they’re beside each other Kinjou considers how much smaller Arakita is from his bones and his muscles to his eyes and his lips. So if the object with the greater mass is supposed to attract the object with less, how come Kinjou feels like he’s the one being pulled in?
He still hasn’t figured out why. All the facts and figures couldn’t explain, and all the dictionaries couldn’t describe. He’s well acquainted with the phrase opposites attract, but if that was the case Kinjou thinks he would have felt like this many times before. There has to be some logic to why Arakita was the outlier. He thinks about it before bed, in class, and during practice it was exceptionally hard when Arakita was right there and messing with his reason and turning it into feelings. If he manages to clear his mind for even five minutes from thinking about Arakita, Kinjou considers it a victory for his brain until his heart swells again, and he can’t help but glance back at him or see only Arakita in the crowd just over the horizon.
Maybe he’s applying the wrong rules like adding numbers before multiplying them. Or maybe his calculations are off, because one plus one should equal two but he’s still left at one. Kinjou doesn’t understand where he went wrong. So if the law of gravitation is universal, how come he’s the only one being affected?
Some days Kinjou feels he may be close to an answer. He has been careful to distract from thoughts about where Arakita was or what he was doing or what – who – he was thinking of. Kinjou supposes he hasn’t been trying hard enough to control his emotions because it’s quite easy when he really tries to focus on something else like his textbook – yes, of course it’s a very interesting read. It’s almost been an hour without thinking of him. Maybe it was just a phase.
Then without warning it’s not just his name but also Arakita’s face passing through Kinjou’s mind and he falls all over again. He guesses it has been too long without thinking about him, because the questions that would come and go one at a time suddenly appear all at once and he wonders where and what Arakita was doing, and who he was thinking about, and how he was feeling right now, content or as restless as Kinjou. He’s back to square one, and Kinjou is trying to collect his thoughts in order when suddenly, in the only moment of clarity, he realizes the answer he has been looking for wasn’t found in equations or theory, but that there is no logic to falling in love.
Getting saved again by the local superhero is embarrassing.
It’s fine the first time, accountable to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The second time is a little debatable. The third time is just tiresome, the fourth time though – that’s just embarrassing. Arakita has encountered him enough that he thinks Kinjou recognizes his face now. And after Kinjou jumps out to grab him from getting crushed between the front of a car and a pole line, he looks down at a shocked Arakita – still clutching onto his groceries – in his arms.
“Hello,” he says.
Hello.
Hello of all things. Not to ask him if he’s hurt. Or to tell him not to worry. It’s hello.
That drives Arakita a little insane that they’re on such friendly terms already. Hell, probably even on a first-name basis, and if it continues at this rate he expects they’ll get married soon.
“Oh my God, are you hurt?” A woman asks, and the sound of her concern brings him back to the present. She runs up to touch his cheek. She dropped her bag of groceries on the side of the road for him. He sees apples rolling. What a nice lady, Arakita thinks.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Thanks to” – he clears his throat – “thanks to Kinjou.”
“Thank God.” The woman clasps her hands to her chest. Before she runs off she says, “I’m going to go check on the driver. Thank you Kinjou, you saved his life!”
Kinjou Shingo. Snake boy wonder, local superhero. With an unnatural ease he can navigate his surroundings, create venom from his saliva, and has super strength and agility. It’s no wonder he was able to react in time to grab Arakita from the clutches of death again, and again, and again. Twice from falling objects, once from a dangerous slip that would have led him over the rails, and now a moving vehicle. Arakita thinks he has a superpower too and it’s called misfortune.
Superpowers weren’t common, but it happened enough that it was nothing to be shocked about. Any other hero could have saved Arakita, but it just so happens that Kinjou was always around because they live in the same area and shops at the same grocery store.
Arakita wants to muster up the gratitude to thank him but he can’t. It’s not that he isn’t thankful, it’s that he has said it too many times and after the first two rescues it kind of lost its charm. There’s only so many different ways to say thank you without becoming a broken record. So Arakita’s become a little jaded.
Instead he pats Kinjou’s shoulder affirmatively.
“You’re pretty fuckin’ fast,” he says.
“Glad to be of service,” Kinjou responds.
He’s been asked before why he hasn’t joined the ranks of other full-time heroes. With proper training his powers and intelligence were more than enough. But Kinjou answered that he didn’t want to do it for a living; he would rather live as normally as possible, so he kept his status to only part-time and to the area instead of across the country or even world-wide like some others. It’s also why everybody just calls Kinjou by his name instead of Snake Boy or Python Man or some equally exaggerated title for his superpowers. He never made – or needed – a code name.
The man in the car steps out with the help from the woman. He’s visibly shaken but unharmed. A group of bystanders begin to form.
Arakita pats his shoulder again.
“You can let go of me now.”
“Are you sure you can walk?”
“I’m fine,” Arakita replies, “I never got hurt in the first place.”
“Right.” Kinjou puts him down and waits for a moment for Arakita to prove that he can stand on his own two feet. Satisfied he says, “I’m going to help the others now.”
“Go.” Arakita waves him off. “Do whatever it is you heroes do.”
“Save people?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Kinjou points at him.
“Look both ways before crossing the street, and always make sure you’re paying attention to your surroundings.”
“I can’t believe you’re telling – I’m an adult.”
“Good,” Kinjou says, “that means you don’t need another reminder.”
He runs off. Arakita wants to yell at Kinjou you asshole! or something equally insulting, but saying something like that to your life saver would be in bad taste. So Arakita grumbles but brushes it off, and looks inside his grocery bag to make sure everything was alright. Damn, he thinks when inspecting the egg carton, not a single one cracked. Kinjou’s good.
Police cars have finally appeared. An officer is talking to Kinjou, and he points in Arakita’s direction. The officer nods, thanking him, and begins to walk toward Arakita with a notepad. He sighs. Arakita just wants to go home, but he’s stuck playing the victim and he didn’t even get hurt.
He swear to himself he’s never going to get into another accident again. He’s going to look both ways before crossing the street, he’s going to look up, down – hell, he’s even going to look behind himself. At least that way, when this is over, he won’t keep running into Kinjou anymore.
Trying to get back into the feel of writing. This turned out way longer than I anticipated, like five times longer. Experimental writing.
Rose quartz and serenity, pretty names for what is essentially pink and blue.
Makishima tugs on his sleeve, feeling a little amiss in the sea of fur. It’s the beginning of September, hardly the weather for such heavy looking vests and boots, but he supposes everybody wants to look their best today. He thought he did too – looked his best – until his yellow and purple shirt suddenly became out of fashion right now because damn these girls were on point. Maybe he should have gone for the colours of the year instead.
Maybe, Makishima thinks, yellow and purple shirts were still in fashion from the back of the classroom.
But before he could slink off with his bag the professor walks up to him and points at his shirt.
“I like it,” she says while smiling, “very different.”
He doesn’t remember why he was so bothered from that first day, thinking he didn’t belong in fashion school. Makishima finds that his love for colour blocking and asymmetrical hemlines aren’t out of style, it just needs to be refined. Besides, his work stands out amongst all the women’s contemporary and androgynous styles, second only to the odd few who wanted to do costume. It’s something he’s proud of when he can go to his brother’s studio and tell him that his one of the professors took note of the bold direction of his designs.
“Maybe I can start helping design your next line,” Makishima says to Ren. He’s only half hopeful, they have very different styles. Still, it’d be nice to get some real experience besides trimming loose threads and clipping off the bulky seam allowances.
“Not until you’ve graduated,” Ren replies. He pushes the paper scissors toward his younger brother. “Can you cut out my patterns?”
It’s a weekday, almost four o’clock in the evening. He doesn’t have classes today so he takes the morning to ride his bike and leave just enough time to help his brother for a few hours at the studio. While Ren takes inventory he does some trimming to ease the work load for tomorrow. It benefits him too however, Makishima can use this for internship hours.
“I can finish this instead.” Makishima hold up the shirt in his hands. “There’s more of this to do than that.”
“It’s okay, I’d rather you cut the patterns. I hate doing that.” Ren takes an envelope from his bag and slides it toward Makishima. “By the way, your friend sent you mail the old fashioned way.”
Maki-Chan!
You never respond to my emails. I used the nicest paper I could buy so you can’t say I didn’t try. What is England like? I’ve asked you before but you never respond! Are you avoiding me on purpose or is your internet connection gone?
Toudou hasn’t said much on paper because everything he wanted to say is already in the emails. This was him just being annoying. He’s been meaning to respond – really – but never got around to it. Might as well do it now.
Makishima picks up a pen, takes out a regular piece of paper – his handwritten reply should be enough effort – and starts with whatever is on the top of his mind. He doesn’t plan on proofreading anything since he’s about to go to bed.
Toudou,
England is fine. You wouldn’t think fashion school is crazy but...
Burgers are different here than Japan. They’re much bigger. He doesn’t like to eat them often, but at 3AM in the morning it’s a gift from heaven when every other restaurant is closed. His classmates, which he now calls the Midnight Crew to himself, are sitting on top of tables and pecking fries from each other. Makishima didn’t buy any because he didn’t want to get grease on his fabric.
It’s always the same people who seem to pull all-nighters and he’s somewhat become one of them. Between his internship with his brother, school, and cycling, all that’s left in the day is the night to work. He doesn’t understand how they seem so carefree with a dress due in the afternoon. But he likes it. It’s a change of pace. There are less people in the sewing labs and a lot of heart-to-heart discussions.
He finds himself in the centre of one tonight.
“Do you have someone special back at home?”
“No.” Makishima replies. “I don’t.”
“How come?” The girl with the red lipstick asks. No matter the time of the day or how tired she may be, she always looked her finest.
He shrugs. “No time.”
There’s another girl in the room, earlier in the night she switched out from her jeans to pajamas. She was very blunt in her speech.
“What do you mean by no time?”
“I was always cycling.” His English isn’t terrible, but when all eyes are on him his tongue tends to trip. “My bike.”
“Well, could you meet anybody from your hobby?” Another guy in the room asks. “That’s such a different past time from what I’m use to. Like, I wonder what type of people you could meet.”
“A lot of different people,” Makishima replies. His old teammates, his friends, his rivals. “This one person, he was always very close to me. Always trying to talk even though we were on different teams.”
The girl in the pajamas laughed. “So he had a crush on you.”
“No.” Makishima looked at his dress. He just needed to finish the hemline and he could sleep. “He had a fan club full of girls.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” she replied, “just because he had a bunch of girls fawning over him doesn’t mean he had to like them back.”
Snow is falling. Christmas is already a few months past. It didn’t snow much in December, but if he could start giving out gifts right now instead of then he’d do it because the mood was in. Some window shops still had tinsel taped and trees still had lights fixed into their branches. He could pretend it was December still, walking around this store.
He’s wearing the scarf Toudou sent to him for Christmas.
Makishima shifts the phone to his other ear. “I couldn’t get you a present though.”
“Whatever, consider this a comfort from home. If you look at the label it’s made in Japan.”
He keeps talking. Makishima has to stop him.
“I need to sleep.”
“Time zones!” Toudou cries out. “Go to bed. You need to rest so the next time–“
“Goodnight, Toudou.”
“Goodnight! And don’t forget to call me next time, okay?”
Two months and he hasn’t called back yet. Makishima feels a little guilty, remembering that he had to cut him short, but at the same time a phone conversation in the early morning wasn’t something he wanted to experience for a long while. Instead he picks up a headband in blue and checks the label. Made in England.
He doesn’t care about the price, just how to use the postal service again.
It’s not easy, Makishima thinks, being in fashion school. On top of all the sewing they still had to write essays, and study, and take exams. He’s running on two hours of sleep, and the person beside him is running on two cans of energy drinks.
“I’m not ready,” she says, taking another sip. “I didn’t get to study because I had to finish sewing my shirt.”
“I’m really tired too,” he replies.
“I thought you finished?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what were you doing all night?”
Truthfully, he couldn’t find a way to say it without sounding like an ass. More and more letters keep piling up in his inbox, on his desk. Toudou’s name was a staple in his bedroom now, but Onoda has recently begun to join in. Ever since he replied to that one mail, Toudou hasn’t stopped sending half his messages in paper. He’s been putting off writing a response but for some reason he couldn’t sleep last night until he did. His priorities have started to slide.
“I was talking to friends.”
She nods, understanding. “Time zone difference?”
“Yeah.” He responds. He was the token foreign student; everyone in their year knew him.
“Who are they?”
“Just friends, an old teammate.” Onoda. “And someone who is very close to me.” Toudou.
She nods again but doesn’t push the subject, probably still too tired for a full conversation. Makishima is glad he doesn’t have to explain himself.
It’s July 7th.
When he opens his emails, he keeps reading different ways to say happy birthday. Kinjou and Tadokoro sent individual ones, while Onoda, Imaizumi, and Naruko have chimed into one together.
Kinjou is slightly apologetic in his message, he wishes he could keep in contact more often, but school is too hectic. Tadokoro tells him to just visit soon. Underneath their message, his three underclassmen write in big, bold font for him to have a happy birthday, and a list of how to say it around the world.
His parents have called him, and Ren brought the candles while his girlfriend bought a small cake. It’s pretty heartwarming – though he wouldn’t say it out loud – that so many of his friends and family remembered.
Maki-chan,
You’ve responded to three of my messages – that means I almost need to use my other hand to count.
Now you’ve told me what England looks like so send me pictures. I want to see for myself. I know your birthday is coming up...
He got Toudou’s message a few days earlier. It’s pretty long so he has read it only once before.
Then Makishima picks up a pen, but puts it down.
”I’m going back this summer.”
“For how long?”
“A few weeks I guess?”
Makishima is almost finished clipping these loose threads. He doesn’t have to be at his brother’s studio on the weekend, but he can tell him here without any distractions what his future plans were. He wants to go back to Japan.
“Do Mom and Dad know?”
“They’re willing to buy me a ticket.”
On the opposite end of the table Ren is also clipping threads. There are cardboard boxes and mountains of shirts they have to talk over. He needs to get these pieces ready for shipment but he’s a little behind.
“I’m not going to stop you, but why?”
He shrugs. “See some friends who have been bugging me about it.”
“Is that all?”
“Yeah.”
Ren is quiet for a moment.
“Who’s Toudou?”
Makishima didn’t want to bring this up, but he knew his older brother was curious. He didn’t care in the beginning, but as more mail piled up there was always a look in his eye whenever he handed over an envelope.
“Just someone from another school. We would always compete against each other.”
“Is that all?”
It’s Makishima’s turn to be quiet. “I don’t know.”
Ren starts folding his pile of clothing and puts them neatly into a box.
“Go back home. Clear your head, Yuusuke.”
At the airport he runs into Kinjou. Tadokoro is waiting outside in the van.
He didn’t really expect this, but it’s quite nice that the first people to greet him are his friends.
“We’re going to see the race,” Kinjou states.
The air is muggy. There are no clouds and the sun is blinding. Instead of using the air conditioner in the car Tadokoro wants the windows rolled down to enjoy the breeze through his hair. Makishima feels the heat seeping through his skin, and on his forehead his hair is sticking, but tolerates it for Tadokoro’s sake.
“Nice shirt,” Kinjou says. “Where did you get it?”
“It’s my brother’s design. He wanted to make something with the colours of the year.”
“Pink I’m assuming?”
“And blue.”
“Hey Kinjou, take it out,” Tadokoro yells. “We wanted to give you a birthday present, but decided to wait to do it in person.”
“We got you a new phone,” Kinjou says, “because you never seem to pick up the one you’re using.”
“Wait, I can’t accept that.” Makishima tries to push the package away, but Kinjou presses it into his hands.
“I’m joking. It’s a new pair of fabric scissors.”
Tadokoro laughs. “Kinjou picked them out and we split the price. Give us some credit when your name gets big, alright?”
Makishima is waiting at the climber’s checkpoint.
He thinks about the gift Kinjou and Tadokoro had given him. Great, he thinks, now he has no choice but to make it to the top. But he’s always done that anyways.
Now that he thinks about it, he’s surprised Toudou hadn’t sent him a gift for his birthday. It’s not like Makishima expected one, but he was just surprised since he received something for Christmas and Toudou’s letter clearly stated that he remembered his birthday. It was a little hard to forget his birthday though, it signs the beginning of festivities for tanabata, the one time a year the two lovers can meet.
A bird flies past him. Something leaps in the grass. Makishima decides to stay under the shade of a tree with a mother and her young son. They’re probably here to watch his older brother participate in the race.
He looks around. He doesn’t see anyone he recognizes here. Kinjou and Tadokoro went to say hello to the others down at the tents. Makishima will go later. He’s waiting for someone. But. It might be asking too much to want to meet here of all places.
He sees a headband, but it’s on a young lady. He sees a bike, but who isn’t carrying one at this event? He’s given Toudou a little heads up the day that he was coming back. Maybe he should have said a bit more. The sun is still hot under the shade, the mother takes out a water bottle and presses it to her son’s forehead to cool him down. He takes it from her hand to have a drink.
It’s an empty road still, no racers have arrived yet. He wonders who will be the first person to get to the top of the peak.
“Maki-chan?” He hears behind him.
“Toudou?”
He whips around.
And there he is. The man of the hour. Their meeting is sudden and a little more anticlimactic than he anticipated.
It’s been less than a year but somehow it feels like longer. Maybe Makishima missed him more than he thinks. And Toudou is more reserved than he thought he’d be. He isn’t yelling, or laughing, or challenging him. He just points at his shirt.
“I knew you liked pink.” He points to his hairband. “I’m wearing the one you bought for me.”
“Thanks.” Makishima says, but he isn’t sure if that was the word he wanted to use. Clear your head. Clear your head. “How have you been?”
“Good. So much has happened.”
“Same.”
The crowd around them is getting excited. Maybe news about the racers finally getting closer to the checkpoint. Makishima isn’t sure, just focused on Toudou. Did his hair grow longer? Then Toudou tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. Was he caught staring? But he doesn’t mention it.
“How long are you back for?”
“About a month.”
He perks up. “I have so much to tell you.”
He notices Toudou’s hand is fidgeting. It’s different, he’s never seen him look nervous before. But. He’s also enthusiastic. It was in his voice. Maybe Makishima was just projecting himself onto Toudou.
Clear your head, Yuusuke.
Make sure the next words are what you want to say.
He hasn't found it yet. It skips, it learns, and it even stops but his heart has never settled.
Kinjou feels it now – there's a pounding in his chest. Next time, Kinjou always tells himself, he'll ask Arakita if he would like to go on a date. But his heart always finds its way into his throat first before the words can escape, and they get trapped behind and rearranged. What is the date today? or would you like to study tomorrow too? And Kinjou wonders when is this next time he keeps hoping will happen. It eventually does appear one day, surprising even himself when his mouth moves before he can stop it. He's left with reddening cheeks, trying to keep his gaze from drifting away from Arakita's widened eyes. The answer is almost instant.
“Yeah.”
Then he wonders how many next times Arakita had been making too.
Soon things start to change in Kinjou's apartment. On weekend mornings there's the sound of tip-toes across the floor whenever he's still asleep. A sweater that doesn't belong to him is hanging in his closet. An extra toothbrush by the sink. On his unmade bed, the sheets don't carry the scent of him anymore but of them. Instead of feeling smaller, Kinjou only realizes just how much space he lives in alone until Arakita walks through the door.
Now from the first yes there have been many more after, agreements in the form of words or actions made by the hands, the hips, or the lips. Kinjou finds himself nearly five years later looking around his apartment, another sign of the yes he made when he finishes taping the last of the boxes piled high one on top of the other. He's finally moving out after finishing his university years here and there's a little ache in his heart from leaving what he called home.
“Are you ready?” Arakita asks.
Suddenly leaving isn't so hard. If Kinjou stays here it wouldn't be these white walls he would miss but the person standing in the doorway. When he nods, Arakita picks up the closest box to be brought downstairs, and later when they were all safely packed into the back of cars Kinjou walks up the steps to take a look back into the room one last time. It's empty, almost lifeless if weren't for his memories rebuilding life as he knew: the table in the middle of the room where he studied, to bed by the corner where he nervously first made love. It's barely recognizable to him anymore, hardly the room that started it all. Now there's a hand over his own – Arakita coaxing him to go back downstairs – and before he does Kinjou wonders what life would be like for the next person here. They return their old keys for a matching pair.
As they settle into their new place they begin building from the ground up and trying to fit the pieces of two separate lives together where it would; sometimes it would work, but mostly they would have to accommodate and rearrange. Living together was a different experience than simply just being together. Practice journals were wedged between stacks of manga on the nightstand. Kinjou would find himself frequently doing the dishes before they piled over the sink. Arakita soon learned that old habits die hard and gave up trying to organize the shoes by the front door into neat pairs whenever Kinjou would come home. They were still young enough that living together was a bit of a mess which poured over into their physical space, lacking the insight and compromise they saw when watching their own parents, but even without over twenty-year long marriages and kids to hold them together Kinjou felt he had the same success, couldn't see where they could go wrong, and would describe themselves as happy.
But then their first big fight had Arakita out the door – of course he was the type to run – and Kinjou wishes they could have stopped before it went too far. Too many words from Arakita's mouth. Too little from his own. It was about time he realized Kinjou wasn't perfect and he didn't know how he didn't find out sooner. At night he waited for Arakita to come back, and frequently paced from the bedroom and back to the front door. He was sleepless because the blanket felt prickly against his skin, anxious because he never heard the sound of a key unlock the door. This is home, he should feel safe, but Kinjou had never wanted to leave as much as he did right now and wander into the city streets, peep inside every window and search through every alley in the off-chance that Arakita would be hiding where he thought Kinjou would never look for him. When the sun came up and he was still alone he knew exactly where Arakita would go.
He finds himself on Fukutomi's doorstep.
It hurts. Kinjou is mad at himself that it was here of all places he really knew where to find Arakita, having spent the night in another man's home. The sympathetic expression on Fukutomi's face when he opens the door proves that he is there beyond the threshold, and Kinjou wonders if he has damaged what they had enough that Arakita has found a new place for comfort, another person with whom he would place his heart. He prepares for the worst. Then Fukutomi speaks.
“He's waiting for you.”
Then Kinjou feels he can repair what they had, build a new home using the old one, saving the usable parts and leave the rotting pieces to time. It would be blue-collar work, but Kinjou figured the sweat poured today were the tears spared tomorrow.
That night Kinjou is glad he has someone to put his arm around in bed instead of a pillow and pretending. He's trying to keep calm but his chest is heaving, and he thinks back to his mother wiping tears from his eyes. Shingo, you're such a crybaby.
Arakita notices.
“You've made me cry before too,” he says.
He thinks one year back, two years back, and even further still. Kinjou is little alarmed that he doesn't remember.
“When was that?”
“We were seventeen.” He taps his fingertips against Kinjou's arm. “You just won the Inter-High. And I went home.”
He can hear the laughter in Arakita's voice, the embarrassment of a silly confession. Kinjou can't help but begin to laugh too.
“You cried?”
“Yeah, I did.”
It's almost five o'clock in the morning. It's still dark but his eyes had adjusted long ago, and when Kinjou looks to the right he can make out the form of Arakita's body beside his own. He's moved now from being on his side and draped under Kinjou's arm to lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. They're long past pretending to care about the time on the clock, and instead just laughing and talking and filling in the other about memories from the twenty years they weren't a part of the others' life and laying out the blueprints for the future.
Exciting is the word he’s heard used before. Overwhelming. New. But Kinjou doesn’t need that anymore, the nervousness of first love or the heartache and pain of losing out. He's tired from the running the jumping and the leaping that accompanies the acrobatics of love. He needs a place to rest.
The next night Kinjou turns off the lights and crawls into bed. He pulls the covers up over their bodies and a hand reaches out for the person he knows will be there. He touches skin, feels familiar lean limbs and moves his body closer to Arakita. Everyday this is where he hopes to come back. Home.
“It’s not,” Arakita said. He tugged at the fabric of Kinjou’s white gloves. “You are a magic man.”
Appalled. Shocked. Alarmed. When he saw Kinjou on campus he wasn’t expecting to look for a top hat and a cape. He knew it was Halloween, but Arakita thought it was just some weirdo doing card tricks to an amazed professor until he turned around and those familiar green eyes met his. Arakita wanted to pretend he didn’t notice. While he could admit that Kinjou looked good in his magician outfit it was also silly enough that he was tempted break routine and walk to class alone. It was too late – he could pretend to not recognize Kinjou in costume, but he couldn’t pretend to not recognize his voice when he called out his name.
Arakita didn’t know Kinjou would be the type to dress up for Halloween.
As they walked to class he tried to keep at least two steps away from beside Kinjou, unsure if Kinjou was aware he would draw closer to Arakita every time he tried to maintain the distance. And while Arakita realized most of the people staring were just curious or had a childlike smile on their face, he couldn’t help but feel self-conscious from all the attention caused beside him.
Kinjou tipped his hat to a small group of students passing by before he reached into his pant pocket and pulled out candy. They stopped in their tracks, each person taking a piece from his hand. One of them, after he stuck a lollipop into his mouth, gave Kinjou a high-five before catching up with his group of friends.
Arakita’s mouth was open in disbelief. Kinjou raised his eyebrow.
“What’s wrong, Arakita?”
“Seriously?” Arakita looked beneath Kinjou’s cape when the wind blew. “You’re keeping candy in your pocket, but you don’t have your schoolbag.”
“I’m prepared for class.” Kinjou reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind Arakita’s ear. When Arakita flinched, Kinjou pulled his hand away holding a pencil. “See?”
Arakita started running his hand through his hair.
“What the fuck?”
“Check your pocket,” Kinjou said. Arakita reached into his pocket. “On your left.”
“This isn’t mine,” Arakita said as he held up an eraser.
“Thank you.” Kinjou took the eraser from Arakita’s fingers. “Trick or treat?”
“What?”
“Trick or treat?” he asked again.
“Treat,” Arakita said. Like hell he was going to request a trick from Kinjou.
“Your bag, please,” Kinjou said. Arakita cautiously shrugged off his bag and held it out, quickly letting go of the strap when Kinjou took a hold of it. He opened up the zipper and pulled out his notebook. “Thank you for carrying this for me.”
“Hey!”
Kinjou smiled. “No magic behind that, I just snuck it into your bag yesterday.”
“Asshole.”
Kinjou reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of candy.
“Here’s your treat.”
“Sure it is,” Arakita said. He reached out but hesitated, wondering if he would be tricked again.
“I’m not going to do anything this time,” Kinjou said. Arakita hesitated a few seconds longer before he finally took the candy. He kept staring at Kinjou’s empty palm like it would do something, but he only heard a chuckle before he held out his bag. “You should check in here, though.”
“Oh shit,” Arakita said, noticing the zipper was closed again. That’s what he gets for letting his guard down too soon – what if there was a trick in there now? He looked at Kinjou’s smiling face and he didn’t know if it was because there was something in there that would cause Arakita to scream, or if he was just messing around and nothing was inside. He weighed his options, deciding that he would rather get this trick over with where he could throw his bag across campus instead of clambering over the desks and tripping over chairs if there was something. “I swear, if whatever inside here is alive or gross I’m going to get you back.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Arakita took his bag. It didn’t feel any heavier, and when he shook it nothing inside made a sound or movement. When his fingers found the zipper slider he wondered if he should slowly open his bag, but went for the faster option to get it over with. His heart was pounding, somehow expecting a nest of spiders or week old lunch before he ripped open the bag –
“There’s nothing in here,” Arakita said, relieved.
Kinjou took a peek inside the bag.
“How silly of me,” he said, “I forgot to place it inside.”
Before Arakita could ask what it was that he had forgotten, Kinjou held up a matchstick. Arakita was horrified, wondering what type of trick was going to make Kinjou place a lit matchstick into his bag before he blew out the flame and a rose appeared before his eyes.
“What the hell?! How did those –”
Kinjou held a finger to Arakita’s lips to prevent him from yelling his confusion any louder. He could still feel the fabric of the gloves against his mouth when Kinjou drew back his hand.
“I’m back in town for the break,” Kinjou said. He took off his gloves and held them in a hand. “I decided to drop by and say hello.”
Tadokoro stepped out from behind the counter to give a firm pat to Kinjou’s back, and wrapping his arm around his shoulders he lead Kinjou further into the bakery. “How’s school?”
“It’s been good to me.”
Tadokoro laughed. “That’s all you have to say? Give me details, it looks like you have stories to tell. Ah see – now look at your face, you’re smiling!”
Kinjou couldn’t deny the claim. “My performance has been noted within the cycling club.”
“So tell me,” Tadokoro said, “did you become the youngest captain in history already?”
“Of course not,” Kinjou responded, even knowing that Tadokoro had been joking.
“Ha! Well, if you ever wanted to become captain you would. I just know it.” Tadokoro noticed him unbuttoning his coat. “Are you warm? Let me take that for you.”
“It’s fine, I wasn’t planning on distracting you for long.”
“Distraction? Nonsense, Kinjou. Give that to me and I’ll put it in the back.”
Relenting, he gave Tadokoro his coat. What Kinjou didn’t notice was that as he slipped off a sleeve, a sheet of paper fell out of his pocket. Tadokoro noticed, and he bent down to pick up the paper that had unfolded as it landed on the ground. He couldn’t help but see what was written. He whistled lowly.
“Class must be a real pain for Arakita to get a score of sixty-three on a test.”
“Where did you get that?” Kinjou asked, suddenly alarmed.
“Fell outta your pocket. Y’know, your coat.” Tadokoro saw Kinjou’s cheeks burning and put the pieces together. “Oh. Being honest I was surprised when you walked in wearing that thing – slim fit and blue didn’t seem like your style, but now I know.”
“I think it’s a fine coat,” Kinjou lamely defended.
Tadokoro gave the paper back and grinned.
“Looks like you have a story to tell now.”
--
“Nice sweater, Yasutomo.”
He grunted back as response.
“I like the grey colour. Is it new?” Shinkai asked.
He grunted again.
“Did you buy this one in a bigger size? It looks a little loose on you.”
“I left my other one somewhere else, okay? Shut up already.”
“Not in the mood to talk?” Shinkai pouted. “We haven’t seen each other in a while.”
Though text messages were frequent it had been months since they last spoke to each other face-to-face. After fall examination period Arakita had mentioned off-handed that he would be back in his hometown of Yokohama for a few days during break to visit family. Shinkai was thrilled at the thought –he would also be going home for the same reason, and immediately made plans to meet with Arakita.
“I haven’t been sleeping much,” Arakita admitted.
“Exam stress still isn’t over?” He held out a powerbar. “Study is important, but don’t forget to take care of your health.”
Arakita wrinkled his nose at Shinkai. “I’m fine.”
“Was it chemistry?”
“Yeah.” Arakita stifled a yawn before gazing out the window, watching the snowflakes fall from the sky. “I’m afraid to check my mark when it goes up.”
Shinkai unwrapped the rejected powerbar for himself and took a bite. “Well, I’m sure Shingo is as great of a tutor as he is a boyfriend.”
Arakita snapped his attention back toward Shinkai, almost knocking over his cup of tea when he leaned in closer on the table. “What did you just say?”
“Whoa.” Shinkai moved his own drink further from the edge of the table in case Arakita would make another sudden movement. “Was I right?”
“How” – he darted his eyes around the little shop before lowering his voice further – “how did you know?”
Shinkai smiled. He reached out and pulled Arakita’s zipper further down.
“When you took off your jacket,” Shinkai said and tugged the hood off to the side, revealing inside near the neckline a hand-embroidered snake, “there was a glimpse of green. I’ve only seen this on one other place. Can you guess?”
