Chapter Text
If there’s anyone who knew well about how life sometimes just doesn’t go the way you want it to, it would be Arakita Yasutomo.
When he was much younger, he thought it was all because of bad luck. That he was just born with the awful fate of being destroyed by the very thing he loved. It was the first time and it happened in summer, when he was very young and when the sky was always so cloudless. The sunshine was blinding, and the field he was on was suddenly much bigger than he remembered. These were the details he recalled much later, because at that moment, all his focus was on the pure, white pain coming out of his right elbow. His pitching elbow. His good elbow that must stay good or else he wouldn’t be able to pitch he wouldn’t be able to take his team to victory he wouldn’t—
What made the first time the hardest was that he had no one with him then. No one to support him the way he wanted someone to. Not until a couple of years later, when he met the people who introduced him to a new path, and helped him get back on his own two feet.
The second time was on a bright spring day, where the wind was still a bit chilly and the air was filled with the sounds of bicycles’ wheels. Between the first and second time, Arakita had much time to learn that it wasn’t luck, there was never such a thing as luck. It was just the way of things. He’d learned how to let go and move on. He had learned how to recognize his limits, and also how to expand them bit by bit. Pushing himself to the limit without exceeding it, growing along the way. He also learned how to ask for help and how to help. And most importantly, he had found someone.
He had Kinjou with him, and they’ve been through a lot together ever since their initial meeting. From the hot and humid stages of the inter high school summer championships where they wore different jerseys and tension was heavy between them to beat each other. To the more comfortable, but no less exhilarating races as fellow members of Yonan University’s bicycle race team. And finally to the years after Yonan which lead up to this moment.
But under the strangely familiar blue sky he couldn’t help but wonder if he was just a little wrong. Couldn’t help but wonder if luck had played a small role after all.
“Heh, I wonder when the third time’s gonna be. They say it’s the charm, right?” Arakita slurred while facing up to the heavens.
He was aware that he was laying down on the ground and people were gathered and talking around him. But he couldn’t focus on any of the voices, his thoughts muddled as he tried to stay awake. The sun was blaring down on his face and it hurt. He moved to bring his right arm up to cover his eyes, only to find it completely unresponsive, so he tried the other arm but something was firmly holding it down.
Kinjou moved into Arakita’s line of vision then and Arakita realized it was because his left hand was held down by Kinjou that he couldn’t move it. Kinjou frowned at Arakita and asked, “Did you say something, Yasutomo? I couldn’t hear you clearly.”
But he had replied with more soft-spoken, intelligible words. It was uncharacteristic of Arakita, but then again anyone would be uncharacteristic when they just had just been thrown off of their bike while going at full speed and slammed hard against the ground. Kinjou’s eyes watered when he swept his gaze to Arakita’s right hand. It was twisted so unnaturally, the way the human arm was never meant to, and even looking at it hurt. Kinjou cringed and veered his gaze away. He wiped the sweat on Arakita’s forehead gently and said, “It’ll be fine now the—“
“Can you cover my eyes, Shingo?” Arakita interrupted weakly, “The sun hurts…”
Kinjou inhaled a sharp breath at his teammate and boyfriend’s broken voice and did as he was asked. Not long after, Kinjou felt wetness under the hand he was using to cover Arakita’s face from the sun. Kinjou stared with a very ugly, indescribable mix of emotions at the tears trickling down Arakita’s cheeks. The pain and realization must have sunk in. It took nothing but a short moment until Kinjou’s tears also dripped down onto Arakita’s cheeks. Arakita’s choked sobs were quiet, but to Kinjou, they made the loudest and saddest sound on earth.
People were still frantically buzzing around them. A couple of people took both Arakita’s and Kinjou’s bikes away from the road. One twisted and broken while the other still pristine, save for the scratches from when Kinjou discarded it in reflex to reach Arakita’s side. Someone was making a call, and another person was taking Arakita’s pulse. Kinjou held on tight to Arakita’s left arm and dared not to move his limp body. Not even an inch. He thought the ambulance couldn’t come fast enough. Not when his chest felt tighter with each passing moment as he looked at Arakita, not when the spring breeze no longer felt pleasant to either of them.
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A broken collar bone, a humerus broken in two points, and an elbow joint essentially destroyed. Again. Arakita still felt lightheaded when he thought about the resulting injuries of his crash even a few days after.
“If your elbow was normal prior to the crash, you would just need a two-month break and could get back to training after that.” His doctor had started, “But since it had received extensive injury before, the probability of a full recovery is close to none. Even after extensive rehabilitation, the best result we could expect would just be near-normal arm movements. Cycling, other sports, or even slightly-heavy lifting are discouraged for it would cause a lot of discomfort.” The doctor finished. His explanation was clinical and, dare Arakita admit, painful.
Years of cycling in high school, which were then extended to college years. Years of racing, winning, with Kinjou. Another couple of years of gruesome training regimes to compete in championships, just for a spot in a professional team. They trained together and they trained hard. They were going to get recruited by the same pro-team, they were going to go on countless classic races, and on grand tours, too. They had big plans, and trained and nurtured themselves diligently in order to make those plans become reality. It only took one crash caused by a spectator, one crash that shouldn’t have happened, and could have been prevented, for all that hard work to go to waste.
Arakita sighed and tried to move the fingers of his right hand. Stinging pain traveled up his arm but at least it’s still working. He felt strangely calm, but he knew it was the kind that happens before a storm. He turned to look at Kinjou who was peeling apples on his bedside. He called up to him, “Shingo—“
“The apples will be ready soon.” Kinjou cut in, “I got them from a fruit market my mother recommended the other day so they must be—“
“Shingo,” Arakita tried again, this time louder and more sternly. Kinjou quieted, put down the apple and knife he was holding, and turned to Arakita.
“We need to figure out a new plan for me. For us.”