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It was stupid.
It was just an accident.
Just a split-second miscalculation, a mistake that sent Arakita tumbling over the guardrail on the side of the road instead of riding along next to it. He’d done it countless times before, of course.
He peeled himself off the ground to a sitting position and tentatively moved his limbs to check for injury. Scrapes on his knees and elbows. A gash on his thigh where his skin met the metal. Nothing serious.
Machimiya leaned over the guardrail with a dash of concern on his face.
“Are you alright?”
Arakita stood up, wincing slightly at the sting that came from brushing gravel out of his scrapes.
“I’m fine.”
Arakita crossed the few meters to the guardrail and climbed over it.
“You should wash off your leg,” Machimiya said, as he held out one of his water bottles. Arakita wanted to argue, but he knew his teammate was right. Still, he found it in himself to refuse help.
“I can use my own water.”
Machimiya shrugged, slipping his bottle back into its holder on his bike where it was propped up against the rail.
When he went to retrieve his bike where it lay on the ground, he saw it immediately.
The crack.
A fracture in the frame, where the top tube met up with the seatpost.
A clean fucking break.
“Fuck.”
Machimiya’s eyes followed Arakita’s to the flaw in the frame.
“Oh, shit,” he said, walking over to examine the bianchi, “probably shouldn’t keep riding on that, huh. I’ll call Kinjou.”
Arakita nodded.
It was an old bike. If he was being honest, it was shocking he hadn’t broken it until now, with the way he rides. He wasn’t exactly careful with it. But it felt impossible. It wasn’t supposed to break.
Arakita propped his frame up next to Machimiya’s, and slid to the ground while Machimiya called Kinjou, resting his back against the guardrail. He unclipped his helmet and tossed it next to his bike, tearing his fingers through his hair.
Arakita caught one-sided bits of the phone call (“Can you bring the car?”) as he emptied his half-full water bottle over his wounds. (“Yeah, he’s okay.”) Not like he’d be needing it now, anyways.
“Thanks, see you soon,” Machimiya put his phone back into the pocket on his jersey and looked down at Arakita.
“He’ll be here in a little while.”
Arakita made an affirmative noise.
“The club will lend you a spare bike until you can get a new one.”
“I know, idiot.”
Machimiya stood in uncharacteristic silence for a minute before sitting down next to him.
“How long did you have it? The bianchi.”
Arakita gave Machimiya an inquisitive look before answering, “since first year.”
Machimiya nodded, “I could tell.”
“What?”
“Your aura—”
“Goddammit.”
Machimiya laughed.
“Sorry. You were being too quiet.”
“You’re insufferable.”
Machimiya stuck his tongue out at him.
“So do have anything in mind? For a new one,” Machimiya asked.
“I don’t know. Depends.” Arakita sighed. It was one thing if it had been the derailleur or a wheel, but breaking the frame was a complete pain in the ass. Fukutomi had given him the bianchi; he didn’t have any experience with shopping for a bike. He would probably have to call his parents and ask for money.
“Fuck,” he repeated, pressing his palms into his forehead.
“Oh, Kinjou’s here,” Machimiya said, standing up with an energy that pissed Arakita off. He remained firmly planted on the ground, only starting to move once the car had parked and Kinjou stepped out of it. Arakita picked his helmet up off the ground with one hand, and went to grab his bike with the other when Kinjou stood in his way.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Arakita scowled. He didn’t have to do that.
“I can do it myself,” Arakita argued.
Kinjou glanced down at Arakita’s torn up legs.
“I know you can,” Kinjou said, lifting the bike with ease and guiding it into the back of the car.
Arakita bit his lip and got into the passenger’s seat.
Machimiya’s voice traveled through the open trunk.
“Thanks again, Kinjou. I know you were busy” he said.
“It’s no problem.”
“I’m going to keep riding, if you’ve got everything.”
“Yeah, be careful.”
Arakita felt the car shake slightly as the trunk closed, and then Kinjou sliding into the driver’s seat. He turned the ignition and pulled back onto the road, quick glances in Arakita’s direction.
“Are you okay?” Kinjou asked, flicking on the turn signal.
“I’m fine. I’ve fallen before,” Arakita said.
“That’s not what I—”
“I said I’m fine,” Arakita snapped. He looked out the window, angling his body away Kinjou.
“Okay.”
The drive back to Arakita’s apartment was, thankfully, very short. As the stinging had largely faded, Arakita insisted he was able to carry his bike himself, but Kinjou followed him up to his room anyways. Arakita let him.
He propped his bike up in the hallway, then went into the bathroom to find his first-aid kit; Kinjou followed him. Knowing he would sound like a petulant child if he refused, Arakita acquiesced when Kinjou moved to take the medical supplies from him.
“It’s good you weren’t injured any worse,” Kinjou said as he ripped open the packet containing an antiseptic wipe, “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Not knowing how to respond, Arakita didn’t say anything, figuring the warmth rushing to his face could speak for itself.
Kinjou smiled and gestured for Arakita to sit on the edge of the bathtub, crouching down to wipe the dried blood off his knees, leg. He winced at the sting of alcohol on his raw skin, hissing through his teeth.
“Sorry,” Kinjou said, as if cleaning his wounds was something he needed to apologize for.
He thumbed through the various sized bandages until he found one that was an appropriate size, and placed it over the cut on Arakita’s leg. After he closed the first aid kit, he looked up at Arakita from his seated position, placing a hand on his thigh, right above the knee.
“Do you know how reckless you are?” He asked, green eyes bright from behind his glasses.
“Yeah,” Arakita responded, “you gonna to ask me to stop?”
“No. It just makes me worry about you, sometimes.”
“Sorry,” Arakita mumbled. He slid off the edge of the bathtub to sit next to Kinjou, on the same level.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Kinjou asked, shifting to make space for Arakita next to him on the floor.
“I took the turn too fast. Too close.”
Kinjou nodded, and Arakita knew he was adding it to his mental training regimen.
“And then my bike—” Arakita felt a lump in his throat, knew that if he kept talking his voice would crack.
“It’s important to you.” A statement, not a question.
Arakita took a breath to steady himself.
“Fuku-chan gave it to me.”
Kinjou rested his hand in between Arakita’s shoulders, a reassuring touch. Something about the action drew out all of the tension he’d been holding in his body. Arakita relaxed into Kinjou's hand, and rested his head on his shoulder.
“I guess part of me thought I would have it forever. But I won't, I broke it. It's not the same anymore. It's stupid— bikes break all the time.”
“It's okay to be upset about it.”
Arakita exhaled deeply. Why was he this upset about it? It was the bike that he learned how to ride with. The bike that introduced him to cycling, that turned his life around. The bike he owed everything he had right now to. But it was still just a bike.
Keep looking forward.
“Can you help me look for a new one?” Arakita asked.
Kinjou stilled, like he wasn't expecting Arakita to ask for his help.
“I haven't gotten my own bike before. I told you, Fuku-chan gave it to me,” Arakita mumbled, offering explanation.
“Of course,” Kinjou said.
Arakita stood up, trying to ignore the weird bend of the bandage on his skin as he moved.
“I'm gonna change out of my jersey,” Arakita said.
“Okay.”
He left the bathroom to find a pair of clean clothes, heading for his room. He paused for a moment in the doorway to glance at the bianchi, resting against the wall like it was taking a break.
Then he closed the door behind him.