Arakita finds Shinkai inside the team's recovery tent. He should have expected it - after all, it's where the largest quantity of snacks are to be found - but he wastes several minutes searching around the tent instead of inside it, and by the time he thinks to pull the fabric aside and peer into the shadowy interior he's pissed. Shinkai looks up from where he's slouched over his knees in the corner, squinting at the burn of the sunlight behind the other boy's shoulder.
"Yasutomo." He's trying to sound normal, Arakita knows, but his voice is shaking more than it should, and when he lifts a hand to shade his face from the glare Arakita can see that shaking too before he steps inside and lets the cloth fall back behind him. That plunges the room into darkness but he comes forward anyway, trusting to memory to lead him the several strides forward into the tent he needs. His misjudges the distance, as it turns out, is mid-stride when his toes smack into resistance and Shinkai hisses, draws back from the impact.
"Ah," he starts, and Arakita doesn't know if that's going to be followed by an apology or a reprimand and doesn't wait. He drops to a knee, lands half on top of Shinkai's stretched-out legs, and the redhead is just starting to wiggle free when Arakita gets his hands into the other boy's hair and his mouth more or less on Shinkai's lips.
Shinkai goes still, stops moving and stops trying to speak. There's the sound of something hitting the ground - that'd be the energy bar Arakita can still taste on Shinkai's lips - then hands hit shoulders with much better aim than the sun-blinded Arakita was able to manage. Shinkai's fingers curl in over the edge of Arakita's collarbone, his other hand slides sideways and up in a deliberate caress on its way to Arakita's hair, and the other boy growls in the back of his throat and opens his mouth for more.
Shinkai's falling back to the floor, and Arakita's not sure if he's pushing the redhead back or if Shinkai's pulling him. It doesn't really matter anyway. Shinkai's fingers are closing into a fist in his hair, Shinkai's tongue is tracing patterns against the roof of his mouth, and when Arakita lets his throat grind over almost-a-moan Shinkai sighs in perpetually-gentle response. Arakita can't see anything but he's pretty sure Shinkai can; he's still trying to tell where his hands are, if his thumb is against cheek or neck or ear, when there's a motion under him, Shinkai's legs moving, and Arakita's race-worn muscles give out and he lands entirely on top of the other boy, pressing the air out of Shinkai's lungs for a moment.
"Fuck," he says without pulling away properly, and Shinkai says, "We should wait" while his fingers are shoving down the back of Arakita's jersey.
"You can't say shit like that," Arakita hisses against what tastes like Shinkai's jaw. "Not when you pull me down on top of you, that ain't fucking fair." He shifts his weight to punctuate, rocks himself down to grind against the sharp edge of Shinkai's hip, and the redhead lets out a breath that sounds like a sigh and rocks right back up against Arakita so the other boy can feel him going hard through his cycling shorts.
"You said not during the Interhigh," Shinkai is saying in that careful whisper, the one that sets Arakita's blood on fire with irritation and arousal both.
"What the fuck ever," Arakita hisses. "It won't even take very long and you know it."
"It was your idea, Yasutomo." Shinkai still sounds reasonable, calm and steady in spite of his physical interest, and he's right, is the worst of it. If he were wrong Arakita could ignore him with relatively impunity, but if they get caught, or worse, if they lose tomorrow, Arakita is going to shoulder a whole lot of guilty responsibility that he has never wanted.
He can still be pissed about it, though.
"Fuck you," he hisses, coming back up so the words land warm over Shinkai's lips. "Fuck you, Hayato, when we win I swear I'm going to…"
He hesistates, stretching for a threat or a promise or both, and the hand at the back of his head pulls sharply, drags his head back an inch by the pull at his hair.
"You're going to what, Yasutomo?" and that barely sounds like Shinkai at all, that's the voice Arakita never gets to hear, the sound of Shinkai-the-sprinter the redhead always refuses to show him. He can't restrain the responsive whimper at the sound of that voice, can't hide the rush of blood to his cock when Shinkai chuckle low and threatening in the back of his throat. When he comes back in Shinkai meets him halfway, hard enough to bruise, and when Arakita gets his teeth in against the redhead's lip the other boy pulls back, more taunting than actually trying to escape, until the taste of blood hits Arakita's tongue.
Arakita loses track of time after that, but it can't be very long at all because when the tent flap is pulled aside again his hands are still against Shinkai's back instead of actually down the front of his shorts. He can't see who it is for a minute, just hisses and cringes from the light, but Shinkai is better able to handle the glare than he is. The other boy pushes himself mostly upright without moving his hands away, and Arakita is still muttering pained curses into his shoulder when he says, "Jinpachi, did you need something?"
"I was looking for a water bottle." Toudou's voice is higher than it usually is, laced with an excess of amusement even for him. "But I think I'll just see if I can find Maki-chan instead."
"Sorry," Shinkai says. "We'll be out of here in a minute."
"Don't rush on my behalf," Toudou half-laughs. Arakita is hissing in frustration even before the tent flap drops back and darkness envelops them again.
"We should," Shinkai starts, but Arakita's talking over him.
"Fuck." He comes back in once more, not for a kiss but just to lick the blood off Shinkai's lip. "I am going to tear you apart when this goddamn race is over."
"I look forward to it," Shinkai purrs, and Arakita hisses and has to throw himself backwards or he'll never convince himself to leave at all. Shinkai laughs, out of the darkness, and when Arakita moves to leave there's a touch at the back of his knee, a scrape of fingernails sharp enough to drag a hiss of protest from him before he makes it out of the tent.
He's still grinning when the sun hits his face.