The conclusion of Midousuji’s last Interhigh had been nothing short of bewildering.

A little bit frustrating, perhaps—disappointing, in some ways. But in other ways, awing, like magic.

He’d wanted to win. Of course he’d wanted to win—and he’s always wanted that more than anybody. And while that wasn’t what had happened—not exactly—he hadn’t lost, either.

Midousuji had fought so hard, and, again, yes, he’s always done exactly that. Harder and harder, every time. And this time was particularly brutal; pushing himself so extremely with more tearing of tendons, skinning of flesh, rasping with dehydration so bad it had nearly made him vomit. And there was more aggression, too—sidling up close to his opponents, risking his own balance to offset theirs, smashing shoulders and even snapping his teeth with the intent to maim other riders.

He’d even almost done so to Onoda, but their height difference had saved them. That was on the first day, anyways. The third day, body well and truly pushed to its new limits, shaking like a leaf from its wear, Midousuji had only ogled Onoda in utter bafflement, right after he’d finished doing the very same for Manami. He was too tired—delirious, with his vision even blurring and splitting a little bit—to tell exactly who crossed when. His heart had been beating with furious, desperate fatigue, but also with a sudden swell of nervy panic.

He couldn’t tell who’d passed the line first.

At the finish, Midousuji’s front wheel swerved and wobbled, his arms and wrists shaking as he stared in shockshelled disbelief to the pavement below, heaving through his sore, tired throat. His legs shook as he hoped off his bike, and his head continued to spin with confusion. By then, he’d learned the result. And it was no less bewildering.

Onoda, Manami and himself had all passed the finish at the same time. They’d all won, and so too, none of them had.

Based on the tags taken on previous days, however, Kyoto Fushimi was declared winner. Midousuji had wanted to take the final win for himself, in his name only—but it wasn’t that he was dissatisfied with their post-tie qualified win. It was just…

Unheard of. Shocking. Historic, maybe?

The three of them stood on the podium, and Midousuji gaped in vacant bewilderment. It wasn’t the first time that he, often the tallest racer, got to stand on the tallest pedestal, but it was the first time under these circumstances. In the crowd, Midousuji blinked, straightening his back, lifting his head and relaxing his shoulders—he’d spotted Ishigaki in the crowd, and he wasn’t alone. He was standing with Yuki and his aunt—probably Ishigaki had heard them cheering for him, and so had introduced himself, because he’s annoying and nosy.

But still, seeing the three of them, Midousuji’s heart does a dizzying, thrilled hiccup, and his voice catches in his throat as his eyes subtly widen. Midousuji beams with sudden, energetic and ecstatic glee, and snaps his teeth, yanking his medal up before he throws his head back, tossing up both of his arms with a shrill, excited cry.

After the ceremony, feeling a bit restored by the rush he’d caught so belatedly, Midousuji had—quite literally—bumped into Onoda. Midousuji’s mouth had gently fallen open, blinking at his tiny rival, who beamed with that kind, well meaning warmth, all sparkly and harsh and disgusting and pointy. Midousuji’s upper lip lifted on the left side as he tilted his head away.

“Good job, Midousuji-kun! It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it? I can’t believe we all tied.”

“Pyeh,” Midousuji spits out quietly, having almost said words but simultaneously failing in the task, his hands limply dangling from his wrists by his collar bone as he bodily leans away.

“It makes me excited to see what happens when we compete through college.”

Midousuji then suddenly cranes his neck in a grotesque tilt, leaning forward and over Onoda with owlishly-blinked curiosity. “College? Do you intend to go pro, Sakamichi?”

Onoda’s smile tempers to something a little uncertain, or perhaps a little sad, and he scratches the side of his cheek.

“…To be honest, I don’t really know. But for now, I just think I wanna keep going…”

“What else would you do?” Midousuji tilts his head back again, grinning as he lets his tongue lazily extend from its confines, back bending backwards as his arms dangled in bouncy slack. “Become a business man? Glasses, briefcase, glasses, briefcase…”

“Haha! Maybe.”

“I can’t accept that,” Midousuji suddenly concludes, slapping his hand against his face, fingertips pulling down his lower eyelid as his eyes roll back, teeth clenched and exposed. “You and Manami-kun took my single-crossing finish of the InterHigh. You’re effectively my rival now, you know?”

Midousuji’s posture suddenly snaps threateningly forward, hand still just below his eyelid. Onoda leans back nervously to accommodate Midousuji’s sudden pressure. “I won’t accept such wishy-washyness from someone so passionless.”

“I-I-I’m sorry!” Onoda sputters, then blinks, his hands held up in arrestive acquiescence, palms to his imposer. “But, I’m… not passionless.”

Midousuji tilts his head in a sudden swing, like its on a hinge, eyes widening. “Haaa?”

“I’m passionate about cycling.”

“Where?” Midousuji asks, leaning forward as he frames his eyeball with a press of his forefinger and his thumb against his face, mocking a looking glass. He squints his other eye. “Where??” he repeats.

“I don’t know…” Though Onoda’s question sounds like a dwindling of confidence, his expression firms with resolve when he looks back up to Midousuji. His expression is even; measured. But not stern. Midousuji can’t look away, because he isn’t sure how to place it—he isn’t sure what he’s seeing. “With people. My friends.”

Onoda’s sad smile comes back again, but this time it’s sad for real. Midousuji can feel it. It makes his skin crawl.

“People like you. Or, I guess, I hope. Someday.”

Midousuji leans back again, his spine collapsing at the small of his back like rubber as he makes a loud, derisive hiss. His other hand slaps against his face, and Midousuji shrieks a chorus of ‘Gross! Disgusting! Stop! I’m gonna be sick!,’ and similar things. Onoda’s head falls, and he fidgets his hands in front of his shorts, smile having faded completely.

Once Midousuji’s fit passes, he’s frozen in this backwards-bent, strange posture, elbows akimbo to the sky. Then, unchanging in his pose, Midousuji awkwardly bends his chin towards his neck to peek at Onoda through his hands.

So disheartened. All Midousuji does is break this kid’s heart all day long, huh? It’s not that Midousuji cares, but…

He rolls his eyes away, the corner of his lip twitching as he struggles internally with what to do.

“Sssssss…” Midousuji tilts his head away and to the side, but it does so with what looks like a janky frame-rate, bones giving wet, unpleasant, crunchy pops. “Saka…michiiiiii…”

Probably because Midousuji sounds like he’s literally dying, Onoda glances back up at Midousuji.

“A-ah! Y…yes,” he answers.

“I…” Midousuji scrubs his hands down his face, shrieking, then stills again. Onoda watches with concern. Midousuji’s heart hammers. It’s too difficult. But Onoda, like Ishigaki, has always been there—but less stubbornly, less intrusively. And most troubling of all—more delicately. A gentle extension of a gentle, shaking hand—one Midousuji ripped apart by his teeth every time. It was getting unbearable, again and again.

Onoda…had been worried about Midousuji. Despite how he’d been treating him. And despite all of that, he’d even thought of Midousuji when he saw the Royal Army OVA release last Summer—he’d even mailed him his duplicate no.2 UNIT.

“…kkkept it…”

“Huh?”

Midousuji gives a long, withering, gravely sigh. He flops forward, yanking the corner of his mouth down with his fingers, eyes rolling sideways with an annoyed sneer. He’s quiet in pause again, then finally finds the clarity and the voice to clarify.

“…it’s…iiiiit’s—“ Midousuji’s head tilts painfully, lower eyelids lifting. “…on my…desk.”

“What is?” Onoda balls his fists curiously, lifting them to his collarbones, trying to catch the threads of context where he can—but…sort of to no avail.

“The—! The no.2 UNIT!! That you sent me!! Sakamichi! Idiot! Stupid!” Midousuji shrieks down at Onoda, who gasps and yelps in terror, cringing—then his expression falters in realization, blinking twice. Then, his expression warms on its cheeks, and his eyes practically sparkle.

“Really?” Onoda’s eyes, Midousuji realizes, appear sparkly because they’re…

…teary. What the fuck?!

Panicking, Midousuji cringes away again.

“That makes me so happy!! I thought you still hated me,” Onoda admits quietly, then laughs, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Even if we aren’t friends, that makes me…really happy, Midousuji-kun…”

Midousuji blinks, stupefied, and tilts his head as he leans towards Onoda again. Mouth somewhat adrop, Midousuji says nothing, extending his pinky towards Onoda.

Onoda blinks, looking at Midousuji’s long, spidery pinky, then blinks back up at him. Hesitantly, but with an eager sort of trust, he reciprocates the gesture, seeming cautious, like he’s guessing—and he hooks pinkies with Midousuji. Midousuji wraps his pinky around Onoda’s, who, surprised, does the same, and Midousuji gives Onoda a good, hard shake that way, sort of off-centering his balance with a watery little cry of surprise.

“Yoooou’re just…”

Midousuji grins, then, teeth flashing in a way that uncharacteristically lacks hostility.

“…a tiny little idiot, aren’t you?”

“H-huh?!”

—————————-

As dusk settles in, the darkness soon to follow in full swathe, much less by the time that Midousuji gets home, Midousuji only has the spinning of his spokes and the rush of the wind to keep him company. The day blows off of him with the speed of his pace, feeling cleansing in the way it always does—but it’s also the time that Midousuji usually uses to think. Like when he watches his pendulum, or soaks in the tub, but a little different. The precursor.

And so, and though it’s regrettably not the first time, Midousuji thinks about Onoda. Ponders him, puzzles him; Midousuji finds Onoda just as confusing as Onoda finds Midousuji (undoubtedly, even, as he rides now, Onoda is probably bobbling about in a confused haze about their interaction, but it doesn’t cross Midousuji’s mind). As he veers a sharp turn, low and sideways, Midousuji’s fingers elegantly and gently shift gears in time to his own mind.

Onoda has been so stubborn, insistent and gentle. Insistent on, of all things, to be his friend. And now Midousuji’s accepted that—well, actually, he accepted it before this season. But still, only months ago. Onoda still doesn’t seem to be clear on it, but Midousuji trusts that he will in time, and hopefully, it will be a keep-it-to-yourself-and-don’t-address-it, just-shut-up kind of realization when he comes to it. If he ever does. If he doesn’t, that’s okay too—Midousuji doesn’t have the gumption to admit something so…

Midousuji blinks, the way that the moon has been flashing through the fast-passing filtering of dense, now almost-black foliage above him, coming to a distracting halt, exposing the moon for its bright, full glow. It’s distracting enough that Midousuji looks up to the moon as he rides, knowing by reflex that he’s on a straight path going forward for some time until he gets home.

Does Onoda want to be his friend just because of anime? He’ll have to test that—hold that as a reward. Dangle it like a carrot. Not in a way to motivate Onoda to stick by his side, but to test his character. It’s a normal motivation, he figures, to want to be friends with someone who likes the thing you like so much it makes you a pariah. While Midousuji never had that kind of yearning himself, he can understand the motivation, since he understands an ostracizing interest.

But that alone won’t do. If Onoda’s going to be his first friend (by his own admission), Onoda has to understand Midousuji enough to…well, be his friend? He guesses? Midousuji knows he’s strange, and difficult to deal with—and is increasingly volatile the closer people get, usually because he wants to dissuade that interest. But letting someone in…

…what does that really entail? What’s the formula?

When Midousuji finally pulls into his lot, he quietly shuts off his thoughts to go through the motions of walking his bike inside after carrying it on his shoulder to its resting place, right beside his mother’s. He stands in front of her frame, head tilted, feeling a bit lost as he stares at her smiling, gentle face.

It’s familiar. Similar to something he’d seen earlier just that day.

“Gross,” Midousuji mumbles, crawling his fingers beneath the straps of his mask to peel it off, and he walks away.

Midousuji makes himself some food, watches his pendulum, brain buzzing—he still feels elated about his not-quite-victory, though conflicted and frustrated as well. He checks his phone to see he got a text from Manami, and he quietly turns his phone face down. He isn’t ready for all that. Manami is compelling, and Midousuji wants to examine him further—dissect him. But he’s intense in a different way, from Onoda. Or Ishigaki.

Darker. A little scary. Onoda is scary too, but for the exact opposite reason.

Midousuji then has a wash and a soak, and as he changes into clean clothes for bed, he stares at his desk as he sits on his futon. In the darkness, he sees the little keychain that Onoda had mailed to him, hanging by his work station.

Again, his heart twists a little bit, and he stiffly falls onto his shoulder and side, curling as he pulls down his lower lip to tap his fingernails against his teeth, eyes vacantly staring into the darkness.

“Sakamichi…huh.”

It doesn’t seem wise to be friends with such a (surprisingly) formidable rival, but there’s something about that juxtaposition that’s a little exciting, too. Midousuji wants to know more about that, too—about Onoda. What shape he can take, when pushed. If he can push Midousuji, too, to grow as an athlete. By tayoru, and by rivalry.

Midousuji makes a sharp, one-note laugh, muffled by the tightening of his throat as he grins, snapping his teeth.

Risky gamble. His shoulders shake with a muffled giggle, finding himself amused by his own decisions. He’s usually not one to roll dice like this, and it feels a little naughty. But he has something to prove too, and that’s by virtue of reciprocity to the way he plans to test Onoda. Just like being friends with Midousuji, to Midousuji, means that Onoda can’t only be interested in their common interest of anime, Midousuji can’t only be motivated by the potential to grow as an athlete by being friends with Onoda.

And only now is Midousuji comfortable with admitting that isn’t his sole motivator. So it’s officially fair to put Onoda to the test.