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[it’s another drolling, nothing day. the stasis as usual in the routine purgatory that is his life between races. the thrills of competition and pushing his body to his limit, the rush of crossing the finish line as number one, or the ego-crushing blows of defeat—all on hold. the only things he really feels, that brings him out of his numb autopilot that propels him emptily through exams, commuting, scripted, quiet chatter with his family…
there’s also maybe the recent, worrying stirring in his heart—the little hiccuping smolder of a tiny ember in its lands Midousuji had considered razed, and salted. perhaps by trauma, and certainly by design; he doesn’t want to think about it, that maybe a part of him knew that life could be inside that part of him again if he’d let it. and letting it wouldn’t lend to victory—or so he’d previously thought.
he’d thought that embracing any sentimentality would put him on the path to ruin—he sees it happen to countless others. but lately, he’s noticing it’s not such a universal rule that wasting time, dilly-dallying in the lives of nothing people. only because some of those people he’d turn his tiny, flat nose at for engaging in those activities have overcome Midousuji, who has worked so much harder. dedicated his life to make himself a machine. empty.
and a loser, again and again.
so he’s been experimenting, a little, with what he’s not yet brave enough to name it for what it is: friendship. a bleak epiphany from some hazy memory of his former team captain going on about stupid warm-hearted crap versus Midousuji’s cold logic, and cross-extrapolating Midousuji’s one weakness: his devotion to being alone, and utterly self sufficient.
it’s such distracting thoughts that make Midousuji accidentally completely shoulder-check a passerby, and given his impressive wingspan for his age, it’s with enough force he nearly loses the bag slung across his shoulder, containing his broken down DeLose.
when the other person staggers, she drops her bag—and from within those bag contents comes a noisy clattering of jewel plastic, cascading like sheets. he pauses, then carefully picks out his earplug, surely a contributor to his clumsy blunder.]
Sorry…
[he isn’t, really, but he’s back in polite society. curiously, he tilts his head, bending at his tiny waist to help gather the CDs back up—and as he straightens, his mouth, beneath his mask, gapes in slack-jawed, awed surprise. he recognizes the band name… and how silly is it? how strange, to have CDs when nearly all music is now digital? he tilts his head the other way, noting signatures. autographs.
why does this person have so many of these?]
Amai…
[not the name of the band, but one of the members—the one he follows, recently kind of on a kick with the group, often accompanying his chaotic thoughts as he trains. he boggles at the stranger, then, carefully cradling the CDs to his chest so they don’t fall, he extends a gloved hand to help her steady her stance.]
Do you…
[whyyyy. is he wasting time with idle chit-chat with a total stranger? like he cares if other people like the same music he likes. maybe per this experimental “being more open socially” thing, or… but there’s also a curiosity: why such antiquated merch? and why so many autographs? are they forgeries? is this person a scammer? or a supplier?]
…know this group?
there’s also maybe the recent, worrying stirring in his heart—the little hiccuping smolder of a tiny ember in its lands Midousuji had considered razed, and salted. perhaps by trauma, and certainly by design; he doesn’t want to think about it, that maybe a part of him knew that life could be inside that part of him again if he’d let it. and letting it wouldn’t lend to victory—or so he’d previously thought.
he’d thought that embracing any sentimentality would put him on the path to ruin—he sees it happen to countless others. but lately, he’s noticing it’s not such a universal rule that wasting time, dilly-dallying in the lives of nothing people. only because some of those people he’d turn his tiny, flat nose at for engaging in those activities have overcome Midousuji, who has worked so much harder. dedicated his life to make himself a machine. empty.
and a loser, again and again.
so he’s been experimenting, a little, with what he’s not yet brave enough to name it for what it is: friendship. a bleak epiphany from some hazy memory of his former team captain going on about stupid warm-hearted crap versus Midousuji’s cold logic, and cross-extrapolating Midousuji’s one weakness: his devotion to being alone, and utterly self sufficient.
it’s such distracting thoughts that make Midousuji accidentally completely shoulder-check a passerby, and given his impressive wingspan for his age, it’s with enough force he nearly loses the bag slung across his shoulder, containing his broken down DeLose.
when the other person staggers, she drops her bag—and from within those bag contents comes a noisy clattering of jewel plastic, cascading like sheets. he pauses, then carefully picks out his earplug, surely a contributor to his clumsy blunder.]
Sorry…
[he isn’t, really, but he’s back in polite society. curiously, he tilts his head, bending at his tiny waist to help gather the CDs back up—and as he straightens, his mouth, beneath his mask, gapes in slack-jawed, awed surprise. he recognizes the band name… and how silly is it? how strange, to have CDs when nearly all music is now digital? he tilts his head the other way, noting signatures. autographs.
why does this person have so many of these?]
Amai…
[not the name of the band, but one of the members—the one he follows, recently kind of on a kick with the group, often accompanying his chaotic thoughts as he trains. he boggles at the stranger, then, carefully cradling the CDs to his chest so they don’t fall, he extends a gloved hand to help her steady her stance.]
Do you…
[whyyyy. is he wasting time with idle chit-chat with a total stranger? like he cares if other people like the same music he likes. maybe per this experimental “being more open socially” thing, or… but there’s also a curiosity: why such antiquated merch? and why so many autographs? are they forgeries? is this person a scammer? or a supplier?]
…know this group?
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