[Aerith isn’t quite as transparent as Midousuji had maybe assumed, which is odd—at first, he found her so pleasant he couldn’t believe that she could really be like that (and if she was, gross—he’s known good people, like Ishigaki, a total martyr—a moral pervert, as far as Midousuji’s considered). then, deciding he could trust her, Midousuji simultaneously decided that Aerith was kind of an open book.
and now, it’s somewhere in between. the gears turn in a sluggish wobble in Midousuji’s head, his eyes wide somewhere between his knees, head hung with his jaw held open, slightly, in very un-slight disbelief.
he’s drunk, he thinks. but somehow, clarity is coming increasingly—he’s not sure if it’s that, or the alcohol, that’s making him feel queasy.
Aerith isn’t dishonest, per se; she’s relentlessly herself, but has some related to other people. just like Midousuji, however, Aerith is brutally authentic. it makes her pure. like Midousuji. but Midousuji’s lack of authenticity—the things he can't let himself even look in the face, or think about, come from straying away from things that he deems will make him weak.
which, he's beginning to see, is something he fears.
when Aerith poses her query, Midousuji's eyes widen, pupils quivering to pinpricks. certain he might get sick, Midousuji curls his hand against the bottom of his face. he isn't that drunk—not that Midousuji has any frame of reference—he's just unbearably overwhelmed, emotionally, under the onslaught of something unfamiliar and terrifying.
right now. he's scared, as they speak. as Aerith so easily and so bluntly discerns him in a way that makes his skin crawl; asks him a question he’s so terrified of answering he might be the one who throws himself from the roof instead just to escape the situation. but he keeps himself planted, not frozen in fear—but rooted, with purpose.
what purpose??
what is it, anyway? that purpose? is it connection? to bond?? bonding?? closeness? closer? come closer??
his knees tighten by each of his temples, the bottle, now released, falling softly against the rigid sinew of his inner thigh. Midousuji’s hand is clenched tight against his mouth, thin, rigid fingers pulling in a grasp against either of his cheeks, breathing heavily through his nose.
his mind buzzes in a hot, agitated fury, but he’s still hearing her. he moves his hand from over his mouth to instead claw through his messy, dark hair, joining its twin. he’s looking away, hard, through the corners of his eyes.
his face is hot, and it’s visibly obvious. Midousuji tells himself it’s the embarrassment. the alcohol.]
I…
[Midousuji, suddenly in a frenzied fluster, gives a growling shriek of frustration and overstimulation. his hands move so rapidly and vigorously over the top of his head that it incites static, his breathing audible and ragged, like he’s just won some long course in record time.
then his body goes slack and still, hands resting limp against his ruffled crown, though Midousuji’s still panting.]
…I didn’t… hate it.
I should have… Gross, warm feeling… Tepid, niggling… Like a seed, planted inside…
[she’s changing him?? is that the seed? the origin of the roots keeping him in place in this moment, despite his panic?]
…I feel…
…like that…too.
[Midousuji’s hands then rake down his face, denting his petal-pinkened skin. he lifts his head, but not completely.]
Wh…what’s…happening to me… It’s groooosssssss… Gross, gross, gross, gross…!!
no subject
and now, it’s somewhere in between. the gears turn in a sluggish wobble in Midousuji’s head, his eyes wide somewhere between his knees, head hung with his jaw held open, slightly, in very un-slight disbelief.
he’s drunk, he thinks. but somehow, clarity is coming increasingly—he’s not sure if it’s that, or the alcohol, that’s making him feel queasy.
Aerith isn’t dishonest, per se; she’s relentlessly herself, but has some related to other people. just like Midousuji, however, Aerith is brutally authentic. it makes her pure. like Midousuji. but Midousuji’s lack of authenticity—the things he can't let himself even look in the face, or think about, come from straying away from things that he deems will make him weak.
which, he's beginning to see, is something he fears.
when Aerith poses her query, Midousuji's eyes widen, pupils quivering to pinpricks. certain he might get sick, Midousuji curls his hand against the bottom of his face. he isn't that drunk—not that Midousuji has any frame of reference—he's just unbearably overwhelmed, emotionally, under the onslaught of something unfamiliar and terrifying.
right now. he's scared, as they speak. as Aerith so easily and so bluntly discerns him in a way that makes his skin crawl; asks him a question he’s so terrified of answering he might be the one who throws himself from the roof instead just to escape the situation. but he keeps himself planted, not frozen in fear—but rooted, with purpose.
what purpose??
what is it, anyway? that purpose? is it connection? to bond?? bonding?? closeness? closer? come closer??
his knees tighten by each of his temples, the bottle, now released, falling softly against the rigid sinew of his inner thigh. Midousuji’s hand is clenched tight against his mouth, thin, rigid fingers pulling in a grasp against either of his cheeks, breathing heavily through his nose.
his mind buzzes in a hot, agitated fury, but he’s still hearing her. he moves his hand from over his mouth to instead claw through his messy, dark hair, joining its twin. he’s looking away, hard, through the corners of his eyes.
his face is hot, and it’s visibly obvious. Midousuji tells himself it’s the embarrassment. the alcohol.]
I…
[Midousuji, suddenly in a frenzied fluster, gives a growling shriek of frustration and overstimulation. his hands move so rapidly and vigorously over the top of his head that it incites static, his breathing audible and ragged, like he’s just won some long course in record time.
then his body goes slack and still, hands resting limp against his ruffled crown, though Midousuji’s still panting.]
…I didn’t… hate it.
I should have… Gross, warm feeling… Tepid, niggling… Like a seed, planted inside…
[she’s changing him?? is that the seed? the origin of the roots keeping him in place in this moment, despite his panic?]
…I feel…
…like that…too.
[Midousuji’s hands then rake down his face, denting his petal-pinkened skin. he lifts his head, but not completely.]
Wh…what’s…happening to me… It’s groooosssssss… Gross, gross, gross, gross…!!