[Midousuji pauses, fingers dragged down his face, the pink bottoms of his eyelids exposed and comically stretched as he lifts his face. never be able to dig…? her out…? inside?? inside him?
that’s the scariest thing she’s said yet.
immediately, his brain works backwards on that, trying to save himself from exploding into abrupt cardiac arrest—people weren’t like that. she’d dig herself out. people were fickle. he himself, as a person, was cold, and at times frightfully unbearable—and naturally, people had their limits with that, too. no one could get so close, and not for so long. and Midousuji doesn’t mind. he doesn’t care. he prefers it.
he’s not built like other people. he can do everything by himself. he likes being alone. he doesn’t need anyone. and unlike other people, he also, deplorably, is not fickle, even when he sometimes wants to be.
he exhales, hands still goofily clawed on his face, and his breath trembles.
Aerith, too, isn’t really built like other people.
when she begins to walk backwards, away from the roof, and towards him, Midousuji finds he’s still at a loss for what to even say, stuck in that elapsed spell of silence.
but there’s somewhere else he can put his focus. an opportunity. his knees drop, posture now in a flat pretzel with how his legs are folded, and he cranes his back to shuffle through his things. he notices his movements feel strange—too fast, and even less exact than usual. but of course he can’t actually be moving faster. his brain is probably suffering in cognitive parsing, he thinks…
but still, if clumsily, he procures a flask. he holds it out, but not up towards Aerith. wordlessly, eyes wide and expectant on her, he holds his arm in a straight line—and his other hand is clasped around the neck of the cursed bottle. no more booze. he’d make sure of it.
no sooner than his conniption had suddenly come on, it’s passed, because he can focus on something else. but his mind and his heart are both still certainly shell shocked beyond belief; truthfully, Midousuji’s probably just shutting himself away from any further exposure, refusing to look any closer for his own drunk-mangled sanity.]
Then sit. Alcohol tastes and feels nasty, which doesn’t help, but. Alcohol dehydrates you. Dehydration can make you nauseous.
[Midousuji’s gaze tears away as he goes on, still holding out his arm.]
And moving feels weird right now. That probably doesn’t help. So stop moving so much.
no subject
[Midousuji pauses, fingers dragged down his face, the pink bottoms of his eyelids exposed and comically stretched as he lifts his face. never be able to dig…? her out…? inside?? inside him?
that’s the scariest thing she’s said yet.
immediately, his brain works backwards on that, trying to save himself from exploding into abrupt cardiac arrest—people weren’t like that. she’d dig herself out. people were fickle. he himself, as a person, was cold, and at times frightfully unbearable—and naturally, people had their limits with that, too. no one could get so close, and not for so long. and Midousuji doesn’t mind. he doesn’t care. he prefers it.
he’s not built like other people. he can do everything by himself. he likes being alone. he doesn’t need anyone. and unlike other people, he also, deplorably, is not fickle, even when he sometimes wants to be.
he exhales, hands still goofily clawed on his face, and his breath trembles.
Aerith, too, isn’t really built like other people.
when she begins to walk backwards, away from the roof, and towards him, Midousuji finds he’s still at a loss for what to even say, stuck in that elapsed spell of silence.
but there’s somewhere else he can put his focus. an opportunity. his knees drop, posture now in a flat pretzel with how his legs are folded, and he cranes his back to shuffle through his things. he notices his movements feel strange—too fast, and even less exact than usual. but of course he can’t actually be moving faster. his brain is probably suffering in cognitive parsing, he thinks…
but still, if clumsily, he procures a flask. he holds it out, but not up towards Aerith. wordlessly, eyes wide and expectant on her, he holds his arm in a straight line—and his other hand is clasped around the neck of the cursed bottle. no more booze. he’d make sure of it.
no sooner than his conniption had suddenly come on, it’s passed, because he can focus on something else. but his mind and his heart are both still certainly shell shocked beyond belief; truthfully, Midousuji’s probably just shutting himself away from any further exposure, refusing to look any closer for his own drunk-mangled sanity.]
Then sit. Alcohol tastes and feels nasty, which doesn’t help, but. Alcohol dehydrates you. Dehydration can make you nauseous.
[Midousuji’s gaze tears away as he goes on, still holding out his arm.]
And moving feels weird right now. That probably doesn’t help. So stop moving so much.