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[discarding]

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[bloomly]

( well, then what good are muscles if they can't be used for practical things like this? opening jars, popping bottles, catching girls when they fall off roofs, that sort of thing? her expression sours for a moment, playfully full of disdain, but to her benefit, he does at least take the bottle by the neck and pull it over to himself, which means that her hand plants down, palm to wood, in the space between them. she does intend to clear it, eventually, but she'll work slow this time. for now, she lets him examine the bottle without any kind of commentary; it's only once he's decided to use his teeth that she lets out a laugh. )

What are you doing?

( it almost sounds like she's scolding him. her other hand plants down, and then there's a scoot-scoot-scoot across the roof so that she can sit herself closer, both hands reaching to take the bottle away from him. it doesn't matter.

the cork comes out with a sharp pop, and even she recoils: the smell is quite potent, enough that she gets a whiff, being so close. is she really going to drink this? well, now that he's opened it, she kind of has to, right?

both of her hands reach to snatch the bottle back; she hugs it in under one arm, careful, while the other hand reaches out for his face--it's hard to maneuver, since his head is tossed back, but she plucks the cork right out from his teeth, moving instead to tuck it, absurdly, into the pocket of her dress. yes, of course this dress has pockets. practical. )

It's not that bad...

( scolding, again, playful--but as she brings the bottle to her lips, even her own face twists in displeasure. she straightens up her shoulders, takes in a breath, and then presses her mouth over the top, a quick swallow that doesn't taste nearly as bad as it smells, until it hits her stomach.

she swallows, drawing the bottle back, and then, with barely even a pause--she takes another mouthful. gotta prove her own strength, okay? this one doesn't feel nearly as awful, though it does mean that she's recoiling forward, the bottle pushed into her lap, licking her lips despite better judgment before she looks over at him.

and then, demurely: ) Do you want to try?

[discarding]

[the answer is WINNING AT BIKE RACES, obviously.

when Aerith's hand reaches forward towards his face, his eyes simply roll towards her, and when she delicately takes hold of the cork, Midousuji releases it accommodatingly. then he moves the positioning of his head, neck and shoulders into something more normal. for him, anyway. one arm dangles by his side, wrist against the roof, fingers lax behind him, and the other still hooks on his bag strap as he watches Aerith pocket the cork. which, perhaps absurd, doesn't even register with Midousuji. if anything, it makes him feel relieved—keeping the cork means she doesn't intend to finish the bottle, right? even if it's not as big as a wine bottle, still...

his eyes widen and he leans forward in surprise, watching as she suddenly then drinks it. his jaw does drop a little, almost in disbelief, his eyes dipping momentarily to catch the flexing bob of her throat as she swallows as if to confirm she isn't having one over on him. and Midousuji leans back again, eyebrows raised.

when prompted, Midousuji jolts with surprise.]

Me?! No way, gross! I'm not convinced it's delicious, or anything. I'm still recovering from drinking that medicine swill.

[he eyes the bottle distrustfully. Aerith had made it look so easy, but Midousuji had smelled it... it's not that he's underestimating her (gradually, he's learned to stop doing that more and more). she is definitely the type who'd unassumingly be really tough; he'd decided that pretty early on, even.

but Midousuji has nothing to prove! and drinking is awful for you. again, not like he has a purpose in preserving his body... his eyes wander and lid half way, looking annoyed at that thought. whatever that's about, his eyes are soon back on Aerith.]

Wasn't that a lot, straight-away? Maybe your constitution isn't as bad as you think, but you drink too fast.

[Midousuji's expression cracks with amusement, and he pushes the corner of his smile, eyes narrowing.]

Aerith-chan, hasty, hasty...

[bloomly]

( the answer is yes, that was a bit too much straight away, a bit more than she would have liked, and no, her constitution isn't that great. she'll make it look like it is, though: the type of girl that goes hard like she can handle it and then, in the end, can't really drink much more than would be expected of her. still, it's nice to see that he doesn't question it, which means that she gets to smile, wriggle her shoulders a little, and woefully bring the bottle back to her own lips. fine. hasty? she'll show him hasty.

her eyes go up to the night sky, like she's trying to remember why she's here at all. maybe that will help her gauge how much liquor she's drinking: at some point, she hopes she might just forget it all anyway, might forget a little that she's in some strange place and now, that she's in this strange place alone, in a cottage that's perfect for two but just a little too big for one. not that she plans on sharing any of that - it'd be pretty gross to, right?

the liquor goes down and this time, it is a bit too much. she splutters for a moment. swallows and wipes her mouth off with the back of her hand like she's totally capable, like that's how it's supposed to be, but she's definitely wrenching the bottle down to sit upright, between her thighs, rather than drinking any more just yet. )

The quicker you drink, the faster it works. Right? That's how it always seemed to me.

( --which is revealing that she doesn't do this very often. a frown starts, just at the corner of her lips, as she looks down at her own lap. )

Anyway, there's nothing wrong with being hasty. Sometimes it's nice to do things without thinking too hard about them.

( her chin swings up, looking at him again, and this time, she does manage a smile. )

Haven't you ever done that? Just... Gone for it, whatever you wanted, instead of worrying about what might happen? Midou~suji~ Akira~kun~.

[discarding]

[Midousuji is alarmed when she sputters, and he whips his head over to lift his eyebrows at her—and he has a cognitive latency, as he always does, in matters delicate and emotional. by the time he considers plucking the bottle from her, it’s...between her thighs. Midousuji hastily looks away, his gloved fingertip anxiously yanking down his lip. master strategist. dangerous!

but after a brief pause, he glances back at her, his lower gums still exposed as he stares at her. a picture is coming together, more solidly. the kind of person she is. Midousuji’s jaw falls open a little bit, his outgrown hair shifting across his brow as he tilts his head. the type of person who is maybe too concerned about being pleasant? about not having bad feelings.]

Well. Yes, [Midousuji answers to her rhetoric (but, again, social cues) question about pacing, and he scowls in subtle exasperation, his wondrous, examinate expression dissipating.] But if you’re a “lightweight,” you don’t have to drink so much so quickly...

[her next question makes Midousuji catch a little breath in the back of his throat, jolting away again, leaning back, and a feeling that reminds him of what he felt during their bond unpleasantly spikes through him. burning, uncomfortable, scary.]

Of ...of course I have...

[Midousuji doesn’t look away with the whole of his face, but his eyes dodge her; by now, she’s probably realized he doesn’t often, or easily, make and maintain eye contact.]

But within certain parameters, not just whatever. With winning... I’d do whatever I wanted to get that. Whatever I felt I needed... With people, I...

[Midousuji narrows his eyes, tilting his head. maybe he shouldn’t go down that road. it would surely make Aerith reconsider her investment. but. wait. no. does that imply that idea as a risk? if so, how many things does that admit? Midousuji opts to be candid, though uncomfortably so, due to his inability to acknowledge his own feelings for people. classic self sabotage.]

...if they aren’t useful to me, or I don’t know them, I’ll say or do whatever I want. I’ll manipulate them to get whatever I need. The stakes just don’t make as much sense, here. With that.

[he makes eye contact with her again, resting his cheek against his knees.]

A lot more calculated, and traditionally speaking, worse than overdrinking.

[having honestly exposed some of his major flaws, which he isn’t really ashamed of, per se, emboldens Midousuji to reach forward, across them—not too close, given where she’s (strategically???) settled the bottle—but his thin arm, like a bar, hovering above her thighs, has a clear implication: slow down.]

Slow down a bit.

Getting ahead of yourself with something like defeat... it’s gross. You don’t even know they’re gone, yet. You’re admitting your resignation prematurely. The night isn’t over yet.

[bloomly]

( that does, oddly, sober her in a way, root her down into the moment rather than into the slight, tingly twist of her stomach, with the liquor warming her from the inside out. if they aren't useful to me--she thinks about it for a moment, perhaps a moment too long, and surprisingly, it's her gaze that darts away, moves down to look into her lap again and then, with a soft sigh, out on the horizon instead.

it's not like she didn't know that he could be strange. he is strange. but he's strange in a way that's always been somehow pleasant to her, enjoyable, the sort of different that makes her feel less different, too, like they're odd charges that come together in some kind of magnetic pull, anyway. and he's talked about winning, and talked about being--like this, but it's never been quite worded this way. she admires his honesty, but--

something useful. manipulate, to get what he wants?

her gaze falls, to where his arm is held out above her thighs; it's clearly meant to stop her from drinking more, and though she does look at him, sidelong, she doesn't laugh at the 'gross' like she might usually, doesn't tease him or even get puffed up in make-believe annoyance. )

It's not because I feel defeated. I'm not admitting anything.

( and that's all she's going to say on that, for a moment: rather than let him keep his arm there, she reaches up with both of her hands, closes his palm in between her smaller two and squeezes it, trying to force his arm to relax, to even bend a little to make holding his hand--or possessing it, given that she's just clutching it like some small insect that she doesn't want to let go--easier for the both of them.

she doesn't look at him, looks out in front again, but her lips purse for a moment, like she doesn't know how to say it. now there's something funny. )

...Am I useful? To you?

[discarding]

[back home, home home, as in with his family, Midousuji was always quiet. respectable, mild. manic and chaotic to all else who knew him—but Aerith draws out a different quality from within him, that way. echoes of something familiar—something he doesn’t want to disrespect. he hasn’t figured it out, just yet, despite his cunning—cultivating dossiers in depth on his opponents so he could learn how they ticked, to psychologically terrorize them... this is a much more organic, less practiced structure, which is why it scares him. it doesn’t make sense, outside of home. yet here he is. Aerith has likenesses to two people Midousuji holds very dear, though he wouldn’t ever even let himself think deeply enough about his feelings in any regard to arrive to that conclusion.

he jumps, a little bit, when she manipulates his arm that way—and against her hopeful intentions, he remains tense; unnatural. Midousuji always holds his body in such incredible tension, without being aware of it—and this probably reveals that quite plainly. Midousuji is not a relaxed person.

he stares at her, feeling some ripples of some deep, unknown thing that frightens and cements him at the same time, completely uncomprehending.

thankfully, because he’s so strange, he doesn’t think to analyze the way she doesn’t look at him; it doesn’t occur to him at all. and part of that is because frankly, she’s only absorbed peripherally; he doesn’t look at her either. the way his pulse, so near to her eager hands, races, is precisely why. he rests his hand across his face, thinking carefully. it’s probably for slightly too long.]

...Yes. I think so. You helped me. For no reason, many times... But—

[Midousuji’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks uncomfortable. he doesn’t like talking about his feelings. he considers them a point of weakness. distantly, he remembers some vague echoes of someone who forced his way into Midousuji’s thoughts similarly—having hauled Midousuji’s unconscious body into his van, he’d given Midousuji some stern words (while he was out cold) about what he was lacking—the ability to connect with other people. to rely on them. Midousuji barely even recalls it, even as his hand is tangled up in the warmth of both of Aerith’s. it feels caustic, but magnetizing—quite literally, he feels like a moth to a flame.

with this tension, this discomfort, he could get up, storm off, no explanation—he doesn’t feel remorse, doesn’t care how he effects other people, as he’s said. but those similarities to the women in his life he’s loved keeps him stuck where he is.

he feels trapped, but also like he’s drawn to something. something to help him grow? or something that will destroy him? he isn’t sure.]

But I don’t...rely on people. I don’t need them. I...

[Midousuji looks away fully, now, his expression cross and frustrated, teeth bared as he tries to figure out his feelings. even privately, they’re impossible to discern. he seems like a candid person, but outside of his practiced elements, he simply isn’t. at all.]

...don’t do things... I don’t want to do. Outside of things like Bonding, and stuff—survival.

I’m not here...because you’re useful. I think you are, in some ways, but I haven’t even figured out how, or if it matters.

I don’t know what you are. That feeling... is gross. I feel disgusting. You’re hard to understand. I can usually figure people out pretty quickly, but...

[wow. where was he going with that. he definitely wants to bolt, now. but he’s held in her gentle hold. the way you hold something, if that thing is important. it makes him feel paralyzed.]

[bloomly]

( it's a respectful answer: an honest answer, given the way that he talks. it's slow, drawn out like the words come along with the thought, and for awhile, she just lets the silence rest between them, lets it stretch and pull and manipulate the feelings into words. he says he doesn't rely on people, that he doesn't need people, and doesn't everyone feel that way? in some way, in some sense, she can relate to that; the type that doesn't want to rely on someone to be a burden, the type that doesn't want to need anyone lest they become too affected by what she is and what could happen, but likely for him it's some sort of silly measure of strength, rather than the desire not to be too much for people around her. to not leave too strong of a mark, because it could leave something painful behind: she'd rather be something that can be scrubbed away, like the sticky residue left after a band-aid.

hard to understand? maybe that's true. maybe it's hard for him to parse someone so similar and yet so drastically different, in all the ways that matter. maybe she might say he's hard to understand, too, but he's not. not really, anyway. she's seen people like him before--some of them are even her closest friends, the people that she cares too deeply about to ever perfectly let go.

i don't know what you are--she smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. in fact, her gaze dips, falls safely behind the weight of her bangs to her temples that she doesn't have to pretend like she's happy to hear it, or that she can just bounce back from it. why is it that one, in particular? it smarts, stings a little, and he doesn't mean it that way but it just cements the feeling that she thought she could escape from, in a city full of witches and monsters.

isn't she just something normal, boring, mundane here? unremarkable? )

...Back home, ( she starts after a moment, after her hands have relented to the fact that his arm will just stay stiff, like this, and that she has to put her elbows to her thighs so that she can hold his hand still, comfortably for herself. ) ...I was really only worth as much as I was useful. No one knew what I was, either.

( --which is incorrect, or misleading, a little, but it's the same sort of feeling. the same sense of otherness. )

I don't think I made them feel gross, though. Or disgusting.

( she can smile, tease a little, with that much; the alcohol is going to her head a little, making her braid swing slightly when she leans, tilts her head to stare at him thoughtfully. )

So what's the hard part? To figure out, I mean. About me, or my usefulness, or any of it.

[discarding]

[despite how Aerith is relating to Midousuji’s sentiment of not relying on other people, it’s for entirely different reasons. from a young, developmental age, the adults, though through very little fault of their own, had failed Midousuji; his peers had bullied him. Midousuji doesn’t rely on other people because he doesn’t trust them to understand or support him, nor does he desire it—Midousuji feels that way because other people are the burden. he moves, speaks, achieves—all much more freely, without them.

but that kind of rejection and hyper self-reliance is absolutely trauma born. it can’t carry someone for too long, and definitely not as far as Midousuji wants to go. but he’s too young, too unsupported, too out of touch with himself, to understand any of that.

all the same, also unlike Aerith, Midousuji wants to leave a mark on people. the very same things that had ostracized him are now weaponized, and he loves to force people into cowering beneath him for those very same qualities. how bullies become bullies. how people who are different obtain control. he’s one of the bad stories.

Midousuji watches her, carefully tumbling her every word in his head. curiosity does arise about her usefulness in childhood, what that means—but before he can figure out how to investigate that, she’s pulling the rug out from him again with another unexpected question. Midousuji’s expression drops, his mouth low and eyebrows high, pupils contracting in his lightless eyes. god. she’s still holding onto his hand, too. his arm twinges, his anxiety ramping, overheating him.]

I...

...don’t know.

[Midousuji swallows. he really doesn’t have an answer to that.]

You’re... Well.

[Midousuji glances away, feeling he won’t be able to say a thing if he keeps looking at her, especially with that expression. his fingertips perch on his chin, wide eyes whimsically distracted by the sparkling shattering lights of the stars.]

I feel like, anyway... though you seem like it, at first... you aren’t normal. Even people who aren’t normal, I can figure them out. But... the reasons why you confuse me...

[Midousuji scowls thoughtfully, and he hisses low through his teeth, frustrated. he doesn’t even know how to say it! and why should he say it anyway. what is he doing. why is this all so confusing and stupid. he knows he’s going against his own paradigms, but he feels helpless to it! how is this even possible]

Gross, [he mumbles, and he scrubs his free hand over his face, wincing his eyes closed.] Gross, gross, gross... I don’t even know how to describe it...

[which makes that subject a useless moot point, right. Midousuji’s expression, tiredly and exasperatedly, stares upward further; his eyes roll a little, the slight puffiness beneath his eyes pronouncing from it.]

Anyway... People are useless, and terrible. You shouldn’t worry about how you’re useful to them. You should worry about how they’re useful to you—how you’re useful to yourself. This is a relationship people neglect.

[Midousuji turns to face her, and pauses; there’s a distant chorus of crickets he notices then, chirring merrily in the still, pleasantly scented Summer night air.]

Loss is... less devastating, that way. [despite facing her, his eyes then dart away.] You’re the one who’s always going to be there.

[bloomly]

( it's almost, almost enough for her to want to answer back: but i won't be.

but that's going too far, too serious, too much for the way that his gaze darts around and the way she can practically feel him overheating, in her touch, yet she doesn't let go of him all the same. doesn't want to, really. it's not a warm night, not like it may get when summer starts to truly ramp up and make itself known, but it's nothing so frigid, nothing too overwhelming that he won't just naturally lose some of that heat, right? or maybe she's being a little bit greedy about it. if people are so useless, and so terrible, then why is he there with her at all? )

You're right, I'm not normal.

( that's easy enough to admit. and should she go a step further? it makes her want to laugh; the sound catches in her throat for a moment, and her gaze falls to the bottle, still nestled between her thighs, safe in her lap. she'll have to let go of him, if she wants to drink, which--is annoying, and she frowns for a moment. unfair. )

But neither are you, and it's not in all the ways you think you aren't. People aren't so terrible as you think they are, at least not all of them, and no one can do everything alone. Not even you.

( she nods her chin towards him, but politely, or perhaps forlornly, she doesn't meet his gaze either or study him like she would normally, with playfully owlish eyes. )

Remember? You could barely even drag yourself home. I helped you because I worried about you, because I cared about you, and that's gross, I know, but you would have been worse off without me.

( a shake of her head, once, but she doesn't like how it feels, slightly muddied with alcohol. ) I don't want people to be useful to me. They get hurt that way. I'm going to help everyone that I can, because I'm not normal, because that's what I'm supposed to do, that's why I'm here. There. Whatever, you know, back home. I guess here too...

( she wets her lips, once, and then, playfully, she gives his hand a squeeze. )

But if you're so eager to have me find other people useful, maybe you can help me have another drink? Hold the bottle for me? ( she rattles his hand a little, back and forth, in indication. ) I'm holding onto something that's going to get away if I let it go.

[discarding]

[Midousuji gives her an affronted, surprised stare when she tells him he can’t do everything alone. his breath catches weirdly in his throat, and temporarily, he feels—insulted. he’s never had any other choice. and even if he did, of course he can do it himself!! if he can’t do it himself, then he’ll fail—that’s not an option!

lip lifted in a snarl inspired by confusion, fear and irritation, Midousuji’s eyes fall on where her hand holds his. she isn’t insulting his integrity deliberately, of course, but Midousuji is reactive, emotional and stunted. none of this is territory he’s properly allowed himself to explore. sharply, his eyes look away, the heat a boiling roll in his chest as his blood heats—his thoughts are cooking, so thankfully, he doesn’t impulsively lash out per the top of his thoughts—because Aerith is different, as he’s said.

to her prompting, Midousuji’s eyes, wild and agitated, whip onto her—and despite his previous shyness, Midousuji does as suggested, yanking the bottle from between her legs, but very careful (and successfully so) not to touch her as he pulls it by its neck.]

Wanting to help people is normal, [Midousuji spits, his thoughts catching up.] You’re worried about hurting other people, but you should be worried about how they could hurt you! People are savages. Of course, of course, [Midousuji emphasizes, his voice raising, deep and rumbling.] not all people are bad! I’ve known a good person.

But it’s different, [he says, expression evening, like he’s accidentally stumbling on some epiphany—but it’s also still certainly quite mad.] for someone like me. People don’t think the same thing when they interact with someone like me versus someone like you, [Midousuji emphasizes, eyes widening as he leans his face, honestly, quite close to Aerith’s. he’s shy about personal space, unless engaged in some hostile manner.] and we aren’t talking about me. If you worry about every little person who floats your way, when you’re so nice and so amicable, the math is against you!!

[he leans away, tongue lolling out as he rolls his eyes, neck flopping back.]

...But, about your ”something”... it’s only going to get away from you if you don’t handle it appropriately. If it’s important, you handle it carefully. If you do that, you’ll probably be okay. If you hold on too hard, too scared, too desperate, you’ll lose it. Or worse, destroy it from the force of that grip.

[ugh. he’s put it back into perspective for himself. and he’s seeing it unfold, right now—he needs to calm down. he hasn’t been coy about his less charming traits, because he’s shameless, but they haven’t come up, either. and despite being shameless, he...doesn’t feel as relaxed as he usually does, being so transparently expressive in any whimsical way he pleases!!

so Midousuji mirrors Aerith, and just takes a swig himself—his broad back lurches immediately, the spiny fins of his scapula protruding under his shirt, eyes wincing shut as he slaps his hand across his mouth—when he recovers, pretty quickly, his eyes roll up, drool mixed with saliva streaking down his chin beneath the cup of his hand.]

Ugh. Gross.

You did it with such a straight face... I knew it...

[this isn’t a relaxing time. Midousuji never is really capable of providing that kind of vibe. his throat burning, Midousuji wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, shuddering—and he peers at Aerith. it does indeed beg the question.....]

Aerith-chan...

[he swallows hard. the liquor burns in his belly.]

Why was I the person you asked for this?

[bloomly]

( he's always been expressive, though maybe that word isn't strong enough for it: maybe it would be better suited to say exaggerated, that his movements and his voice and even his feelings, as much as he may not want them to be, bleed into the way that he talks, the words that he uses, and how he flinches and twists and stretches this way and that when he talks. she sees it here, now, in the way it's almost like he's upset. almost, because he keeps talking, steady, almost frantic, and the way he leans in closer is nearly as close as they've ever been.

she doesn't have the usual edge of amusement, or even joy, that she might in the revelation: instead she stares right back at him, almost startled, her eyes round and wide and her mouth pressed tightly shut.

the bottle, he takes from her, but not to offer up like she'd wanted. no, he's taken it for himself, and for a second she can only watch helplessly as he swallows down a mouthful. a part of her wants to warn him; there's even the faint sound, in the back of her throat, but it comes too late and with too little. he's swallowed down what he can and it's obvious that he hates it, that it's actually gross, actually disgusting, and her tongue clicks against her teeth in dismay. he shouldn't have done that.

one of her hands, the one on top of his, lifts away--she's keen to brush some of that saliva off his face, too, wipe it with the back of her own hand, but he's peering at her and instead of risking it, she lets her hand hang there, fingertips slowly bending in towards her palm instead.

why was i the person you asked for this?

she's not expecting the question; it catches her with wide eyes. )

Because I felt safe, staying all night with you.

( likely he doesn't feel the same way, about how she's still gripping his hand-- gently, carefully, but she lets it go entirely. can't crush it, can't be too scared or too desperate, right? is that what he thinks she might be? both of her hands come back to her own lap, pressing down into it. )

You wouldn't expect me to be one way or the other. I could trust you. And I...figured you wouldn't care, to ask, to want to talk about it, so I could keep my secrets to myself.

( her chin bows down towards her chest. it's easier not to look at him. )

Because you think I'm disgusting. You wouldn't want to know more about someone disgusting. So...

[discarding]

[Midousuji’s head dips a little at that past tense, but he doesn’t say anything. he suddenly makes an uncomfortable expression, the alcohol in his throat feeling suddenly apparent again. Aerith lets go of his hand, and he blinks. he tilts his head at her curiously, seeming to calm down from his dramatic agitations.

funnily, when Aerith’s gaze dodges Midousuji’s, he finds it easier to look at her. go figure. but even that’s brief—he looks away again when she explains, and the hand that had been held in Aerith’s feels funny—like it clings to the memory of the pressure, and the warmth, but it doesn’t have the burning tingle it had when they were bonded.

Midousuji rolls her words around in his head again, blinking as he considers that. how he wants to answer. he squints, teeth grit again, annoyed he’s run yet again into something he doesn’t want to quantify. and should he? does it matter? if it does...why is that? what’s even happening to him anymore.]

Well, you’re right. I’m not the type to talk stuff out like that. I wondered if that was part of it.

[he reaches into his bag, expression evening out again as he rummages—and without looking at Aerith, he extends his palm towards her again, turned upward to present a clementine. Midousuji has a high metabolism, and this was going to be a long night—and he’d be an eel’s ass if he was going to let Aerith take care of him again when he was perfectly capable of bringing his own food.]

But you’re wrong, too—I don’t think you’re disgusting. [Midousuji finds it interesting that they both seem so sure in each other’s assessment of the other, despite being often wrong.] “Gross” and “disgusting” are different. A little. It’s hard to explain, but... “Gross” is like, a creepy feeling... I guess it means a lot of stuff, but probably most of the time, I don’t mean it the way you think I do.

[he tilts his head. it’s too weird to explain it as a verbal tic. he didn’t always have it, but he certainly developed it. he’s not even sure how to explain something like that. the compulsion for word repetition, for specific words—that it’s a reaction to too many broad things. standard traits in other people that Midousuji carries with negative connotations; society’s warped standards; his own feelings. that’s something Midousuji doesn’t much address. when he feels something for someone, something that makes him uncomfortable—it’s gross, and he says so, which the person often takes as being directed at their behavior, or their person. and sometimes it is.

but often, Midousuji is just reacting to the crawly, nauseating feeling of being cared for.

she’d even said it, too. that’s a normal thing, too. being honest, unafraid, and unashamed of those kinds of feelings. gross.]

Maybe I’ll explain if I ever figure it out. But yeah, it’s not like I have the desire to learn more about you, or to pry, that’s true—but it’s not because I find you revolting...

I just don’t have to know people like that to...

[to what?? Midousuji’s jaw drops a little again, closes, then falls again.]

...be around them, I guess.

[bloomly]

( a part of her is startled, when his hand extends, and she wonders if he's going to give her the bottle back, or something else, or that he's going to keep his arm there again like some kind of barrier on the car of a rollercoaster, keeping her from moving at all. what his palm reveals is something so small and sweet--and surprising, that she glances from the little orange up to him, blinking owlishly, before she can't help herself. a tiny laugh escapes, soft and almost sad, and she plucks the clementine from him, holding it gently between her hands. )

That makes sense.

( she doesn't have to know people like that to be around them--or to want to be around him, which she realizes he hasn't said at all. she doesn't know why he's here, other than to offer her a favor, an equal exchange for whatever it is that he thinks he owes her, in the wake of what they've gone through together, but she should be grateful for it all the same. he could have turned her down: and then she'd be sitting on this roof alone, her head swimming, and no little orange to save her.

carefully, her thumb pinches into the top of the clementine, peeling away the skin to the bottom, but she does it slowly, methodically. like making a flower blossom, out of the peel. it's slow going, like she's rolling around her own words, like she doesn't know how to ask them anyway. doesn't know if she should. he's made himself startlingly clear, after all--she's almost proud of him for it, but doesn't say so.

she sets her blossom-peel on her knee, and splits the fruit in half, wordlessly holding it out to him: her arm outstretched, barred in front of him, just like he did to her. )

So you don't want to learn more about me. ( she says it like it's a guess, like it could be a question. her eyes are on the small bit of food; she picks off a slice and pops it between her lips. )

So you don't want to know me, like that.

( like what? even she doesn't know what she means. )

[discarding]

...Those kinds of things occur naturally, or they don't, [Midousuji tries to answer simply, his arm carefully withdrawn back into his own bubble, slack as its other. it's not as if Midousuji could ever acknowledge wanting to get to know another person so boldly, but it's legitimately true that he doesn't have the impulse to seek that out in the wake of fondness for someone. indeed, he likes Aerith—and that's enough. he'll learn more about her, or he won't; that's not a ball he likes to assume responsible for being in his court.

but he does have a careful, puzzled pause, clawing his hand against his chin and lower half of his face. he tries to discern her, like this. what she's feeling, or maybe more importantly, why she's making faces like that.

he doesn't find an answer, but slowly, he extends his hand, and carefully, with his forefinger and thumb, he plucks the fruit from Aerith. silly. that was for her... he has more, though, so he doesn't fuss. Midousuji cups the clementine half, cradling it in his lap as he tilts his head, and, regrettably, asks the thing she finds she doesn't know how to answer.]

But...what do you mean, "like that"?

[bloomly]

Like...

( naturally, he has to ask the question that she's uncertain of--and so far, she thinks she's done a good job of feigning comfort, or knowledge, even when she hasn't quite been able to muster it up at times, but this time, there's a certain lack of confidence, a faltering that even she doesn't understand. like that, like what? a fair question. she would have asked it, too.

her nose scrunches up in displeasure, and she busies herself with another piece of the orange, stubborn. )

Like a friend? Like someone you want to know more about? You know.

( does he? for the first time, there's a faint, pinking flush to her cheeks, partially in embarrassment, partially in something else. she's never like this: it must be the alcohol, the loneliness, the sudden fear and worry and the thousand other emotions that came with finding tifa gone. )

You should tell me about you, anyway. Your life back home. Tell me one interesting thing. ...And pass the bottle.

[discarding]

[Midousuji bites into his half of the clementine, not having the carefulness of his company, the way she delicately plucks and paces. he boggles at her in surprise, very nearly choking, the juice of the fruit down his chin.

friend??

he coughs a little, then covers his mouth, eyes wide as he swallows uncomfortably, having not really. chewed the quarter of the clementine he'd just bitten off. as the color arises to her cheeks, his hand clutches his throat, and he looks away. it's not the first time someone's expressed wanting to be his friend, and by some miracle (maybe because he's literally trying not to choke), Midousuji doesn't shoot back his verbal tic towards that sentiment. maybe it's because Aerith is obviously a little delicate right now, too.]

...I think people can...be...that. Without all that stuff. Can't they?

[Midousuji's never considered that. he hasn't even considered if Aerith is his friend, or if that was her motivation in persistently seeking him out. which, of course, is actually tremendously obvious—but Midousuji's far from a conventional thinker, and anything relating to connections, he's worse than an idiot. no experience whatsoever.]

About me? Something interesting?

[Midousuji tilts his head thoughtfully as he says that; it's certainly an obsessive control thing. he can't let people have one over on him. but Aerith, despite not really being that delicate of a girl, is in frailer form. normally, in a circumstance like this, he'd call it a personal problem that someone elected to be vulnerable around him and pay the state no mind, uncaring despite his awareness of their feelings.

he still doesn't feel confident the information, even with Aerith, couldn't be used against him at some point. and it's not because he has any ill perception of her character. rather, it's just because he'll probably never trust anyone fully—even if he were to end up dating someone for a long time, fall in love with them, all that stuff. the walls Midousuji puts up are colossal, and impossibly towering.]

Gross... "Interesting"... That's subjective...

[he rubs his throat a little as he swallows again, feeling his adam's apple flex against his hold, still not looking at her. his stupid brain is working so hard.]

What... kind of thing do you wanna know.

[Midousuji sort of clutches the bottle with both hands, indicating he won't surrender it until her imposed condition is satisfied. things like wagers, conditions—order, structure, helps him with this kind of thing. makes it less awkward.]

[bloomly]

( it's interesting, in a way, that he can't just come up with something off the top of his head. he needs more direction, further information, and that doesn't dissuade her, or even really bother her; but it does mean that she lets out a breath, almost a sigh, and adjusts her gaze on the horizon.

what to ask for, then? what wouldn't be immediately dismissed? but something that she would want to know? something that could be safely given, without him worrying about giving too much?

there are a few options; her head tilts, and she finishes off her half of the clementine, sets the blossom-peel aside at her hip and then draws her knees up to her chest; her fingers pluck at the skirt of her dress to keep it over her legs, keep herself decent. )

Well. Do you have any siblings? Are you an only child?

( she offers a soft, thoughtful hum. ) Let's do it like that. Ask a question, pass the bottle. Sound good?

[discarding]

[oh god. small talk. Midousuji's hand claws down his face, eyes half lid, dragging down his eyelids to expose their pink undersides. right. this is how people to get to know each other?? right? it feels so inorganic. and boring. and gross.

it's maybe just the nature of how boring the question is itself, he thinks. Midousuji's expression evens out as he tilts his head, pursing his lips as he considers. but it's true that he doesn't want to give away anything too revealing, either. his fingers tap his chin, and he extracts another clementine from his bag as he thinks, settling it then on his lap. Midousuji slips off his gloves.]

I'm an only child, [Midousuji answers. in the truest sense possible, almost... he begins to peel the little orange, its thin, soft skin discarded in ribbons by the bottle and messily over his lap.] and I lived alone. I have—had...two cousins.

[Midousuji scowls, reflecting on her offer of the game premise. Midousuji doesn't want to drink, per se—his nerves are a little calmer. but he doesn't want to leave the bottle to Aerith's consumption alone... would she overdo it that hard? he didn't know her well enough to say. and besides, what Aerith said is true—it's not that Midousuji doesn't like her, but he doesn't particularly want to know her, either. he grinds out a sigh. does that mean he has to drink, now that he's answered.]

If it sounds good to you, then that's sufficient, [Midousuji decides, distantly wondering what the hell he's doing. he doesn't have to humor her this far, right? as he's already considered, his only obligation is to be present. but...

Midousuji squints, thinking. questions about back home... wasn't that pointless, now? what was the point in looking back, if they were truly stuck here? until they disappear as mysteriously as they'd arrived... how grim. Midousuji doesn't want to think there isn't a way to do it himself, of his own free will, but it's harder to hold onto that hope. he'd held onto it too hard, maybe, and crushed it.]

Your favorite tea.

[said more like a statement than a question, but it suffices. Midousuji passes Aerith the bottle without looking at her, though he doesn't drink from it this time.]

[bloomly]

( her eyes, drawn to the movement, seem focused on the clementine: he peels it without much care for the rind, enough that she wrinkles her nose and reaches, neatly, with two fingers, plucks at the ribbons of orange peel and then pulls them off of his lap onto the roof instead. there's not much use for them, although perhaps they could be useful for cleaning: not good for compost, the acid could hurt the plants. her fingers toy around with them, circling them around in lazy patterns; better than up and staring at him, right?

but the way he speaks: an only child, living alone...she imagines that must mean that something happened to his parents. but what? she doesn't want to ask about it yet, doesn't want to prod when he's already being cagey about things, already seemingly displeased with the question. that makes them more similar than she'd really realized--her chin lifts, hands drawn back into her lap, and they only lift once he passes the bottle back. she takes it, between both palms, lifts it up and takes a hearty swallow: a little too much, given that she gives a petite little cough and then nestles the bottle back down into her lap. )

Jasmine. Chamomile. Usually cold, though, the both of them.

( that's likely not a very surprising answer, or very interesting: she gives a laugh, almost apologetic, and then lifts the bottle again, sneaking just one small, tiny little swallow before she seeks to pass it back to him. she has to consider it--trying to maintain the balance of what he's willing to share, without boring him to sleep. well, there's a thought: )

The last dream you had.

[discarding]

Cold?

[Midousuji reals curiously; he doesn't drink a lot of herbal tea... not often. but he finds both jasmine and chammomile so subtle, the idea of drinking it cold is legitimately baffling. a lot of that is, of course, cultural—but he doesn't think that far, or that deep.

rather, Midousuji watches the rolling shudder in the wake of her little cough pass through her body, and something in him twists inside that's new, small and strange—something perhaps like pity, or concern, but he can't know how to diagnose it, so unused to feeling other people. as it stands, as uncalibrated as he is, Midousuji just considers it as another uncomfortable feeling to put him on edge and cast his glance away. so that's exactly what happens.]

Dream... My last dream?

[his gaze unfocused, Midousuji's jaw drops just a little, and his mind is immediately thrown into a static, nothing buzz. he doesn't tend to remember his dreams—it's very rare that he does. from his perspective, he doesn't dream much at all. but when he does (as in, when he remembers—as no one simply "doesn't dream"), they're usually chaotic, silly, and complex—not ways he ever bothers to analyze, or pick apart, and absurd enough he doesn't give them any credence.

but Midousuji does quite vividly remember his last dream. his mother's face, blurry like a hazy, distant memory, though in actuality, it's one of the things he remembers with the most clarity. distance. hazy, and awful. it was Mother's day, recently, and Midousuji didn't even have a proper shrine to mourn her, as he usually would.

but that dream wasn't just the manifestation of despair from being apart from his preferred ways of coping... or only known ways, perhaps more fair to say. a lot of this dream was memory, too.

as he comes to remember this dream, Midousuji finds it harder to quantify, despite the developing quality of the reoccurence.]

...Smothered...

[Midousuji's eyes dip, and he rolls the bare little clementine with his fingertip. he wishes he hadn't already peeled it.]

...by the unbearable... humid heat of Summer... like a blanket. In the evening. Then...blue lights... all empty and blinding. [the harrowing, overlapping sounds of too many EKGs, so unlike the true memory. deafening. Midousuji doesn't share that, and instead, he swallows.]

The smell of anti-septic... Bright, clean walls... A floaty, warm feeling, in that same humid Summer heat... Close to...

[close to happiness. it's a memory he carries and remembers over and over again, but it's continually distorted, without an experience since to compare it to.]

...something uplifting... Light. A feeling of purpose... The stinging burn of flesh scraped by the bite of the road... The way your bones feel shocked, from falling hard. But it doesn't matter, because of the light feeling... I didn't feel the pain.

The feeling of searching...

[Midousuji isn't just looking away with his eyes, by this point; his head and his shoulders are turned away from Aerith, unaware of his withdrawn demeanor. he tilts his head, thinking. at some point, though he was a child through much of the dream, he was searching for the Hisaya family grave pillar.

he didn't find it. again, Midousuji doesn't disclose that part...]

Soft, gentle hands... All blurry. Like old memories, old feelings.

[Midousuji didn't think he could miss his mom more, honestly—and he doesn't let himself miss her, typically. not proper. but in a world where he can't visit her grave, or pay respects to her portrait—it's indeed true, disturbingly, he can feel more empty than before.

still partially turned away, Midousuji extends his arm to take the bottle, and he drags it into his lap, between his thighs. he doesn't drink, yet. it's unclear if he intends to.]

Happiness. What it means to you.

Define that.

[again, intended as a question, but, er. presented poorly.]

[bloomly]

( it feels like the sort of thing that she's meant to be quiet for--so she does just that, sits with her legs folded together under the weight of the skirt of her dress, with her hands in her lap, with her gaze focused on the horizon which, rather than betray any hint of light, has become something so dark that it's starting to get impossible to see the lights of the city proper, in the distance, or maybe it's just that it's that late. she's never liked the sky: it's a terrifying thing, having that wide expanse of nothing stretched out above her; she's used to the metal shadow of the plates in midgar, to feeling neatly concealed, covered, as though nothing could swoop down and take her. troubled, her gaze falls to her lap.

the way he says it almost sounds like poetry. the words come out soft and slow, measured almost, by a meter that she doesn't know and likely he doesn't, either; the flow of his thoughts put to his tongue and then out in the air to be shared between them. she knows some of those feelings: some of them, but the rest are foreign, almost forlorn in a way that makes her want to reach out and touch him, but she hangs back. she doesn't want to interrupt him, doesn't want anything to get in the way of him getting this out.

a sad dream. mostly? not entirely. but it's like the way a book gets damp and the pages start to bleed into each other.

at least, with the way he's turned, she can lift her gaze to stare at him instead. it takes a lot of effort to hold herself back, but she does it out of respect for him, respect for his feelings, and her hands wring together in her lap, twisting her fingers over each wrist over and over. at least he's taken the bottle from her. )

Happiness? ( she blanches a little at that--only because it's a surprising question. )

...The people I love, smiling. Unharmed. The planet, healthy. Freedom, to make choices, for others to not be weighed down by fate or what's been decided for them. I don't know what some of these things are like, truly, but they would be happiness.

( there's a soft laugh, but she's looking down at her lap again. )

Do I make you happy?

( that's not the question she meant to ask, but it's the question the alcohol has her blurting out despite herself. )

[discarding]

[Midousuji is peering at the bottle with owlish curiosity, his behavior suggesting he's completely forgotten about the raw feelings and imagery of his dream of a memory, the stinging hollowness of being unable to find his mother's grave. that's one nice thing, at least; Midousuji doesn't stay stuck on a feeling for long. most of the time.]

That's right, [Midousuji confirms to Aerith's question, not looking at her, and he leans his long neck forward, giving the lip of the bottle another curious sniff—and he frowns so hard that the chords of his neck protrude, and he leans his head back. his long tongue extends when his neck relaxes, like one does when they've tasted something awful. he peers a wide eye down the barrel, and despite how he seems, he is indeed listening.]

I thought you said you didn't believe in fate, [is all Midousuji says as an indication that he's listening. he tips the bottle back, giving it another try, despite his revulsion prior. he's considering her answer—he thinks he agrees, with some of it. it's a shame the planet is doomed—his planet, anyway, in slow motion, but he's as unfeeling as the rest of the people who live on it are. he has freedom, he thinks. and there was almost no greater comfort than his mother's smile, even when it had become so tired. weary.

knowing, Midousuji thinks, in retrospect.

just as Midousuji swallows once, Aerith prompts her question, and his eyes widen—he nearly drops the bottle, setting it down hard, and sputters, choking on the alcohol as he clutches his hand over his mouth.

the audacity!! to ask a question like that! to someone like Midousuji, especially! especially especially when they haven't even known each other for very long! they haven't even spent time together more than three times!!

gagging, Midousuji rubs his throat, then wipes his mouth, an unflattering chord of drool hanging from his chin from his episode, throat burning. his eyes are watering from the sting of the alcohol, some of which he's pretty sure he's accidentally got into his nasal passages.

with a thin, subtle ring of tears clung to the bottom of his eyelids, still holding his neck, Midousuji peers at Aerith in affronted wonder.]

No, [he answers in a way that would be registered as too easily, had he not choked half to death first. he wipes his mouth, shuddering, his eyes rolling away.] But it's not because it's you. Not some reflection of you or your worth [a keyword Midousuji picked up today and intends to mindfully keep tucked away in his mental Aerith dossier] or character.

[it doesn't mean he doesn't like being around her. he does. but he's not there yet—the point of being able to admit that even privately.]

No one does, nothing does. It's been that way for years.

But I'm not unhappy either, so relax, [Midousuji shoots at her, dreading some dramatic, pitying reaction. he's just...empty. most of the time. but lately, the emptiness isn't simply a hollow; lately, it has its own gravitational pull. it's worse, in Aefenglom, with no shrine or grave to honor in his mother's wake, no goal line to cross. it's like that abyss now hungers, and Midousuji worries that Aerith is a casuality in its orbit. or maybe Midousuji's more worried he's the casuality, actually. he doesn't know what's happening, but he's been sensing a change. a pull.]

I get a redo. Asking something like that so abruptly... Nasty...

[Midousuji takes another bottle shot—and besides, he's also bigger. Midousuji shudders, then the tension in his body collapses, shoulders dropping as his tongue extends again.]

Gross... [he wipes his mouth again. it really tastes and feels terrible. but he's starting to feel it. kind of tingly. a little floaty. also kinda burny and gaggy, though. so far, his unfavorable opinion remains.

Midousuji taps his fingers on the bottle, debating his question that will prompt his passing of the bottle to Aerith.]

I'm starting to feel a little weird.

[bloomly]

( it should be exactly that: that it's not because of her worth, or her character, or really a reflection on her at all. but people are people because they're selfish, at times, because even someone who tries so hard to think of the people around her sometimes falters and thinks of herself; because he says no and her eyes go round, even as he continues, even as he meets expectations for the answer to a question she hadn't really meant to ask at all. and sure, normally she would laugh and tease and reach out to punch him in the shoulder, or to playfully declare that he's just lying to himself, rather than anything that's really true. but maybe it's the alcohol or maybe it's that tifa won't be coming back, that now she's left without the deflection of her existence here or the cushion of her friendship--either way she nods her chin, pretends to listen but all she really hears is no.

and gross. and that no one does, nothing does and her eyes go down to her lap, where the wrinkles in the skirt of her dress are stretched out with the way she has it draped over her legs. she shifts, moves to sit with her knees up, wraps her arms around them and then sets her chin to the top. )

I'm sure you could find something out there.

( she did, didn't she? once upon a time. but then that happy thing disappeared into eighty-something odd letters that could never be sent and never delivered; then her life fell into a series of habits that would only bring her closer to a glass room and the reminder of her mother's body, cut up into little pieces, and then after that, what? did they really even do away with fate? or is that why she's here to begin with?

her eyes swim a little, but it's not because of him. it's not even really that his answer was rude, simply honest, and she's fine with honest. but sitting on the roof of a strange house that she's struggled to make a home, in a strange city that she's struggled to make something exciting, with a stranger who probably wants nothing more than to climb back down and take his bike home--all that, and the alcohol? she's starting to feel a little weird, too. )

If you feel weird, that just means it's working. Drink more.

( a bright laugh that she musters up out of nowhere. )

And hand it over, you hog. Cheater.

[discarding]

[Midousuji glances at Aerith through the corner of his eyes, a little uncertain as to why, though the answer is that a part of him is a little bit nervous of displacing himself from Aerith from his unapproachability. not that he's realized it, nor could he admit it—but everyone has their limit with him, he thinks, and that's fine. being by himself is what he prefers.

but...

Midousuji's head tilts slowly, expression going from blank to sort of baffled.]

Ha??

No. I don't think so. Or maybe when I'm a lot older, and I win Tour de France. But I'm not betting on even that—it could be I'll just die like this, which is fine, as long as I accomplish my goal.

[he looks towards her as her chin sits atop her knees, and stares emptily, looking like he's searching for something. and he is. he's trying to diagnose how he's feeling, because he has no idea. the answer there is that he's a little worried—worried because he likes this person, which means he'll worry about her feelings by his actions and words (unfamiliar territory), and he'll worry about her feelings towards him.

he blinks, then sheepishly looks away. is she sad? she hasn't even confirmed that her friend is gone yet. is it because of him? anxiously, Midousuji picks off a few ribbony orange peels from his lap, piling them neatly beside him, still gripping the neck of the bottle. why is he feeling like this??? what is this feeling in the damn first place? is this because of the alcohol? what's it doing to him?? altering him? to what shape?? should he stop?

his mind sort of spirals until Aerith prompts him, and he whips his head up.]

—Wah... [Midousuji's eyes widen, snapped out of his train of thought, though he still boggles at nothing in particular. he blinks at the bottle, then at Aerith.]

You're right. That was your question.

[oops. he didn't mean to cheat. Midousuji says this in a way that indicates it hadn't occurred to him, so he gives her the bottle with an awkward thrust of a too-straight arm. Midousuji squints, head tilted and lips puckered as he tries to think of a question, awaiting Aerith's reception of the bottle.]

Do you...

[Midousuji's eyes are wide, arm still weirdly straight out, even if Aerith has taken the bottle by then; he doesn't seem to notice, probably because he's desperately looking anywhere else, and his mind is a buzzing, chaotic, anxious mess right now. he feels sweat bead on his cheek, despite the mild air, and his face feels a little hot. she hasn't even caught up, to have the drink that one awards themselves for asking a question, but he assumes once she's had her bottle shot, she'll hand it back to Midousuji for his question to rebalance.

but my, he feels. awfully off balance.]

...really... trust me?

[bloomly]

( he thrusts out the bottle to her like his arm is something mechanical, like he's pushed a button inside of himself to make it move rather than thought the movement into existence. her gaze lifts, follows the length of his arm curiously, from his wrist to his elbow to his shoulder, and when she looks at him, he's not nearly as indiscernible as he has been, before. is she starting to understand his patterns? to get to know him better? or is it the alcohol making her feel like she gets things that she has no idea about at all? he looks--oddly, almost troubled, as though his own thoughts are spiraling out of control, or perhaps he's thinking things or wanting to supplement his own words though she knows that he wouldn't do something like that. he says what he wants and it's always honest, at least as far as she's known, as far as she can tell.

she reaches with both hands, takes the bottle and gently pops it out of his mechanical arm grip.

for a moment she thinks maybe he isn't going to be able to get out a question, which is fine, and which means that she can prop the bottle up against her lips and try to weigh with how much more she thinks she can really handle versus how much more is left in the bottle; she should likely drink more than him, given that he doesn't drink much, but he's so tall, shouldn't that make a difference? he's thin, too, wiry but strong...

do you, he starts, and her eyes lift to watch him, the bottle pressed to her open mouth.

really trust me?

she doesn't take the drink, lowers the bottle with some amount of surprise. )

I do. ( it's an odd question, she thinks. perhaps he doesn't get trusted often. ) I think even if you don't like me, or don't want to be friends... If I got up and walked off the roof, you'd grab me before I could do it. If I told you a secret, you wouldn't tell anyone. If I were in trouble... You would help, if you were there. And I trust that you're honest with me, because that's the kind of person you are.

( a laugh, then--embarrassed, she brings the bottle up, takes a swallow, suffers, and then takes another swallow, before she holds the bottle out to him with her nose wrinkled, licking her lips. she might be at her limit soon, but she's not going to tell him that. )

I guess that sounds stupid from someone who barely knows you, right?