"Grooooss!! Gross! Gross!!" Midousuji snaps loudly at Ishigaki with a sudden snap of his neck in Ishigaki's direction, yanking down his mask expressly to give Ishigaki a hostile snap of his teeth, eyes walled and pupils slanted. His are heckles fully raised the second Ishigaki addresses the fact that, yes, Midousuji does think about him that much. A lot. Almost constantly, in the last year or so.
Then Midousuji reels back a little, his snarl turning into a disquieted frown, looking almost horrified. Ishigaki's face... Why is it pink!! Stupid, gross pink!
And indeed, expression flashing back to furious, Midousuji almost snatches Ishigaki's face in a harsh, single-hand grip; his shoulder lurches in preparation, his arm muscles tensing, and he makes another stupefied expression. His hand reels back, fingers curling gayly by his chin, like he'd almost touched something covered in ants.
"Leaning on me..." Midousuji yanks his mask up, the line of it across his face a little crooked, eyes narrow as he glares away, brow gnarled for no particular reason. He grinds his teeth behind his mask. "Don't be ridiculous. You aren't leaning on me at all."
That's right. Midousuji was pulling for a team Ishigaki cared for—but it wasn't like Midousuji had anything to support for Ishigaki, anymore. He was the blood of all of Kyoto Fushimi, so of course Ishigaki was relying on him.
There's nothing to rely on, now. Midousuji's perspective was a paradigm conduit of sorts, perhaps, but with such casual touch-and-go, infrequent contact... how did that have any weight?
Midousuji jumps with a startled hiss when he feels Ishigaki's elbow in his ribs, then his eyes widen; his long arms shoot up like he's seen a spider (in a world where Midousuji is afraid of things like bugs), one of them akimbo. That—he—
Frankly, he doesn't know what to do with that. Midousuji smashes his gloved palm against the side of Ishigaki's face, shoving him very unnecessarily away with a screech. It's subtle, thanks to his crooked mask, but Midousuji's face is just a bit warm—the tips of his ears give him away, though.
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Then Midousuji reels back a little, his snarl turning into a disquieted frown, looking almost horrified. Ishigaki's face... Why is it pink!! Stupid, gross pink!
And indeed, expression flashing back to furious, Midousuji almost snatches Ishigaki's face in a harsh, single-hand grip; his shoulder lurches in preparation, his arm muscles tensing, and he makes another stupefied expression. His hand reels back, fingers curling
gaylyby his chin, like he'd almost touched something covered in ants."Leaning on me..." Midousuji yanks his mask up, the line of it across his face a little crooked, eyes narrow as he glares away, brow gnarled for no particular reason. He grinds his teeth behind his mask. "Don't be ridiculous. You aren't leaning on me at all."
That's right. Midousuji was pulling for a team Ishigaki cared for—but it wasn't like Midousuji had anything to support for Ishigaki, anymore. He was the blood of all of Kyoto Fushimi, so of course Ishigaki was relying on him.
There's nothing to rely on, now. Midousuji's perspective was a paradigm conduit of sorts, perhaps, but with such casual touch-and-go, infrequent contact... how did that have any weight?
Midousuji jumps with a startled hiss when he feels Ishigaki's elbow in his ribs, then his eyes widen; his long arms shoot up like he's seen a spider (in a world where Midousuji is afraid of things like bugs), one of them akimbo. That—he—
Frankly, he doesn't know what to do with that. Midousuji smashes his gloved palm against the side of Ishigaki's face, shoving him very unnecessarily away with a screech. It's subtle, thanks to his crooked mask, but Midousuji's face is just a bit warm—the tips of his ears give him away, though.
"Stop ittt!!! Ishigaki-kun! Nasty!!"