When Midousuji had gone home the morning after running into Ishigaki, his body and mind felt like they were buzzing the entire way. It was almost a familiar warmth—but it had a prickling charge to it, too. His mind was blank, and buzzing—but the buzzing felt loud. Ishigaki's face, his words, looped in his head.
When he finally had his own thoughts again, Midousuji was half way home. He stood with his leg kicked out to the side, staring blankly ahead of him, eyes unfocused. He wondered if this would be it. If this is the start of how they naturally begin to drift apart, just as Midousuji begins to covet his presence.
What an awful thing to do someone like Midousuji, he thinks, using his teeth to yank his glove more securely over his wrist—and continues onward.
The natural, obvious solution is to of course simply be more aggressive in asserting himself into Ishigaki's life. Make time. Communicate. But Midousuji's fondness terrifies him, and paralyzes him. It was a miracle he'd even managed to do the highly illogical and drastic measure of commuting all the way up to Tokyo just for a chance to see him—both extremely extra and immeasurably coy.
As Midousuji waits for the light to change, he thinks of Ishigaki's praise for his manner of speaking, fingers curling over his mouth as his eyes fall a little bit. People, from time to time, complimented the cadence of Midousuji's accent when they were feeling bold... but his particular manner of speaking, or how he chose to convey things... the last person who had complimented him for that sort of thing was the last person who ever really, really listened to Midousuji.
His heart clenches, and beneath his mask, he bites his lip, his ears burning again as he sets his pedal.
"Disgusting."
He kicks off the second the light lets him.
Once finally home, Midousuji carefully stores his bike where it belongs, where the memory of his mother pulls harder on his brain. The emptiness inside of him feels more needily vacant than usual, which makes Midousuji realize that for a moment, he'd forgotten his hollowness a little bit, maybe.
Scary.
Midousuji cleans up for bed, changes, rolls out his futon, and flops lifelessly onto his back. After about 20 minutes of staring into nothing, his mind a frenetic, disorganized replay of his day, Midousuji rolls onto his side, and he absently begins to pick at his lip.
What Midousuji was desiring was Ishigaki's nearness.
no subject
When he finally had his own thoughts again, Midousuji was half way home. He stood with his leg kicked out to the side, staring blankly ahead of him, eyes unfocused. He wondered if this would be it. If this is the start of how they naturally begin to drift apart, just as Midousuji begins to covet his presence.
What an awful thing to do someone like Midousuji, he thinks, using his teeth to yank his glove more securely over his wrist—and continues onward.
The natural, obvious solution is to of course simply be more aggressive in asserting himself into Ishigaki's life. Make time. Communicate. But Midousuji's fondness terrifies him, and paralyzes him. It was a miracle he'd even managed to do the highly illogical and drastic measure of commuting all the way up to Tokyo just for a chance to see him—both extremely extra and immeasurably coy.
As Midousuji waits for the light to change, he thinks of Ishigaki's praise for his manner of speaking, fingers curling over his mouth as his eyes fall a little bit. People, from time to time, complimented the cadence of Midousuji's accent when they were feeling bold... but his particular manner of speaking, or how he chose to convey things... the last person who had complimented him for that sort of thing was the last person who ever really, really listened to Midousuji.
His heart clenches, and beneath his mask, he bites his lip, his ears burning again as he sets his pedal.
"Disgusting."
He kicks off the second the light lets him.
Once finally home, Midousuji carefully stores his bike where it belongs, where the memory of his mother pulls harder on his brain. The emptiness inside of him feels more needily vacant than usual, which makes Midousuji realize that for a moment, he'd forgotten his hollowness a little bit, maybe.
Scary.
Midousuji cleans up for bed, changes, rolls out his futon, and flops lifelessly onto his back. After about 20 minutes of staring into nothing, his mind a frenetic, disorganized replay of his day, Midousuji rolls onto his side, and he absently begins to pick at his lip.
What Midousuji was desiring was Ishigaki's nearness.
That just wasn't fair.