Midousuji is collapsed in his room when he receives the text, empty, body aching and buzzing, having barely survived his shower before collapsing on the futon he'd wisely set up before his last round of training. You'd think for all the empty-headed gazing, almost meditative, that Midousuji did, he would be more of a relaxed person. And with how hard he works. But as Ishigaki and many others have found, Midousuji betrays standard logic in many ways.
His eyes roll towards his phone, then away, staring back up at the ceiling, mouth slightly open. He debates ignoring it, as is often his won't, especially given that he's so physically depleted, picking up his phone sounds like a chore.
But distantly, in the back of his mind, like an anxious, burrowing worm, the idea that it might be Ishigaki makes him unable to put it out of his mind. So after about a minute, Midousuji, blank-faced despite the huge swell of irritation that goes through him, slowly turns his head towards his phone. And just as slowly, with a tired arm, he plucks it with his forefinger and thumb securely, poking at his screen to wake it back up.
It is Ishigaki.
The fluttering in his belly that follows makes Midousuji startle, and he drops his phone on his face with an undignified scream, scrambling his long, tired limbs. Then they all collapse at once, and he grumbles, rolling onto his belly as he lays his phone flat. Anxiously, hands folded in front of his chin before it, Midousuji's eyes widen, biting his lip as he peers over the message so he can properly read it.
Then he tilts his head, narrowing an eye. What the hell? What was the strategy of this stating the obvious?? What was Midousuji supposed to do with that?
He rolls his eyes, thinking, then texts back,
What, are you trying to invite me for a ride??
Be more direct, Ickygaki-kun
His tone betrays his feelings, which he can't worry about because he can barely even decipher them, as seems to be usual since winning Kyoto Fushimi's win at the Interhigh. At their onset, anyways. There's always troubling clarity, later. Those feelings, that tickle and agitate his senses, give Midousuji perturbed ...theories—concerns—about what's going on. Certainly, how he does away with those feelings to be rid of their nagging, swelling presence contributes to that. It's like those feelings guide his hand with resignation more than consent, and then his mind blares into a blaring, seering white—then back to nothing. Empty, and then sleep.
Gross.
Midousuji slaps his phone away, spinning it off the futon and onto the mat of his floor, and presses his forehead against his futon, folding his hands then over the top of his head as he groans at himself.
no subject
His eyes roll towards his phone, then away, staring back up at the ceiling, mouth slightly open. He debates ignoring it, as is often his won't, especially given that he's so physically depleted, picking up his phone sounds like a chore.
But distantly, in the back of his mind, like an anxious, burrowing worm, the idea that it might be Ishigaki makes him unable to put it out of his mind. So after about a minute, Midousuji, blank-faced despite the huge swell of irritation that goes through him, slowly turns his head towards his phone. And just as slowly, with a tired arm, he plucks it with his forefinger and thumb securely, poking at his screen to wake it back up.
It is Ishigaki.
The fluttering in his belly that follows makes Midousuji startle, and he drops his phone on his face with an undignified scream, scrambling his long, tired limbs. Then they all collapse at once, and he grumbles, rolling onto his belly as he lays his phone flat. Anxiously, hands folded in front of his chin before it, Midousuji's eyes widen, biting his lip as he peers over the message so he can properly read it.
Then he tilts his head, narrowing an eye. What the hell? What was the strategy of this stating the obvious?? What was Midousuji supposed to do with that?
He rolls his eyes, thinking, then texts back,
What, are you trying to invite me for a ride??
Be more direct, Ickygaki-kun
His tone betrays his feelings, which he can't worry about because he can barely even decipher them, as seems to be usual since winning Kyoto Fushimi's win at the Interhigh. At their onset, anyways. There's always troubling clarity, later. Those feelings, that tickle and agitate his senses, give Midousuji perturbed ...theories—concerns—about what's going on. Certainly, how he does away with those feelings to be rid of their nagging, swelling presence contributes to that. It's like those feelings guide his hand with resignation more than consent, and then his mind blares into a blaring, seering white—then back to nothing. Empty, and then sleep.
Gross.
Midousuji slaps his phone away, spinning it off the futon and onto the mat of his floor, and presses his forehead against his futon, folding his hands then over the top of his head as he groans at himself.