Midousuji peeks up from his hands when he hears his phone buzz, then makes a strange, high pitched but gravelly sound of frustration, grinding his face back into his pillow, fingers yanking at his hair—it's since collapsed from it's plasma-ball uni stage into a shaggy affair not too dissimilar from when he first joined Kyoto Fushimi, though he's at least point cut the bangs a little shorter to keep it out of his eyes. But right now, he just wants to tear it all out.

His heart thuds heavily, teeth pinching a mouthful of the fabric, resentful and embarrassed of his fitful internal reactions. He can't just respond to Ishigaki's texts right away... Doesn't want to seem eager. He needs to maintain some air of being aloof where he still can. It's bad enough that they're spending time with each other with no particular ulterior motive... or at least, that's what this would be.

In theory.

Midousuji raises his head, eyes half lid and rolled up, looking exasperated. He extends his arm to snatch his phone back up, and his eyes widen with eager curiousity the second his phone's in front of him again. He drops it, typing up his response with both of his extended index fingers as his phone lays flat before him again.

sure, that's fine by me. Wouldn't be bad to see how your form's shaped up, if at all, since you're an opponent now

Midousuji bites his lip, eyes wide and staring to nothing in particular as he tilts his head, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his cheek. Then he snaps his gaze back to his phone, and gets back to typing.

when do you wanna do this or whatever