Midousuji blinks when Ishigaki ends the conversation, or so he sets into queue. Maybe he wasn’t clear that he was prompting for a question, but Midousuji, in immediate retrospect, appreciates that misunderstanding. He chooses not to respond to Ishigaki’s confirmation, and rolls onto his side, eyes wide as he absently pulls on his lower lip, fingerips resting idly against the straight lines of his orderly teeth. It’ll give him time to know how to phrase his question, should he get the gumption to ask so impulsively again. He had no idea going in, with that prompting—just the weary, reactionary curiosity. Midousuji blinks again, slowly, and backhands his phone away again, his knees raising as his chin tucks towards his collarbones.
It’s a bit beyond his usual schedule, but Midousuji eventually falls asleep. And in his dreams, even more incomprehensibly, his head is full of all of the same.
————————-
Midousuji is always punctual. So is the same for Ishigaki’s arrival—despite the anxious, and agitating nature of the feeling that encloses Midousuji tight, it’s easy to dismiss per the design of that consistent trait of his, non-contingent to Ishigaki in particular.
But!
He is not about to haunt expectingly around the train cars. No, that would be gross—Midousuji instead, despite his consuming presence and tall posture, sits hunched at a bench, his knees widely spaced to accommodate the long length of his legs. But it’s the timing that eventually makes Midousuji lift his head, and not because of any indication of Ishigaki’s arrival. The humiliation of standing too early glues him to his seat for a couple of minutes, staring bleakly, forward, without focus. But sitting there forever is just as bad, so eventually, slowly, like his joints are rusted, Midousuji comes to a stand.
Funnily, Midousuji spots Ishigaki before Ishigaki spots him. His irises detract somewhat in size, and he feels that charging, warm feeling surge through him, the energy uncomfortable as it is invigorating, which causes Midousuji's hands to anxiously curl into tense fists for the way that the tingling uncomfortably seers to his fingertips.
Midousuji drags his lumbering gait forward, surprisingly silent despite his imposing posture, and he leans, innocently, into Ishigaki's space from behind, pulling down his mask with a careful hook of his finger.
"Ishigaki-kun," he prompts again, peering at him owlishly, doing well to ignore how his heart rate tries to escalate for the similar scent of Ishigaki's products.
no subject
It’s a bit beyond his usual schedule, but Midousuji eventually falls asleep. And in his dreams, even more incomprehensibly, his head is full of all of the same.
————————-
Midousuji is always punctual. So is the same for Ishigaki’s arrival—despite the anxious, and agitating nature of the feeling that encloses Midousuji tight, it’s easy to dismiss per the design of that consistent trait of his, non-contingent to Ishigaki in particular.
But!
He is not about to haunt expectingly around the train cars. No, that would be gross—Midousuji instead, despite his consuming presence and tall posture, sits hunched at a bench, his knees widely spaced to accommodate the long length of his legs. But it’s the timing that eventually makes Midousuji lift his head, and not because of any indication of Ishigaki’s arrival. The humiliation of standing too early glues him to his seat for a couple of minutes, staring bleakly, forward, without focus. But sitting there forever is just as bad, so eventually, slowly, like his joints are rusted, Midousuji comes to a stand.
Funnily, Midousuji spots Ishigaki before Ishigaki spots him. His irises detract somewhat in size, and he feels that charging, warm feeling surge through him, the energy uncomfortable as it is invigorating, which causes Midousuji's hands to anxiously curl into tense fists for the way that the tingling uncomfortably seers to his fingertips.
Midousuji drags his lumbering gait forward, surprisingly silent despite his imposing posture, and he leans, innocently, into Ishigaki's space from behind, pulling down his mask with a careful hook of his finger.
"Ishigaki-kun," he prompts again, peering at him owlishly, doing well to ignore how his heart rate tries to escalate for the similar scent of Ishigaki's products.
He's close. It's nice.