Midousuji's posture suddenly whips back, both of his hands on his face, yanking down on his eyelids as he grits his teeth. His mask gets jostled, and when Midousuji's spine twists, like his waist has a ball-joint, back to... kind of normal, he's still leaned away from Ishigaki—his mask is clumsily yanked back up over his face, eyes rolled with tremendous strain, trying to obscure the subtle touch of heat that's come to his face.
His other hand shoves Ishigaki's face again, and Midousuji reverse-hisses, the sound almost a croak, like a dying man's final inhale through a crushed trachea. Dramatic Bitch rising with a Goofy-Ass moon.
"Do you listen to yourself?! Won't let that happen..."
Midousuji has ejected himself, immediately, upon the tiniest spark, far away from the feeling of relief. He doesn't want Ishigaki to drift away. Midousuji thinks it's strange, though, to hold onto Midousuji like that... Ishigaki had got what he wanted, hadn't he?
—Although...wait.
Midousuji's dark, lightless eyes snap suddenly on Ishigaki, peering down his chin at the older college student.
It was... nationals, right? National championship.
"I do believe you, though," Midousuji says slowly, eyes narrowing. His arm drops in a heavy dangle, beginning to walk again, his tongue descending beneath his mask, and he rolls his neck back and to the side. "You've already demonstrated you aren't easy to get rid of..."
Shit. There it is again. The—the way it feels like he's developing some kind of congenital heart disease. Like he's gonna die on the spot from the same thing that took his mother. But Midousuji knows it's not illness.
"I feel like I did almost everything I could, already."
As they walk, Midousuji's gaze shies away again, and he fidgets the positioning of his bag.
"...Hana...matsu... Maybe..."
Conversational transition? What is that. Don't know her.
no subject
Midousuji's posture suddenly whips back, both of his hands on his face, yanking down on his eyelids as he grits his teeth. His mask gets jostled, and when Midousuji's spine twists, like his waist has a ball-joint, back to... kind of normal, he's still leaned away from Ishigaki—his mask is clumsily yanked back up over his face, eyes rolled with tremendous strain, trying to obscure the subtle touch of heat that's come to his face.
His other hand shoves Ishigaki's face again, and Midousuji reverse-hisses, the sound almost a croak, like a dying man's final inhale through a crushed trachea. Dramatic Bitch rising with a Goofy-Ass moon.
"Do you listen to yourself?! Won't let that happen..."
Midousuji has ejected himself, immediately, upon the tiniest spark, far away from the feeling of relief. He doesn't want Ishigaki to drift away. Midousuji thinks it's strange, though, to hold onto Midousuji like that... Ishigaki had got what he wanted, hadn't he?
—Although...wait.
Midousuji's dark, lightless eyes snap suddenly on Ishigaki, peering down his chin at the older college student.
It was... nationals, right? National championship.
"I do believe you, though," Midousuji says slowly, eyes narrowing. His arm drops in a heavy dangle, beginning to walk again, his tongue descending beneath his mask, and he rolls his neck back and to the side. "You've already demonstrated you aren't easy to get rid of..."
Shit. There it is again. The—the way it feels like he's developing some kind of congenital heart disease. Like he's gonna die on the spot from the same thing that took his mother. But Midousuji knows it's not illness.
"I feel like I did almost everything I could, already."
As they walk, Midousuji's gaze shies away again, and he fidgets the positioning of his bag.
"...Hana...matsu... Maybe..."
Conversational transition? What is that. Don't know her.