“Shut up. You haven’t seen crap,” Midousuji spits, but of course, he’s referring to his athletic prowess. Yes, their race isn’t to be truly serious—not true competition—but Midousuji intends to not only size Ishigaki up, but to punish him with his performance.
And so, once they get to their destination, Midousuji does.
And when their series of test races are over, Midousuji hangs his head heavily over his handlebars, breathing so heavily that he heaves in wheezing gasps, eyes wide and limbs shakily unstable as he watches the asphalt below him pelt in dark spots from his pouring sweat, his broad, bony ribs expanding strenuously with his every inhale through his ragged, dry throat. Yes, he’d pushed too hard. Yes, he’d pulled too far away.
Midousuji had raced from Ishigaki like if Ishigaki could catch him, it might kill Midousuji. He’d come here—had been vying—shamefully so, thirsting for Ishigaki. But the panic seized him, propelled him, and he performed too hard.
Ishigaki had touched his back to check with Midousuji, saying nothing, and Midousuji’s gaze, nor body, moved, simply gulping in exhaustion for air. He did not feel empty. His body thrummed, overworked and anxious, and Midousuji finally, nervously, glanced at Ishigaki.
Midousuji’s heart jumped into his throat, and he worried, or perhaps, unacceptingly, had briefly realized, that he was, indeed, in love with Ishigaki. Midousuji, after that last hang out session, had tried to enact some space for the sake of self preservation. In fact, everything after that panic (the very same day) had been disturbingly savored, even though Midousuji had tried to put distance in his heart from between the two of them. And of course, all due to how disquieting that same potential realization at its inception had been, but by the very nature of that same epiphany, he’d been unable to do anything in that time but bask helplessly in the sparkle of Ishigaki’s stupid, over-eager eyes.
Even on the ride home from the train station, Midousuji’s hands clenched too hard on the drop-bars of his bike’s handles so as to quell their nervy tremors, Midousuji had thought about how even before he gets home, he’ll probably already be starving for Ishigaki’s company.
It’s not to say he hadn’t been somewhat aware of his feelings going in, but the recklessness of his self indulgence (against his typically-better judgement) had opened up the box a little too much, revealing what Midousuji wasn’t prepared to properly face.
And that was a humiliating feeling.
He was, after all, little, if not but a remarkable strategist. Prepared for anything, including devastating emotional blowback. But this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Sure, he’d loved before—but not this way. Something he’d never even thought about had suddenly found him and thrust his back up against the wall using its clawed, hostile hand against his throat as his feet scrambled for purchase uselessly against the wall behind him, hopeless to touch the floor.
Fuck.
All that said, however, Midousuji couldn’t resist. He did reach out less; he did try less. The dizzying high of his most important and monumental victory yet had left him in an incalibrated way. It had made him vulnerable; had made him foolish. He thought of Ishigaki no less, but gave far less into the temptation to quell that longing fist-over-dick, or to let his thoughts stick on the object of his affection for more than a passing consideration. And sure, that diminished the duration—it successfully did not deepen the root of that feeling in the inspiration of its inception, but that didn’t cease their merciless onslaught by frequency.
So while it curbed his desire to reach out tremendously overall, that did not, all said, totally keep Midousuji from the hunger for Ishigaki’s company, nearness, warmth and voice that ultimately would result in Midousuji reaching out. And indeed, disgustingly, to his own chagrin and furious disgust with himself, he did see Ishigaki a couple more times.
Their subsequent sessions together were just regular, and lowkey—Midousuji thinks, anyway. He knows Ishigaki is inappropriately invested in Midousuji, in a way that borders on perverse—but not in the way that’s inappropriate or perverse in the specific way he internally desires with such violent fervor. He’s a martyr, and a martyr is just, and only, one thing: a moral pervert. He has stakes in Midousuji, because he knows Midousuji is different—and unlike other gross, beautiful, capable and normal people, Ishigaki not only sees that, but also sees Midousuji for his humanity. Sees him as a person. And that’s why, increasingly, Midousuji can’t not return the hold of that stupid, sparkly gaze, too spurred by the depth of his own growing appetite. It made his body ache deep, painfully and hard, like when one is desperately dehydrated—but so too, it made his mouth water; it sprung tension in every (every) part of his body; it made his heart pound in stress, excitement and fear. All of it wrapped in the bow that dictated why he couldn’t bear to look anywhere else.
Ishigaki. Ishigaki.
Increasingly frustrated, Midousuji now lays rolled flat on his face, arms and legs too straight parallel to his torso, eyes open, horrifyingly, against the fabric of his too-stiff, thin pillow, barely able to breathe through his snake-like, narrow nose. And he doesn’t even notice either of those discomforts, and he hasn’t noticed, as a matter of fact, for the better part of at least 26 minutes.
He’s never quite encountered this—a problem that he can’t solve. And being paralyzed by all this is better than the alternative, that alternative being picking up his phone, and brazenly, perhaps most disgustingly of all, despite the fact that it was 10:13 pm (Midousuji knew this, despite not moving; he’d been counting every second since falling face down on his bed for the sake of not letting his brain do anything besides seconds-counting), dialing Ishigaki. He’d have nothing to say. There’s nothing to report. No plans to make. And if he wanted to make plans, it’s too late to do that. Sure, there’s about a 62% chance Ishigaki would be awake, but that isn’t the problem. The problem is the principle of that desire and impulse. The problem is it would reveal Midousuji’s eagerness, which he’s increasingly desperate to mask, but also increasingly, desperately crushed by the weight of the growing boulder in question that he’s trying to push up hill.
He’s like a stupid little dung beetle that’s challenged a turd too big out of its own brainless, instinct-driven greed.
His fingers twitch, and he rasps hoarsely through his throat, almost in subconscious reflex to the fact that he’s barely been able to breathe for almost 30 minutes, and his knuckles brush his phone.
Even a text is out of the question.
Midousuji bites his tongue, expression twisting with tension wrought by stress, the wet of the muscle drying against the same fabric that disturbingly presses against his eyes.
Most baffling of all was that apparently people experienced this—often—much earlier than Midousuji has, and between that age and Midousuji’s age, perhaps many times. And most horrifyingly of all, people typically enjoy this?
Midousuji’s maybe googled how to enact a trans orbital lobotomy one or nine times to see if he can eject his desire and the other associated feelings more gentle and humiliating than their biologically carnal and utilitarian expressions.
The thrill of how Ishigaki had successfully aided in Midousuji and enacted a type of growth Midousuji never would have known he needed organically had masked the consideration of this terror. The terror of being in love. How much further did he need to be altered, and to what end? Ishigaki is a source of strength, certifiably!, but Midousuji can’t be reliant on it, either. And love does nothing but blur people right the fuck out of their priorities, self understanding, identities, and clarity.
“Ickygakiiiiiii-kunnn,” Midousuji scours out roughly, muffled against his bedding.
no subject
And so, once they get to their destination, Midousuji does.
And when their series of test races are over, Midousuji hangs his head heavily over his handlebars, breathing so heavily that he heaves in wheezing gasps, eyes wide and limbs shakily unstable as he watches the asphalt below him pelt in dark spots from his pouring sweat, his broad, bony ribs expanding strenuously with his every inhale through his ragged, dry throat. Yes, he’d pushed too hard. Yes, he’d pulled too far away.
Midousuji had raced from Ishigaki like if Ishigaki could catch him, it might kill Midousuji. He’d come here—had been vying—shamefully so, thirsting for Ishigaki. But the panic seized him, propelled him, and he performed too hard.
Ishigaki had touched his back to check with Midousuji, saying nothing, and Midousuji’s gaze, nor body, moved, simply gulping in exhaustion for air. He did not feel empty. His body thrummed, overworked and anxious, and Midousuji finally, nervously, glanced at Ishigaki.
Midousuji’s heart jumped into his throat, and he worried, or perhaps, unacceptingly, had briefly realized, that he was, indeed, in love with Ishigaki.
Midousuji, after that last hang out session, had tried to enact some space for the sake of self preservation. In fact, everything after that panic (the very same day) had been disturbingly savored, even though Midousuji had tried to put distance in his heart from between the two of them. And of course, all due to how disquieting that same potential realization at its inception had been, but by the very nature of that same epiphany, he’d been unable to do anything in that time but bask helplessly in the sparkle of Ishigaki’s stupid, over-eager eyes.
Even on the ride home from the train station, Midousuji’s hands clenched too hard on the drop-bars of his bike’s handles so as to quell their nervy tremors, Midousuji had thought about how even before he gets home, he’ll probably already be starving for Ishigaki’s company.
It’s not to say he hadn’t been somewhat aware of his feelings going in, but the recklessness of his self indulgence (against his typically-better judgement) had opened up the box a little too much, revealing what Midousuji wasn’t prepared to properly face.
And that was a humiliating feeling.
He was, after all, little, if not but a remarkable strategist. Prepared for anything, including devastating emotional blowback. But this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Sure, he’d loved before—but not this way. Something he’d never even thought about had suddenly found him and thrust his back up against the wall using its clawed, hostile hand against his throat as his feet scrambled for purchase uselessly against the wall behind him, hopeless to touch the floor.
Fuck.
All that said, however, Midousuji couldn’t resist. He did reach out less; he did try less. The dizzying high of his most important and monumental victory yet had left him in an incalibrated way. It had made him vulnerable; had made him foolish. He thought of Ishigaki no less, but gave far less into the temptation to quell that longing fist-over-dick, or to let his thoughts stick on the object of his affection for more than a passing consideration. And sure, that diminished the duration—it successfully did not deepen the root of that feeling in the inspiration of its inception, but that didn’t cease their merciless onslaught by frequency.
So while it curbed his desire to reach out tremendously overall, that did not, all said, totally keep Midousuji from the hunger for Ishigaki’s company, nearness, warmth and voice that ultimately would result in Midousuji reaching out. And indeed, disgustingly, to his own chagrin and furious disgust with himself, he did see Ishigaki a couple more times.
Their subsequent sessions together were just regular, and lowkey—Midousuji thinks, anyway. He knows Ishigaki is inappropriately invested in Midousuji, in a way that borders on perverse—but not in the way that’s inappropriate or perverse in the specific way he internally desires with such violent fervor. He’s a martyr, and a martyr is just, and only, one thing: a moral pervert. He has stakes in Midousuji, because he knows Midousuji is different—and unlike other gross, beautiful, capable and normal people, Ishigaki not only sees that, but also sees Midousuji for his humanity. Sees him as a person. And that’s why, increasingly, Midousuji can’t not return the hold of that stupid, sparkly gaze, too spurred by the depth of his own growing appetite. It made his body ache deep, painfully and hard, like when one is desperately dehydrated—but so too, it made his mouth water; it sprung tension in every (every) part of his body; it made his heart pound in stress, excitement and fear. All of it wrapped in the bow that dictated why he couldn’t bear to look anywhere else.
Ishigaki. Ishigaki.
Increasingly frustrated, Midousuji now lays rolled flat on his face, arms and legs too straight parallel to his torso, eyes open, horrifyingly, against the fabric of his too-stiff, thin pillow, barely able to breathe through his snake-like, narrow nose. And he doesn’t even notice either of those discomforts, and he hasn’t noticed, as a matter of fact, for the better part of at least 26 minutes.
He’s never quite encountered this—a problem that he can’t solve. And being paralyzed by all this is better than the alternative, that alternative being picking up his phone, and brazenly, perhaps most disgustingly of all, despite the fact that it was 10:13 pm (Midousuji knew this, despite not moving; he’d been counting every second since falling face down on his bed for the sake of not letting his brain do anything besides seconds-counting), dialing Ishigaki. He’d have nothing to say. There’s nothing to report. No plans to make. And if he wanted to make plans, it’s too late to do that. Sure, there’s about a 62% chance Ishigaki would be awake, but that isn’t the problem. The problem is the principle of that desire and impulse. The problem is it would reveal Midousuji’s eagerness, which he’s increasingly desperate to mask, but also increasingly, desperately crushed by the weight of the growing boulder in question that he’s trying to push up hill.
He’s like a stupid little dung beetle that’s challenged a turd too big out of its own brainless, instinct-driven greed.
His fingers twitch, and he rasps hoarsely through his throat, almost in subconscious reflex to the fact that he’s barely been able to breathe for almost 30 minutes, and his knuckles brush his phone.
Even a text is out of the question.
Midousuji bites his tongue, expression twisting with tension wrought by stress, the wet of the muscle drying against the same fabric that disturbingly presses against his eyes.
Most baffling of all was that apparently people experienced this—often—much earlier than Midousuji has, and between that age and Midousuji’s age, perhaps many times. And most horrifyingly of all, people typically enjoy this?
Midousuji’s maybe googled how to enact a trans orbital lobotomy one or nine times to see if he can eject his desire and the other associated feelings more gentle and humiliating than their biologically carnal and utilitarian expressions.
The thrill of how Ishigaki had successfully aided in Midousuji and enacted a type of growth Midousuji never would have known he needed organically had masked the consideration of this terror. The terror of being in love. How much further did he need to be altered, and to what end? Ishigaki is a source of strength, certifiably!, but Midousuji can’t be reliant on it, either. And love does nothing but blur people right the fuck out of their priorities, self understanding, identities, and clarity.
“Ickygakiiiiiii-kunnn,” Midousuji scours out roughly, muffled against his bedding.