for gamanyeah

[discarding]

For months, Midousuji had pushed himself as hard as he could.

Physically, of course, but there were other limits to experiment with. Less comfortable, less familiar. Midousuji Akira has never been against doing whatever he has to to win, including fighting dirty—deploying sabotage, instigating physical harm, forcing himself beyond his own limits to the point of injury time and time again... but included, a stone unturned, was what Midousuji had considered to be unfathomable. The worst thing—the thing he scoffed at and mocked the most. Connections with other people. Deriving strength from them.

Funnily, the person who Midousuji would be, traditionally, most apt to ignore, had instead somehow became the one person he found he'd listen to—quietly, without acknowledgement, but it came to that none-the-less. Someone whose presence he could sense even when he was out cold, and sometimes, someone whose voice would leak around and into the crevices of his mind like sticky, honey-sweet and vile ichor in that same state.

Ishigaki told Midousuji what his weakness was, and initially, Midousuji could barely recall. And once it came around to him, turning in his brain, his blood boiled with anger—because Ishigaki—always there, persistent, whether Midousuji wanted it or liked it or not—not only because he trusted Ishigaki's word, but because his advice and criticism were from such a place of human standard that Midousuji couldn't relate to. Couldn't understand. Who could he rely on? For whom could he possibly find inspiration to pull? How was tying your strengths into the wills of other people, with emptier weight and less stake in the game, supposed to make you stronger?

But Midousuji, nonetheless, toiled towards this goal, and hated every second of it—it was like breaking his every bone by hand himself, and splinting, forcing them to regrow incorrectly. And through the entire process, his thoughts furiously turned, burning around Ishigaki. He hadn't even realized that Ishigaki, at that point, had been his most trusted resource; the source of what would be the deciding factor to his goal.

What he was relying on.

And, in turn, what gave him strength; Midousuji's eyes were wide, almost in disbelief when he'd not only passed the finish line in first on the third day of the 43rd, and, Midousuji's final, Interhigh. By his own merits, to no one's surprise, of course including Midousuji's, he'd taken a victory for Kyofushi in the first day, dominating the sprint course. Midousuji had always placed well. But with that missing piece finally in place, mind and body numb and buzzing, Midousuji had taken the final victory he'd so sought after. The victory that was his make or break—the piece to be taken and settled, to determine if he'd continue as pro, and to in turn, some day, work towards Tour de France.

It was true that Midousuji had struggled, with success, to put more trust in place of his team, still strictly trained and regimented as ever... but primarily, he'd been pulling because of Ishigaki. With his head stuffed to capacity with thoughts of him. Inadvertently, though it nauseated Midousuji to acknowledge it, Ishigaki had been the reason why he pulled, and had been the one who shaped Midousuji to his final form. The victor.

Kyoto Fushimi had talked amongst themselves about their surprise regarding Midousuji's reaction—the look of disbelief. And it did seem strange—Midousuji was confident, and self assured. But they misdiagnosed the nature of his surprise. It wasn't the victory itself, but more its reason.

And that reason was Ishigaki.

Once passed finish, Midousuji's arms fell heavily after his triumphant, ecstatic posing, his elbows bruising against the handlebars of his bike. In disbelief, his head hung, jaw slung slightly open, his lungs burning as he panted heavily through a dry, sore throat, watching as his sweat pelt his shaking arms. He was spent—empty, totally drained, as always, since he always pushed himself to or past his limits... but there was something else present that day.

Midousuji felt he could barely walk, though it was more than exhaustion—he managed to get over his stupified shock with a snap of his teeth (after some time of his team wondering in hushed, worried mumbling if he was okay, having expected he'd be more excited for their win), all grins after that. And to his surprise, though he didn't want to belabor the fact, he was proud of them, too. Also a bit of an unusual feeling—but Midousuji was able to assuage his nerves about it, because evolution was the only way to ensure victory. This just wasn't a form he was used to. They were just feelings he'd never felt, before.

And that numbing, preoccupying buzzing in his head about Ishigaki didn't cease that night. Midousuji barely slept, staring off into the darkness aimlessly for hours, despite his exhaustion. It carried on that way for weeks, actually.

Here and there, days and nights, Midousuji had found himself distantly fussing about it. Ishigaki was in Tokyo, and he'd soon be graduating. He might have returned to Kyoto, at that point, and Midousuji felt queasy at the way the thought made his heart stutter and his stomach lurch, unable to recognize it as a sort of excitement inspired by hope. He just quantified it as what he could understand: a gross distraction. His instinct to things like that, given that they're 1) uncomfortable, and most unforgivably, 2) distracting, had always been to amputate them at their inception. Keep his heart cold and comfortable, but he knew now that wasn't beneficial to his growth.

Yes, evolution had gotten more of his attention and care as a goal than growth, and in this time frame after the 43rd Interhigh, Midousuji realized this. Emptily, distracted, Midousuji went through the motions of his graduation, of exams, and realized without that amputation, to rid himself of the preoccupation... there had to be some kind of action. With Ishigaki. His unexpected trump card, and unexpected resource of strength. The person who'd earned his respect. Midousuji had initially been dismissive of him, since he seemed so standard on the surface—someone beautiful to the point of being unremarkable, someone charming, sensitive, and all the rest of Midousuji that he holds in contempt as the antithesis to his own design.

But gradually, Midousuji realized other things—that no matter what, whether he likes it or not, Ishigaki can, and will, see Midousuji. And since his late mother, no one else ever has. Not only did Ishigaki see Midousuji, but he persisted in pursuit of Midousuji's benefit. Not only all of that nonsense, but Ishigaki was actually sharp. He was analytical, and Midousuji finally realized, at the end of the day, he couldn't argue with Ishigaki's logic; they both wanted the same thing, and they both, disturbingly, had similar versions of the same perspective.

Strangely, it's come to the point where Ishigaki just makes sense. Which is why Midousuji is currently in his fourth week of hissing through his teeth, smacking his head against walls, rubbing his dry palms excessively in speed and force across his face, screaming—whenever his mind works itself up into enough of a frenzy about it. About him. This is compounded by the gradually dawning realization that after all that realization, the occupying of his head...

If Ishigaki doesn't go pro, or if Ishigaki doesn't decide to stay in Kyoto, what reason is Midousuji really going to have to see him again? The real answer is that you can hit people up you like for any reason and hang out with them and that's acceptable and normal, but Midousuji is in such unfamiliar territory around that concept, and also so disgusted by himself for it, that this plain, basic social knowledge is completely out of his reach for consideration.

He's thought about it, of course—but he doesn't know how to broach it, much less what his own feelings around it even are. Even looking at Ishigaki's name in his contact list just sends him into a fit, so there's just simply no progress to be had there.

So... instead, not that Midousuji thinks it's a better idea to just... lurk around Tokyo, like some skittish ghoul deadset on haunting what he doesn't comprehend to be his object of boyish infatuation. Midousuji is clumsy, and more than simply standout—he's aware he has no scope of stealth. He's tall enough to stand out in a crowd, distinctly broad-shouldered, and with a face and expression so uniquely vacant and haunting that there's probably only one other person with the same features, being his genetic contributor who he's never met.

So Midousuji keeps distance, peering from behind walls or things like poles, trying to keep his posture low in a hunch where his height may be too conspicuous...

His intention was to meet up with Ishigaki by chance, having some vague idea of his usual haunts and habits from social media (of which Midousuji has vague, blank accounts, and no activity)... but then, having seen Ishigaki, confirming his brilliant, strategic thinking, Midousuji was immediately so overwhelmed by nerves and disgust that he couldn't just approach Ishigaki. He hadn't thought about how to pull it off as incidental. And honestly, having no idea of how to pull that off, Midousuji had thought he could just assertively approach him without such pretense...

...but all at once, just immediately, so uncharacteristically, every ounce of his nerve had left him.

Midousuji doesn't recognize himself, and it's Ishigaki's fault. Midousuji squints resentfully at the back of Ishigaki's head, tucked behind a phone pole semi-conspicuously, partially obscured with the addition of other visual clutter that can be expected on the busy streets of Tokyo, near Ishigaki's apartment. To which he's never been. But he knows the area, based on stalking observation.

How gross... So gradually, reaching inside of Midousuji, so subtly manipulating his insides that Midousuji didn't even notice, changing him... He feels a little angry about it, but knows he can't be ungrateful; he got what he wanted, which was victory.

So what else is it, then? What is he doing?? What exactly does he want?

Stupid Ishigaki.

"Groossssssss," he exhales slowly in a low, almost inaudible rasp.

Comments

[gamanyeah]

Ishigaki steps out of his apartment, coffee gripped in his hand, unmindfully making his way down the stairs. The noise of cars and taxis flying past in the distance is deafening, and his head throbs. It was finals week, and with the aid of caffeine and cold showers between cramming, he managed to make it through another night.

A car alarm going off near the neighboring building snaps him back to reality for a moment. With heavy eyelids, he scans the street in front of him. Sometimes in desperation, like in this moment, he finds himself searching the crowds in Tokyo in hopes to find a face- architecture- anything he could recognize. But there was nothing. Not a single sense of familiarity. For a city so overstimulating he couldn’t help but feel that it was, to him, lifeless.

There wasn’t any striking scenery passed the surrounding buildings he could spot- his apartment was too low to the ground to get any breathtaking views. Back in Kyoto it was recognizably surrounded by mountains, making its winters unfriendly and summers unbearable, but at very least, it was scenic. The air isn't sweet here either like home was. It smells of prominent gasoline, body odor and fried food.

He had no idea when his train of thoughts started to become so negative. It was just a tough week, he told himself. Just another tough week. Is this what it’s like being an adult?

He takes another sip of his canned coffee. It's lukewarm and sour.

“It’s okay, you’ve endured worse,” he thinks to himself, taking in a long breath and fixing his posture. “You’re almost done with school. You’re bettering your future! Hayato and Fukutomi are going through the same thing. Tokyo’s not the same, but you’re not alone. This is how it should be. Yeah... just endure it. Endure it.”

After a moments pep talk- something Ishigaki found himself doing on the daily- he continues walking. Nonchalantly checking his phone’s notifications, recalling what he stayed up all night teaching himself, how his bed his waiting for him once this is all over with, thanking whatever higher being aligned the stars for him not to have practice today... A passerby interrupts his thoughts by bumping into his side- he looks over his shoulder at their offended expression- but he’s not coherent enough to do anything but smile awkwardly. They walk away, and Ishigaki stands there, his eyes catching a vague figure in the distance not too far from his apartment complex. He squints.

Their eyebrows lifted, and he felt the hairs on his arms stand on end, as if he had just spotted a yokai. Which, one would think, with seeing eyes that hollow and wide, and a complexion that looked like it had never seen the sun. Despite the other being hidden away- if that's what they were attempting- they had a frame so odd but undoubtedly acquainted him of home. Broad shoulders and thin hips, making their form triangular, accompanied by a pose that looked just as stiff as his face...

“Midousuji...?” Once the gears in his head started to finally turn, the words left his lips at that same moment. In Tokyo? How long had it even been since they spoke face to face- months? A year almost...? His pulse picked up- blood rushing to his ears- and he steps forward with an arm raised. "Oi, Midousuji!"

[gamanyeah]

"Pointless, huh?" Ishigaki chuckles at Midousuji's reflexive 'gross' in response. He's unsure what is and isn't disgusting to him anymore. Maybe it's any experience foreign to him, but taking his flat reply at face value is just as believable.

"It's not for everyone, but I think if anyone needs to learn to relax, it's you."

--

Ishigaki lay's a towel gently on the growing stack next him. Their club's laundry room is empty, so quiet that his thoughts grow loud, and he finds he was right to dread being left alone with them.

Nothing went wrong today. It's another day ending with friendly critiques, patting each other's backs, words of endearment.

Though newly he finds that feels incomplete, almost, when next to the thoughts of his last year of high school. It's true that he's enjoying himself, that he's sharpening his talents and forming new relationships. It's much like his earlier days- racing alongside Ihara, Tsuji or Nobu- before Midousuji arrived. There isn't anything wrong, necessarily.

But this feeling, although nostalgic, was not... exhilarating. There isn't anything leaving him uneasy, confused. Nothing to improve him in ways he didn't know he needed. No one here with talent enough to daze him with.

Not a hand grasping his cheek- humiliating him- making him second guess himself, and in return, receiving Ishigaki's undivided devotion.

Ishigaki's eyebrows furrow, he sighs. Did he like how Midousuji had such control of his thoughts? These past few weeks he's been losing his will to fight against that question. Before their run in, it felt like he was finally learning to, not let go, but... separate himself. To trust Midousuji had been taken the right path. And he does trust Midousuji. He is on the right path. But...

How annoying.

Ishigaki then finds that he's grasping the towel in his hand hard enough that it needs refolding. He tosses it to the side, pulling out his phone- the screen bright in contrast to the dull lighting of the laundry room. Midousuji's contact page was already pulled up when his screen unlocks.

He wonders why he's become such an indecisive person since his time in Tokyo. Since when was sending a text message difficult? Weeks had gone by, but there hadn't been an excuse he could give to send one.

Is wanting him by his side enough?

...

Ishigaki begins to type:

Hey. We haven't cycled together in awhile.

He presses send.

"Well," he says aloud to himself, "the worst he can say is no."