Midousuji Akira (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
discarding) wrote2021-05-13 08:55 am
discarding) wrote2021-05-13 08:55 am
Entry tags:
for gamanyeah
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 onstalking 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.
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
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.
no subject
Really, Ishigaki hadn’t made Midousuji to do shit. Midousuji had demonstrated many times he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do—but surprisingly, when invited to most things, Midousuji doesn’t tend to decline, like when he’d joined Kyoto Fushimi for a fishing trip when Ishigaki was still captain. Which may be why Ishigaki’s takeaway isn’t that Midousuji had come all this way for something that didn’t sound fun is an indication of how strongly he wanted to be in Ishigaki’s company. But a fishing trip, for example, had meant Midousuji would get to eat fresh catch. Sure, he was promised eel, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t buy average quality restaurant eel in Kyoto. But these are the finicky nuances of his identity and the subtleties of his expressions that Midousuji unknowingly hides behind, though likely by his own design through the years of how he’s structured himself.
The truth was, the inconvenience wasn’t so bad. Midousuji didn’t really mind, in general not really the type to complain in the grander scheme of things.
When Ishigaki asks if he’s hungry, his expression brightens, posture straightening subtly. “I’m always hungry. Menu.” Midousuji reaches across the table, and immediately begins to inspect the laminate offerings once secured. It made sense—Midousuji worked as hard as a good percentage of professional athletes, ever since high school. The way he trained probably came to a cost of 4,000 to 5,000 calories per day, nevermind his height paired with his ectomorph bodytype and high metabolism.
When Ishigaki offers to pay, Midousuji pauses, then stifles a laugh against his palm. “Gr—oss," Midousuji taunts. "Don't act like you put a gun to my head. I'm pretty sure you have less money than me."
Midousuji suddenly becomes aware, with the others gone, he doesn't... need to be sat right by Ishigaki. He could move to the other side, the space freed up.
Midousuji looks back at the menu, flipping it to the other side, and pretends it hadn't crossed his mind.
no subject
The second drink had made his mind fuzzy and causes a delayed response, but he eventually scoots down to the right side of the booth. An odd decision, he notes, but he knows Midousuji is a cluster full of them.
Seeing how graceful Midousuji flips through the menu is refreshing in contrast to seeing Shinkai struggle to keep himself up moments ago. Now that the table is quiet he can't help but realize how much he needs to watch his composure. There wasn't any tension he felt around Midousuji, not anymore at least, but he didnt want to open the opportunity to tease him more than their usual routine. He fixes his posture, sitting up straight.
"Well. You're definitely right on that." Ishigaki recalls his text message from the night before, and his shoulders slump. "I honestly shouldn't have spent as much as I did tonight, but... I've needing a night like this for awhile."
"And I don't know how to say no to Fukutomi. His face is scary. Not like yours, though. Your's is more like a..." Ishigaki thinks, but he's interrupted by a hiccup before he continues on with a knuckle pressed against his lip in embarrassment.
"Kinda like an owl."
That... was a weird thing to say. But it's Midousuji- he reassures himself- the same man who's tongue hangs out if his mouth half the day and flicks flies off his cheek with it.
no subject
“Haaa?!”
Midousuji whips his head into a tilt, and he yanks down his lip with one finger, and uses the other to press against his teeth.
“An owl doesn’t have such perfect teeth!!” Or any, obviously. Not that Midousuji has spent so much time reflecting on his likenesses to animals...
But it makes sense. It’s not that Ishigaki doesn’t understand Midousuji as formidable—he resisted that perspective only very briefly—but he also never saw Midousuji as a beast. In the conventional sense, different from Midousuji’s understanding by his own paradigm, he never truly Midousuji as a force with “teeth.” Which is why Midousuji stifles a little laugh, his mind playfully twisting around how Ishigaki must think of him. How it was certainly true he was Midousuji differently, and in a way that was enough to in time bring Midousuji willingly to him. Like this, in this booth.
“How funny. By your own admission and through the correlation, you did acknowledge my face as being scary...”
Midousuji’s just teasing, for the most part, being as he knows Ishigaki never had the sense enough to really be scared of him. Or maybe more accurately, he had the sense enough to not be scared of him.
“How mean.” Midousuji bends his neck and posture to peer up at Ishigaki, leaned over the table. “Not very senpai of you.”
no subject
"But I thought you wanted to look scary. That's like, your thing." Ishigaki replies, ribbing right back. Midousuji was close enough for his breath to hit Ishigaki's nostrils for that moment, and a sense of unfamiliar longing hits him when the other eventually turns away. But Ishigkai is obviously much too straight to second guess that.
He accompanies Midousuji's facade, patting his broad shoulder lightly. "I mean, It's not like it's working. I guess with the teeth, you look more like... Totoro."
Ishigaki slides his hand back to his side, eyes returning to the menu in front of them. "If you ever feel like being threatening, there's a lot of races to attend out here. If you like Tokyo enough that is."
(steals someone elses owl/totoro/mido content for this rp and runs)
no subject
Midousuji blinks, seeming to genuinely reel from that comparison. Right, Ishigaki's struggling to make a comparison to Midousuji's likeliness that isn't threatening. And something warm ripples through him, which makes his mouth thin somewhat; it's visceral, and visual—the feeling makes Midousuji shudder from his toes to his head, and it's...honestly alarming.
Ishigaki wasn't struggling at all. He'd nailed it easily, even in a way Midousuji could understand. And it was so disgusting—only Ishigaki could so easily...declaw him.
His mouth falls open just slightly, staring off into nothing, eyes wide—and slowly, his irises roll towards Ishigaki as he prattles on.
He barely hears Ishigaki's comment about races in Tokyo, and obviously Midousuji had been planning on attending some of these races anyways—there were some highly publicized, competitive races there—
So, calm demeanor unchanging, Midousuji turns his head to look at Ishigaki, despite his tall posture being leaned so far back, and he
smacks Ishigaki in a curt slap across the back of his head.
"Stupid. Gross."
Midousuji hunches immediately back over his menu, perhaps a little too much, almost like he's hiding, looking stressed for the nice, warm feeling that still churned nicely through him. Why this reaction??? When was the last time he felt like this? Warm...
"Obviously I intend to."
The waiter comes by not more than half a minute from then, and Midousuji, desperate for a distraction, flags him down—Midousuji orders what's honestly kind of a lot of food. Unagidon, and enough appetizers for two. Midousuji's heart is still hammering when the waiter leaves, and Midousuji desperately resists the fight or flight that tends to arouse with these feelings tend to bring. Even having just ordered food wasn't enough to make him feel confident he wouldn't just freak out, get up and go...
...But, he wanted to stay near Ishigaki.
"You're the one who's scary. You're weird. You're probably the only person who would make that comparison with someone like me. I'm not saying I'm not cute, or charming, but that's..."
Midousuji irrately scrubs his palm across his forehead, eyes wide, teeth clenched. His fingers curl in a tense claw.
His face is now kind of pink. You got your wish after all, Ishigaki!
"...so gross..."
no subject
Ishigaki shoots him a glance once the other speaks up again, still mentally pouting, but his eyes then grow wide. The pink tint growing across Midousuji looked prominent in contrast to his pale, milky complexion- and he, too, feels something warm build up inside.
"That's way too cute..." he thinks, the thought catching him odd gaurd. It must be the alcohol.
If Midousuji reacts this way with Ishigaki saying hardly anything, how would he handle genuine praise? It clicks, suddenly, when he remembers how easily the other falls apart when it comes to self worth.
Wait.
Had he- outside of athletics- never recieved any form of admiration? Ishigaki frowns deeply, and if he had decided to have another drink or two earlier, he swears his eyes would be watering.
"That was barely a compliment. You have got to have more confidence in yourself. Outside of cycling." Ishigaki hears the own pity seep out of his voice, reminding him of the stinging on the back of his head, and he reflectively scoots himself as far away as he can. "Sorry- I just mean- you're over six feet tall, you're fit, you have goals. Women like that, you know?"
It's difficult, he admits, to picture Midousuji as the romantic type, but the thought of a woman being lucky enough to reach out and tame someone so beastly... It wasn't a terrible idea. Midousuji deserved a gentle type of kindness.
no subject
To Ishigaki's scolding, that does indeed get him a venomous scowl. Midousuji's tongue lolls out as he makes a horrible, croaking snarl, now completely rested sideways on the table. It does not look comfortable. Given that he's so tall, his spine is bent at a severe angle, but as usual, Midousuji doesn't seem to mind. He does take another swipe at Ishigaki, so he's wise to scoot away, and Midousuji narrows his eyes, snapping his teeth as he hisses.
"Grossssssss..."
He then sits up, suddenly, his hands on the table—and he tilts his head, closing the space that Ishigaki had just put between them by leaning right up into it, sort of from below.
"Don't be stupid. I know I'm attractive!" Midousuji's eyes widen, and he tilts his head, expression somehow both blank and severely hostile. "I know I'm not conventionally attractive, but that doesn't mean I'm not." Midousuji leans back, eyes rolling up with a childish softness, and he playfully counts off his fingers, head tilted. "I'm not everyone's ideal product, but it doesn't invalidate my merits. I'm scary, yes, and I'm mean—but I'm smart, and I'm charming, and I'm cute. Just because not everyone gets it doesn't mean it isn't true."
Midousuji's head tilts even further, his neck disturbingly looking like its collapsed. But you know, physics aren't real for his dad's side of the gene pool or something. "Anyway, like I could give a CRAAAP about what girls think about me. Or anybody else."
Midousuji grins, popping right back into Ishigaki's face, and his eyes narrow.
"And that is because I am confident," Midousuji finishes, giving Ishigaki a poke in the chest. He tilts his head, shoulders shaking with a naughty little laugh, and he swipes his finger to knock Ishigaki's chin—a bit too hard to be cute, and he knows it. "Ishigaki-kuuuuuun."
no subject
But before he can form a reply, Midousuji is touching his face, leaving him awestruck, lips parted. A shiver runs down his spine at the way his name is called. His stomach flips.
Once Midosuji retracts, Ishigaki's hand absentmindedly reaches to his own chin- the touch still lingering. A breath he didnt know he was holding blows out of his nose.
"O-Okay. Well. It's good to be reassured you still have confidence." Ishigaki smiles unevenly, the other's tactic getting a nervous laugh out of him.
Once he gives himself a moment to mentally recover from... whatever that was, his posture relaxes. He begins to realize there's a lot of unexplored emotions when Midousuji's around.
Midousuji was right to call him out on such a childish assumption. Perhaps he was desperately looking to receive a vulnerable moment from Midousuji, maybe since day one, and that thought gives him an unfamiliar ting of guilt in his chest. Was that selfish of him?
And why would he want that anyway?
Their booth, despite the bustling of the restaurant and the distant chatter from the tables around, feels too quiet after that thought. Ishigaki let's his heart beat lull before he breaks the stillness he's imagined.
"You say that, and I don't disagree with you, but why else would you act all weird when I called you that?" He says.
"If I didn't know any better, it looked almost..." He pauses, rightfully hesitant to say. His eyes dart away, as if he's readying himself for Midousuji's backlash. "Flustered. So, that's why I wondered."
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Are they just sitting too close together?? Is Midousuji too big? It could be that Ishigaki's presence is a bit more crowding, for some reason, than usual—but Midousuji's mind doesn't quite have an opportunity to get there, because Ishigaki's right to brace himself.
"Grrrooooosss!" Midousuji shrieks (some heads turn), then slaps his hands against his cheeks, dragging his eyelids down as he gives Ishigaki an incredulous, affronted snarl. "Not flustered!!"
He is totally flustered. Fuck. Ishigaki's right. That's not good. Midousuji didn't even realize it when it had occurred! When was the last time he'd even felt flustered??? Is that what that feeling was? Like when—
—sort of like—the softness of his mother's hands, when she'd suddenly pull his shy gaze to her—?
NOPE, forbidden. Midousuji immediately and violently ejects that thought, but all the same, his heart does a funny hiccup, and he's flustered again. This time, he's aware—but how the hell do you unfluster yourself when it occurs, anyway!?
Midousuji realizes the solution would be to play it cool, but he can't—his excited varieties of emotions are too big even for his overgrown frame.
"I just—"
Midousuji's jaw hangs open a little, expression suddenly becoming vacant. His hands are still on his face, and once again, he tilts his head dramatically, gaze becoming distant. Midousuji is very confident. And he even receives praise about his appearance, though it's more often his personality, tenacity and force—but it's...not often. Maybe just from Komari... and that was expected.
So it was because it was—unexpected? And even though Midousuji knows these things, he doesn't hear it all that often.
So it's because it's Ishigaki?
In a Totally Unflustered Maneuver, Midousuji suddenly snaps his teeth, expression suddenly furious again, his arm whipping forward to grab Ishigaki's sake bottle, and his other to snatch up his little glass.
"You don't need anymore of this."
Midousuji stares at it, clearly puzzling (and kind of horrified?), and then slides the glass back in front of Ishigaki in a swift, graceless motion. Ishigaki's mouth had been on that.
This is all probably very confusing, until Midousuji, ever the social pariah of polite society when not on his stand-by personality, takes an impressively long swig from it, his irises flattened and eyes wide as his adam's apple bobs several times. Pretty impressive, for someone who never drank before. Especially for someone who was just talking such shit about how stupid drinking is, and how bad it is for an athlete's body.
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Oh my god. I was right?
Then his face responds by turning the same shade, and his lips quiver. Ishigaki's stomach churns again that night- something he really needs to start paying more attention to- but god, was this funny.
"Pfffff---" Ishigaki tries to suppress his giggling, but ends up bursting into a fit of a bubbly, genuine laughter. An arm crosses over his stomach in an attempt to catch his breath.
He watches Midousuji physically collect his thoughts, his expressions clear enough to expose anything he's desperately attempting to hide. His laughter turns into nothing but quick breaths, calming down. He leans into the booth's table, resting his head on his hand.
So, Midousuji feels those things too...? I'm glad.
And it was all because of him. Or at least, Ishigaki put the thought of- to his knowledge- a woman into Midousuji's head. He was proud of himself, proud that he'd been the one to make him come apart.
But Midousuji, unpredictable as always, pulls him out of that thought.
"Wh- wha-- Midousuji--! I thought you didn't drink?!" Ishigaki sputters, the dishes clanking into each other as he sits up too quickly.
He peers inside the bottle after Midousuji is finished. It's empty. He sighs, thankful that Shinkai was the one who offered to pay for drinks this time around. Not that Ishigaki would have felt comfortable finishing it off infront of someone like this, anyway.
"Jeez... Well, you'll probably be fine." Ishigaki assures. "You're huge, so I doubt you're a lightweight."
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"Disgusting..."
It burns, and his stomach feels hot. At first, it feels like it doesn't want to stay down, the sharp, hot bitterness clinging to all the worst parts of his throat and the back of his tongue. There's a lingering sweetness, and a sort of smoothness on the palette—but the rest is so viscerally unpleasant, as he's so unused to it, Midousuji can barely recognize it, let alone appreciate it.
Also, you know, even he knows you aren't supposed to just chug sake like it's cold water after a long race.
"I don't," Midousuji answers belatedly, swallowing uncomfortably, eyes still rolled as his eyelids flicker, some saliva caught at the corner of his mouth. He then heavily slumps forward, both of his large hands gripped against the narrow width of his belly. "That was my first time," he pants out, then scowls at Ishigaki, as if it's somehow his fault he made such a moronic, impulsive decision. "It feels nasty. Why do you like it?"
Midousuji, still somewhat hunched, reaches for the bottle again curiously, plucking it from Ishigaki's hands. He narrows an eye at it suspiciously, his long tongue curiously extending with a little upwards curl at its end. His head tilts, and the narrow tip of his tongue curls along the rim, tasting its vestiges, wondering if in a smaller quantity, it tastes less awful.
His expression says no—a revolted, sudden frown, tongue still out—then maybe, and he raises his eyebrows, tongue slowly returning to where it belongs. Midousuji looks increasingly suspicious at the bottle.
"It's like it can't make up its mind about what it tastes like."
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It feels like common knowledge, but if Midousuji is only recently dipping his toe into social situations- or more, into anything that wasn't cycling- then it does add up. Ishigaki is patient, he doesn't mind guiding him.
"At least not college students. I don't know. It's for fun? And relaxing. You might get it once you're in school." Ishigaki eyes back at the other in an attempt to read his face. It's hard to say on how his body will react when Midousuji is much larger than average. But it was a lot at once, and it's a new experience. "You feeling alright?"
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"Relaxing...?" What's That, Sounds Fake.
He scoffs with a sneer and an eyeroll about getting it once he's in college—Midousuji will be active in competitions during term, there's no way.
It's then that Midousuji suddenly feels it. The creeping echoes of a warm tingle, deep in his belly and chest—it rolls subtly through him, and he doesn't notice it right away—but when he does, his eyes widen, and he leans back a little, blinking. Then, he blinks at Ishigaki, who asks him if he's feeling alright.
"I don't know," Midousuji answers candidly, but he doesn't look—worried, so at least there's that. His eyes roll back down to his belly, where one of his hands still clutches. "I guess I feel a little funny. And warm. That's about it, though. How pointless."
Of course, it's not as though it's actually caught up with him, yet. But how's Midousuji to know? Indeed, he definitely drank that too quickly, and on an empty stomach... All the same, though, per Ishigaki's assessment, he certainly shouldn't quite be on his ass or anything, given his size.