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
"Well, yeah. Of course you don't mind submission." Saying that, Ishigaki wouldn't look at him, but Midousuji soon pops his personal bubble, and he's left with no choice.
"What? I- you don't have to do something like that for me." Ishigaki stammers, eyes flickering. "Shouldn't it be the other way around? You're a former kohai. You're younger than I am." Not that there ever was anything traditional in regards to their roles- or more so- anything traditional about Midousuji. That wasn't what Ishigaki cared for, anyway. Perhaps it's his own pride he can't give up.
Ishigaki only has to reflect on their past for a moment, and then sighs, defeated. Yes, Midousuji had always had the upper hand in their relationship, but until this year's interhigh results, it was Midousuji that needed guidance. Had Ishigaki been neglecting his own growth?
"Well... I guess that type of stuff never mattered between us."
no subject
"That's right," Midousuji confirms, rolling his eyes away as he sticks out his tongue through a playful smile, mask now clung beneath his chin. "I'm neeeeever gonna care about that stuff. Never! Besides," Midousuji adds, widening his eyes as he looks back to Ishigaki, expression suddenly stonier. "I was thinking about it... Relying on someone...whatever. The strength that can be pulled from it. It's seriously super gross, the nastiest thing ever, but you were right."
Midousuji looks away again, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as he rubs his ear, quelling some itch--but it's mostly just a fidget.
"I thought about it for a long time, trying to figure it out. And when I finally understood, I took the InterHigh. The way you rely on your team... I'm sure you work hard, because you like them, but I still think that kind of thing can slow people down. Distract them. Keeping things symbiotic takes a careful balance, I think..."
Midousuji's teeth clack once his tongue furls back in, sort of puckering his lips as he stares hard off at anything but Ishigaki.
"But anyway, it's because of the strength from... that..." Midousuji's expression flattens in a wince. "...that I won. So if you want me to push you, I'll push you. That's a fair transaction, so your stupid guilty martyr nonsense is both silly and misplaced."
Midousuji's incredibly long winded way of expressing his thanks. Acknowledging he was wrong in (most of) his old ways, that Ishigaki was onto something, and extending a favor—probably many favors, Midousuji isn't sure when he'll stop being formally indebted—it's because he's grateful. Even if the process of letting himself be a human being is the worst sensation he's yet had the displeasure of incurring, aside from the hollowing grief impact of death.
no subject
"Okay... fine, I'll let you push me." Ishigaki's struggles to keep away a goofy grin, but he manages- he thinks. His face feels hot, and his brain stutters for a moment- every part of him but the legs moving him forward going on pause while his thoughts catch up.
So, Midousuji relied on me...? On my words?
"I feel like I've been waiting to hear you say that for a long time." He finally admits, gaze falling on his own shoes. "I think I already knew all that, though. When you placed first."
Ishigaki is hesitant to continue, but if Midousuji wanted to spit out a confession, then perhaps it was his turn, too.
"I thought what I wanted was to- selfishly, maybe- have some sort of impact on you. Maybe I wanted to show you my thanks too- for carrying our team as far as you did. And it's true, I did want those things- there's a lot of things I wanted to see from you. But... I really just wanted for you to end up..." He pauses, searching for the right word, before his mind lands on something simple. "Happier."
no subject
His instinct still is to think that sentimentality is so useless; feelings outside of thrill instinct and motivation are so useless. But he's seen results too tremendous to dispute it, and the dam is cracking. Midousuji isn't aware of it, how deep down inside, there's a yawning, cavernous, and hungry abyss—he knows, of course, he's empty. That hollow feeling is still there, big as ever as when his mother had passed, but rather than utilizing for his own means, it feels more like now he's trying to fill it. Tentatively, hesitantly, uncertainly. It's a risk, and a gamble; he isn't convinced that it's a sustainable long-term consequence that will be a good one. But Midousuji has to remind himself he is a risk taker; he's recently realized he's afraid of connection, though he hasn't realized that that fear stems primarily from the fear of loss.
But fear is unacceptable. Weak. And so. Here he is. Unbearably uncomfortable, hoping that's just growing pains that will make him bigger, and stronger.
Midousuji knew that Ishigaki wanted that, which was why, for so long, he couldn't stand him—wanting to influence Midousuji positively, even after Midousuji had violently rejected that extended olive branch years ago, was insulting. Demeaning! And most of all, arrogant. But that's how they both were, weren't they? Arrogant, in their own ways. Cocksure.
His eyes widen subtly, hand still kind of unnaturally clawed against his face, when Ishigaki reveals the ultimate and main bullet point (or so it now seems) of his reasons to be so invested in Midousuji.
"I know all that," he says slowly, and narrows his eyes, cogs turning. "Well. Most of that. I knew you wanted to impact me. I used to feel that was such a domineering quality of yours. Suuuper gross." Used to. "You're still gross...more and more. Yuck."
Feelings were gross. Especially positive ones. Ishigaki's feelings, the more Midousuji comes to understand them, are increasingly gross as a result. And so is he. But Midousuji is helplessly starved before those qualities, unaware of how much he needs it—from the right source.
"But."
He pauses, then drops his arm, tilting his head curiously as he faces Ishigaki again as they walk, pointing at himself.
"Ishigaki-kunnn. Did you think—" (see,) "—at some point, that I was unhappy? Do you think I'm an unhappy person?"
Midousuji "can't lighten the fuck up in almost any circumstance" Akiratfw im LITERALLY? so blown away by how beautiful ur tag is that i dont respond for almost 2 weeks
He let's a bit of silence fall between them as he thinks of an answer, spaced out after noticing how tight he has to walk to keep up with Midousuji's long strides- mentally comparing his limbs to a grasshopper. "Well..."
And then, a much more serious though occurs: a memory resurfacing of Midousuji unzipping his jersey with his back turned to Ishigaki, hunched over on their clubrooms bench, revealing an overwhelming amount of sports tape tightly wrapped around himself. He remembers how his voice couldn't reach him, how the reality of how severely warped his perception of victory hit that day, and the way Ishigaki's heart sank to his stomach for him.
'Living creatures need more awful conditions.' Is what Midousuji preached to himself that day.
There's wanting victory, Ishigaki knows the importance of the finish line that means so terribly much, but then there's... self harm. And that's only one of many revealing flashbacks that could answer Midousuji's question. That type of thinking is from someone who depends on themselves. No one can do that, and Midousuji has come to realize that much, at the very least. But is Midousuji that unware of why Ishigaki wished for him to connect to others, even now?
"I don't think only being happy when you win counts." Ishigaki finally speaks up, eyes fallen to his shoes as if he's unable to face his own bluntness. "So no, I don't think were happy."
Despite his self improvement, Ishigaki comes to wonder if Midousuji was further away from his intentions than he had thought.
"But now? I guess I can't answer that question." Perhaps he's not poisoning himself over achieving results now- but Ishigaki doesn't know that for certain. Midousuji has been left unsupervised this past year, and with no one he knows to keep Ishigaki updated on that. "Do you think you're happy?"
NONSENSE also i forgot midousuji said that. god
Midousuji listens to Ishigaki carefully, but doesn't look at him. That's too much to parse at once. When Ishigaki deduces Midousuji's relationship to happiness and winning, his jaw drops just slightly; his matte, dull velvet eyes roll slowly towards Ishigaki through their corners, but only briefly. Soon, he's fixed back on the path ahead of them, and he feels his palms sweat a little in his gloves; he adjusts the strap of his bag that contains his disassembled bike. The only thing he's really relied on, but even then, it had been an extension of himself.
He doesn't correct Ishigaki that he wasn't happy, even then—not quite. Invigorated by the thrill of victory—by overcoming the odds perceived as stacked against him, and as more numerous than what Midousuji perceives an average person to have. Happiness is a different feeling, to Midousuji—it's more calm; steadying, rather than destabilizing, like the exuberance that came from winning. Close, but not the same.
Still, it's strange—it makes Midousuji's gut twist and lift before it drops, and he has no idea how to respond to that, unfamiliar as it is. It's unsettling, confirming that Ishigaki had seen that—that he's known something like that, all this time. Midousuji leans his head back a little with a puzzled scowl, wondering, suddenly, if Ishigaki had pitied him. Is that what inspired all this? Disgusting.
"...No," he answers simply, tilting his head to one side, rubbing the other side of his face, as if to assuage an itch. "But..." Midousuji swallows, pausing, wondering if it's pertinent to be so frank. Being candid is meant to be handled strategically. He can't just lay all his cards bare. He's maybe done enough—but there's a strange, magnetic compulsion, Midousuji is finding. Like going downhill. Wanting to be seen?
Not quite, Midousuji reasons curiously. That really depends.
"...something's...changing. I can feel it. Or maybe more accurately, I'm letting it occur, little by little. Something small, and gross, getting bigger, like a parasite. I don't know what's happening to me, or what I'm becoming, but I'm taking the risk if it means I get what I want..."
Meaning, maybe, he can be happy, in whatever form that takes, someday—Midousuji only acknowledges this because this path is absolutely without pattern data for Midousuji to run the math on. Which is exactly why it's scary.
Midousuji's expression flattens, clearly unamused.
"Ishigaki-kuunn... If you thought—" again, saw, "—that I was unhappy... Grosssss... Your annoying, clingy devotion... was that before or after that assessment?"
He scowls at Ishigaki.
"You better not pity me. That's so disgusting I think I feel a little sick." That's why his belly is doing all that, right? "That's not a sustainable foundation, you know, if you're so hell-bent on being someone's support."
Which, yes, thusly revealing: Midousuji understands that Ishigaki's desire is to support him, and inadvertently, Midousuji is admitting he accepts that—pending Ishigaki's answer.
no subject
He can't quite decipher his meaning- Midousuji being so eccentric and all, but given the context, Ishigaki has to guess what he's describing so complicatedly is... yes, happiness. Or the start of it. It figures- with Midousuji's magical way of thinking, he sure was... dense at the most basic concepts. It's fine, though. Even if it was one step- a step that took years to even make- Midousuji took one, and Ishigaki is patient.
When Midousuji speaks again, his speech before it took out any biting edge to his now defensive routine. It causes Ishigaki to wonder if his crude mannerisms was something that he had schooled himself carefully over time, but without much evidence, that thought doesn't linger.
When Midousuji is having trouble with such a simple question like that, maybe it was pity Ishigaki should be feeling- but there were other things that tied into it from being so simple.
"It's not pity. It's, gee, I dunno- someone caring about your well being? A wild concept, right?" Ishigaki chooses to be more blunt in his wording- though his tone light hearted, hand movements thrown in as he speaks. "Maybe that's what you're doing too. Well... starting to. You're on the right track."
Ishigaki is referring to Midousuji's team, obviously- not giving his phrasing a second thought.
the line about midousuji being defensive/mean as a coping/masking mechanism = me dead
Midousuji's eyes widen, neck bending in a severe snap of an angle, his brows raising. His thin fingers smack against his face, yet again yanking down his eyelid. The bare-faced admission from someone so earnest as Ishigaki, that he cares about Midousuji's well being, makes his mind almost blank from shock. It's not unexpected as its own standalone sentiment, per se, but the admission is unexpected. And hard to bear, certainly. Extremely.
What's more shocking is Ishigaki's bold insinuation, which Midousuji absolutely misunderstands.
"Gross!! Gross, gross, gross! I'm not doing something like that," Midousuji spits defensively, and his footfalls still, though his body lurches forward when his feet plant, like it hadn't caught the memo he was no longer moving along. His bag slings forward from that force, and his arm lunges forward, his thin, gloved fingers harshly gripping around either side of Ishigaki's face. Midousuji's heart is pounding for reasons he doesn't understand, eyes unfocused as he faces Ishigaki—looking at him, by the direction of his head, but not into his eyes, irises blurred and frenzied.
"Naaaasty!! I'm not doing what you're doing!" he snaps, then gives Ishigaki's face a shove as he lets go—and his other hand cradles around the hand that had been holding Ishigaki's face. "I-I'm not," he falters a bit, eyes glancing off, and one of his frail, bony hands gnarls around the strap of his bag. "I'm not made of the same parts as you. Whatever I become, it's not gonna be whatever you are. Don't be ridiculous." Midousuji's eyes widen, stubbornly glued at their corners to the ground, eyebrows knitting crossly as his tongue ejects long and straight. "Gross, Ishigaki-kun, gross!"
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Ishigaki feels that oh-so-familiar grasp on his cheeks, and he curses himself for not predicting it. The abruptness in his track is enough for him to trip on his own feet- stumbling before catching his balance again. With eyebrows furrowed, he frowns, his face looking like a funny pout between Midousuji's fingers.
For a moment he wonders why he keeps saying all the wrong things lately, but when Midousuji screeches loud enough to turn heads, it's an obvious realization that Ishigaki is not the one that should be worried about. Midousuji himself not realizing what his own over reactions to basic human interactions implies is what's worrying.
Midousuji let's go, and Ishigaki exhales. He rubs the side if his sore cheek, speaking up again after his usual, but still bizarre interruption from Midousuji. "... You won because you relied on your team. Jeez, you're going to bruise my face if you keep doing that. What's with that reaction??"
Ishigaki doesn't regret what he said. It's not as if he would want to hold off on his own bluntness for Midousuji, especially when met with his so often. Although Ishigaki was presented with another chance at their friendship that he so desperately craved for so long, and with his honesty enough to have Midousuji turn away and never come back on top of it, he wasn't going to give him some half baked version of himself.
But then Midousuji looks like that, suddenly almost... shy, if not completely overstimulated. It's so new that Ishigaki can only reply with slow blinks, and as he does, he reminds himself of the pace Midousuji needs- choosing not to pry further than he already has.
Different parts...? That's right. Something like care and being ableto care, something Ishigaki has so much of and so easily been given to him his whole life- of course someone as foreign as Midousuji was also built with foreign parts.
Although he's never felt more close to Midousuji, Ishigaki then realizes he might not know anything about Midousuji, or how he really works, after all.
Ishigaki responds with a softer tone.
"Well, I wouldn't... I wouldn't want you to become someone like me. It's not like I'm trying to change you. Not who you are, at least."
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Midousuji doesn't know it, but Ishigaki's already put that together in his head right before Midousuji tries to explain it. Or at least, it's close. Midousuji is able to care, though it's barely been rediscovered. He hadn't thought it had been possible, since the passing of his mother. But since exploring this concept, since his victory, he's seen it in places that have alarmed him, in plain sight all along. In the polite, wordless and gentle bows he gives his aunt, the ways that he'll sometimes tidy after Yuki, or help her style her hair—but it's rare, and desperately difficult to inspire.
Besides, it wasn't just relying on Midousuiji's team that had brought him victory, and brought about these revelations—Midousuji's gaze skitters back towards Ishigaki, his heart pounding, and his fingers curl near his collarbones in a spidery flourish, flexing with stress.
His heart hiccups with Ishigaki's final statement, and that's when his gaze snaps away again.
"I know that," Midousuji answers quickly, and anxiously pushes a thin black fingertip against his lip, probably fixing to catch it in his teeth before long. "...But, that's precisely why you're changing me. Or maybe, adjusting me... We aren't the same, at all, but... That's why it's..."
Meaningful?
They aren't similar—but Midousuji is becoming aware of a strange harmony, though the feelings those inspire and draw out are frightening and unfamiliar.
It's not his team that he cares about. Not really. Midousuji's expression is tense, his expression warming petal pink—
Which inspires him to abruptly take stride again, obviously flustered as he shoves his mask clumsily back up his face. Which isn't really how one does that, but basic functioning is losing its script, suddenly.
"Whatever!! Gross! Ugh, this is so stupid, let's just get to what we actually met up for!"
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That train of thought is soon interrupted with an outburst, and Ishigaki watches him, eyes wide, abruptly trot away- but from behind, something catches his eye. His ears.
Ears that are, undoubtably, glowing...
Pink.
Ishigaki doesn't reply, his eyes just stay, watching him.
It makes sense. Midousuji is in the unfamiliar territory of being intune to his emotions- more so than Ishigaki has ever seen, at least. Perhaps that alone is overwhelming enough in itself to lead to him flustering up, but...
Ishigaki can't help notice that it's through talking to Ishigaki- about Ishigaki- that's made Midousuji react that way.
Ishigaki's face, in return, heats up- the warmth he feels catches him offgaurd. He stands there, stiff and unmoving. His brain short circuits in a stuttered panic, desperately grasping for a reason- as if there hasn't been a trail of odd feelings each and every time they've visited.
Of course he's burning up! It's a social response. His body is just empathizing with Midousuji. Similar to when someone yawns, and the other yawns back. Or... something?? Although, then there's... also... discovering the impact he's had on Midousuji recently on top of that, and finally getting a hint of what he's wanted from a friend so densely stubborn. A friend that he's barely seen yet still has the ability to occupy his thoughts for years on end- before Ishigaki had ever thought of him as a friend, even, and with Midousuji being able to call him one back debatable.
Okay. So. None of this made sense, then.
He can't find the answer he's looking for quickly enough, but he does discover he's been staring dumbfounded for far too long, and that Midousuji has already paced lengths away.
"Right! Right." Ishigaki blurts out, a little too loudly. He does catch up, but he chooses to trail a few steps behind- not quite matching Midousuji's pace yet. "I'm sure you've worked yourself up enough for one day."
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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.
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As his breathing settles, and that takes longer than he'd like to, he does eventually notice his hand has been clasping his ear, and that there was a familiar, hot ache in his boxers.
--
( in which ishi doesnt realize hes in a relationship, but mido does )
The dream is short-- plotless and sudden, with haziness inbetween, but it's enough to linger for days on end inside Ishigaki's head.
They're in a room, not dissimilar to his own, curled up into each other-- Midousuji caging around him. It's hard to fathom the thought of the other inviting someone into his arms like this, let alone Ishigaki himself, but there's something telling him that here, right now, maybe this is normalized between the two of them. He leans back into Midousuji, that thought confusing, and tilts his head.
Though the vision is fuzzy as it is gentle, he stares at Midousuji's face from below, the TV screen light flickering in the other's eyes-- close enough to see, although hardly there, the other's tiny eyelashes above and below them. Midousuji is content with an expression void of any interest concerning his surroundings, and that's enough for Ishigaki to relax, his shoulders dropping down to a comfortable level.
It's... nice, oddly enough.
Ishigaki gawks for a long enough time that Midousuji does eventually choose to notice, oval eyes snapping to meet his, and they whipe away the ease he just had. Neither of them say a word, and Ishigaki grows overwhelmingly self conscious, cheeks speckled pink.
Until suddenly there’s a warm, wet tongue laving over his ear, and Ishigaki in return yelps.
"What the hell--?" Ishigaki's voice cracks when he shouts, face abruptly beating hot in time to his fluttering pulse. He whips his head around, eyes wild. Midousuji's eyes roll up in response, playing innocent as he stares into the corner of their ceiling, tongue still slipped out between thin lips.
"Don't... Don't do that!"
"Haaah? Why shouldn't I?"
Being so close together, he can feel the rumble in both their chests as Midousuji speaks.
"What? Because it's... it's weird, that's why." Ishigaki's voice lowers, his tone indicating the obvious. Midousuji lacks social awareness, but surely there were limits even to him, weren't there?
When Midousuji shifts closer, Ishigaki's breath hitches-- watching with wide eyes at the way his expression twist-- to the mischief on his lips, to the corner of his eyes wrinkling. He laughs, but it's different from his usual demeanor. Yes, it's dripping with ill intent, but it's surely genuine. Midousuji is... happy, he thinks, and that's enough to let Ishigaki forget the situations he's in, if just for a moment.
But once again, Midousuji chooses to inturpt any of Ishigaki's peace, and the tip of his tongue is back to flickering around his ear.
"Stop, stop!" He shivers, leaning forward for an escape, but is interrupted by Midousuji's hold-- pushed back hard against his chest. Midousuji cackles in response, and Ishigaki squirms uselessly in a flustered panic, gripping hard onto Midousuji's forearms.
"You're the weird one, getting excited over something like that." Midousuji's voice drips with a sweet venom, and Ishigaki haults his squirming, his body growing cold. "Nasty. I was just picking on you."
"What? I'm not..."
When Ishigaki's head snaps down, he's met with a tent set up inside his boxers. A strangled gasp leaves his throat, and he begins to stutter out an incomprehensible apology.
Midousuji interrupts, covers his ear with more saliva, as if to say "shut up." It works, and it only takes Midousuji to poke a finger at his tip through the cloth, bobbing it around to make Ishigaki moan, short and sharp-- the noise catching him so offgaurd he has to slap a hand over his own mouth.
Ishigaki's head spins, his thoughts unable to keep up with what's unraveling before him, and the last thing he hears before he fades back into conciousness, is:
“Woooow, Ishigaki. You are really, really gross.”
--
He's dreamt of Midousuji plenty of times throughout the years, from casually to those self rewarding dreams of recieving the praise he no longer needed. It's obvious to anyone, even himself, that his relationship with Midousuji has always been ( to his knowledge ) a one-sided, borderline obsession. But he's never dreamt of... something like this. Not with a friend. Not with a man. Not with... Midousuji.
Ishigaki tries to ignores it all completely at first-- a dream and nothing more, he thinks, but he unfortunately isn't so stupid. He's thankful for the days he's away from Midousuji lately, although his heart twists terribly in his chest, it's enough to not enhance the feeling that's been planted and, really, already had been planted this whole time-- and it's that though exactly that won't go away.
A feeling that's always been there, and now Midousuji was only nurturing it each time they met, hadn't he? If that wasn't the case, Ishigaki surely wouldn't be so worked up-- when Midousuji never gave him the time of day beforehand, and when things are so different now.
Although as he sits there, face pink and head dizzy, Ishigaki still insists he doesn't know what it all really means.
Or, that he doesn't 't know what the traded glances between Shinkai and Fukutomi mean when he shares what they had done on their weekends together, with eyes bright and smile stupid.
That he doesn't know what it means when he's stuck admiring the way Midousuji's muscles flex under his damp skin, instead of focusing on the road ahead of him-- as if that was almost better than the finish line they were aiming for.
That he doesn't know why the memory of Midousuji's ears glowing pink much like a kitten's plays over, and over, and over again in his head.
But right now, what he does know, is that he wants to hear Midousuji's voice.
It's dark, and Ishigaki is stuck fiddling with the eraser on his desk instead of the assignment due tomorrow infront of him, wobbling it side to side until it slips, falls over and off to the floor. He sighs.
Without that distraction, he raises a hand to cover his ear, half expecting it to be wet- as if recalling a memory instead of a dream. Then he groans, loud enough where he's thankful he doesn't have roommates, and clasps fists full of his hair.
For reasons unknown to him, not hearing from Midousuji as the days stretch by, is somehow more stressful than it has to be. The fact that he's now sitting infront of a half finished homework is proof that he needed an answer to the questions swimming in his head-- or at least, a wake up call.
It's late. Too late for a phone call to be reasonable. He could send a text, but he doesn't want that-- it wouldn't be enough. Not when they're stuck being so far away, for so long. When he craves all the spare time they had in high school, there has to a middle ground between now and then, right?
His thumb hovers over Midousuji's icon in his contacts, where the picture set is Ishigaki's pet venus fly trap, with a wide mouth not dissimilar to Midousuji's own. Maybe waking Midousuji up to screech about how late it is, to have a new string of insults thrown at him, was the bullying Ishigaki needed right now.
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Ishigaki.
Normally, Midousuji answers his phone the second it rings—that is, when it’s a circumstance where Midousuji picks up at all. Sometimes, Midousuji just silences the ringing and ignores the call—often, when overwhelmed, but mostly, he tends to answer straight away. Ishigaki, Onoda, the Hisaya house (of course; he’d never bluff that call), teammates…
But not Ishigaki. Or at least, never since his second year of high school. Usually, he’d send the call to voicemail, and irritably text Ishigaki to update him on whatever team-related nonsense via email. Or to not bother—Midousuji was pulling the strings, all by himself, for so long—communication with his team wasn’t necessary.
Things have changed. Midousuji doesn’t really know his team, yet, so it hasn’t had opportunity to occur—but Midousuji has decided since his victory of the 43rd Interhigh that he’ll always answer their calls. And so too with Ishigaki. And their calls are still rare—Midousuji is an awkward conversationalist to start, and it’s worse over the phone (for all parties involved).
So, realizing the phone’s half way through it’s rings before voicemail, Midousuji clumsily snatches his phone, and, with dramatic, rag-doll fashion, Midousuji throws himself on his back, eyes wide, and answers Ishigaki’s call. His hands are uncomfortably damp—a problem Midousuji never has—so he immediately puts Ishigaki on speaker. His palms flex anxiously over his shirt, above his frantically-still beating heart, eyes wide at his ceiling.
He doesn’t know what to say. His palms wring the fabric of the shirt.
“Ishigaki-kun,” Midousuji prompts. If he had the mind, he’d sound annoyed—but he sounds monotonous. Flat. Maybe an ounce curious. But truly, with baffled wonder.
How about that timing?
Of course distance wasn’t possible. Of course not.
His body thrums and tingles, very subtly, with what Midousuji doesn’t recognize as relief.
“It’s…late.”
Why on earth would Ishigaki be calling him? Throat dry, Midousuji swallows, then lifts a hand to anxiously pull at the side of his lower lip, eyes widening.
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But, that's right, Ishigaki reminds himsef. Things are different now.
"Yeah, it is. I'm sorry." Ishigaki eventually replies, followed by a quiet laugh. His body feels as tense as it does tingly, and he nervously twiddles his feet-- rubbing at his ankle through the fabric of his sock. Somehow, he's managed not to show his new string of mental problems in his voice.
Well, Midousuj answered, and he doesn't sound upset. That should be enough to ease his nerves, but Ishigaki didn't think he'd get this far.
...An explanation. Shit. He needed one of those, didn't he?
"I... Well, I have an assignment due tomorrow morning. I'm going to be up awhile." The words come out slow, and Ishigaki feels he's lying when he says this, but he knows he's not wrong. It's less humiliating if he stays vague, anyhow. "I can't focus. So I thought that, maybe, I could use some.. company.
...
"Is that okay?"
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Belatedly, Midousuji’s mind digests what Ishigaki’s said, and he blinks once.
“Gross.”
Company. Late, distracted, wanting company. And Ishigaki called Midousuji for that? Company, of all things. A product most people can better provide, at least in this function. Certainly in this function. Why was Ishigaki so weird? So gross.
Snatching his lip between his teeth again, Midousuji looks off to nothing in particular to the side of him, the back of head still firmly planted in place against his stiff pillow. It’s too easy, how Midousuji finds himself admitting so readily in his mind that were it more feasible, he’d simply go straight to Ishigaki’s. Because, of course, Midousuji isn’t going to deny this request.
Which is insane, actually. It’s hard not to compare how he feels now to how he felt towards Ishigaki in their earlier history without having his mind completely scrambled by the juxtaposition.
It’s probably for the best he can’t visit. Midousuji would end up being more distracting than occupying—Midousuji would be the one distracted, in cozy, quiet company with Ishigaki in his room, late in the drowsy, quiet evening. It’s too easy, as well, to find himself a little excited at the thought—which prompts Midousuji to lift a hand, far, far above his head, empty gaze returning to its forward position.
And then he drops his hand, because now he’s the one who’s gross—certainly grosser!!!—, thusly just monkeyslapping himself right in the dick before it gets any bright ideas. Which, of course, causes Midousuji to immediately shriek, then flip sideways, towards his phone.
Midousuji bites his lip again as his hands immediately clutch his freshly-disciplined genitalia through his boxers, not even wincing, though one eye does feel a bit watery. Midousuji stares at his phone, his breath a little shaky from the pain. At least he mostly missed his balls.
“…That’s fine. I’m not tired.”
Though Midousuji always drops like clockwork at his self appointed bedtimes, so regimented as he is—by intention, Midousuji’s body is like a machine in its every reasonably possible way, he was working up and fraying his nerves even before this phone call.
Now, with all the nervy, juvenile energy coursing through that same, stupid body, Midousuji could probably be up until just before sunrise.
“Buuut?” Midousuji tilts his head, eyes rolling away as his tongue flops out from his mouth, wrists still clamped between his strong thighs. “Isn’t a phone call distracting for something like homework? Stuuuuupid Ishigaki-kun. Dumby.”
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...?
Ah, well, Midousuji is known for his variety of noises, and that certainly knocked him out of his gay little thoughts, if just for a moment...
But then soon enough Midousuji goes on to berate him, and Ishigaki can't control the smile he gets. Midousuji's response is not the erratic, bitter reaction he was hoping to snap him back into reality, but... playful-- and that, with his stomach flopping oddly in response, is somehow worse.
"Well, that's true." He almost offers that if his idea is too silly, Midousuji can always hang up, but he knows that his best quality is his honesty-- and there's relief in that. Honesty. Ishigaki should be honest with himself, too, he thinks, and his mind traces back to why he wanted this in the first place: to hear Midousuji's voice.
Ishigaki abruptly shakes his head, breathes heavy once through his nose, and for the first time in that hour, he faces away from the floor and to the laptop screen infront of him.
"Then your job is to not let me get too sidetracked, okay?"
Once Midousuji is put on speaker, he forces himself to eye over what he has and, mostly, hasn't accomplished, before leaning back into his chair. He does find himself easing up once he gets his thoughts back into a routine, and he manages to focus long enough that it does surprise him despite the underlying issues at hand.
Until, he doesn't.
"It's a shame," he begins, shifting through the notes sprawled out infront of him. The words come out without thought, as if just there to break the silence. "That you're so far away."
What would they do so late together, even? Midousuji would always be long gone before the sun had set, so Ishigaki still had new sides to see from Midousuji even now, hadn't he? As he attempts to tap away at his keyboard, that thought lingers until its loud, and he comes to realize that he hasn't seen... well, a domestic side of him.
Fidgeting in his seat, Ishigaki blinks exessivly at his own words. As paranoid as he is about Midousuji seeing through him tonight, he hurriedly continues off of what he had said. "Ah- I mean. Doing homework, studying, those kind of things... I guess it'd be less weird to do together than over the phone, wouldnt it?"
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Midousuji reels his head back, weirded out by himself—both for the physical reaction and for the observation. Uncomfortably, he rolls his eyes to the side, and self consciously draws his knees up, resting his dangling fingers from the limp perch of his wrist against his waist, stiff, thin arm pressed against his belly almost as if to hug himself. He lifts his other hand to bite at the edge of his thumb, trying to quell his juvenile, infatuated anxiety. It’s uncomfortable, but, Midousuji thinks, maybe a little addicting.
That’s why he doesn’t hang up, despite the discomfort.
“I’m not your keeper,” Midousuji answers plainly, quietly, staring hard out of the corners of his eyes to his sheets. “I agreed to push you. Your self control is your own job, Ishigaki-kun.”
He probably sounds more serious than he means to, distracted as he is. His stomach clenches again and his heart stutters a hard, clumsy beat when Ishigaki says it’s a shame that he’s so far away. Midousuji’s jaw slowly opens, but he finds no words come; once he again, he doesn’t know what to say. He isn’t even quite sure what he’s feeling, or how to describe it. The truth is, it’s a flood of inspired yearning—the melancholy that comes with it, but the excitement of Ishigaki’s expression.
But Ishigaki’s always been this way. It used to annoy him, the way he’d vye for Midousuji’s time, attention or company. And now here he is, strung along by a little string like an empty headed idiot schoolgirl. Disgraceful.
“Would it?” Midousuji asks, grateful for the follow-up providing some hook for him to actually grasp on. Midousuji feels it would be even more distracting in person, truth told—but Midousuji somehow manages the wherewithal to keep it to himself. “I’ve never studied with another person before, so I guess I don’t have a real opinion.
“I’ve helped Yuki-chan with some of her homework, here and there… But that’s different, probably.”
Wow. What a mundane, stupid conversation. Is this how this is? Is this how normal people do it. Is this normal social behavior. If Midousuji didn’t have to just smack his own dick to quell his hair-triggered excitement, he’d hang up to save himself from this bland exchange.
But it’s kind of… okay. Midousuji likes it, he thinks. Thoughtfully, he tugs on his lower lip, trying to assess his own feelings.
“I don’t,” Midousuji drawls very slowly, distracted by his own processing. “really work… with other people…”
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Then Midousuji goes on, and Ishigaki stops typing- fingers hovering over the keyboard. He looks away from the bare bones of his paper, staring solemnly at the phone as Midousuji pushes out those last words. It's nothing to be surprised about, but still his mouth straightens into a faint frown. He knows Midousuji is academically blessed if not a hard worker, so there wouldn't be a solid reason he'd ever form a study group. But Ishigaki knows that's not exactly the case.
Ishigaki places his hands in his lap, already losing the little focus he worked so hard to build.
"I think, sometimes, it's less about the studying and more of... Someone to do those mundane, tedious things with." Ishigaki feels odd, having to explain something so basic. He's sure Midousuji already knows this, though- or at least knows that others do.
"It's the company. It makes things easier, I guess." He picks nonchalantly at his nails- thinking of his next words- something he's been doing a lot of since his recent dream.
His heart twists in the same way it did when he would spot Midousuji eating lunch at school, alone, in various out of mind places around the school, and how despite all his best efforts, Ishigaki could never sit down and have a meal with the boy that occupied so many of his thoughts.
It's easy to mistake what he feels with pity-- but that's not quite it. It's longing. It always had been. As that comes to realization, Ishigaki eyes widen, and he picks a bit too hard at his fingers, a bit too suddenly, ripping off a hangnail.
Ow.
Despite the stinging pain, he rubs his thumb over the other in silence, and continues on with a question full of selfish curiosity.
"You don't... have anyone you want to do those things with?"
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Midousuji scoffs, rolling his eyes. All other people have ever really done with any efficiency is carry out his orders or get in the way. And in the case of the former, it’s really just Midousuji using those people like limb extenders—not particularly helpful. The weight is always his in its entirety, but it’s by design. He knows he doesn’t work well with others, but also, there’s no need to fix what isn’t broken.
“I’ll never get—or be like—people like you,” he says with a deep, exaggerated roll of his voice, the dramatic extension of his tongue all the way out to its base root audible in the drop of his voice. “In other words: nope nope, I don’t.”
He pauses, then purses his lips in a funny sideways quirk, considering his own words carefully. What a stupid game of checkers they’re playing—and neither is aware that the other treads just as carefully.
“What’s your paper about.”
Midousuji decides, then, to pick at his lip, his toes flexing so that his feet cross from their anxious perch, knees still bunched up near his chest.
“We may as well at least try to be on subject. I wonder if you were hoping for an excuse to procrastinate, Iiiishigaki-kuuun.”
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"That's not true." Ishigaki says a bit too quickly, dismissing Midousuji's question completely- the words coming out before he can process them.
Midousuji's phrasing was clear. It wasn't meant to be up for debate. With him these things- human things- take time, slowly, like chipping away at an iceberg Ishigaki can't seem to see the end of.
But if the two go at the pace of Ishigaki's patience, he's sure he'll never see how human Midousuji can and deserves to be.
Still, to disagree with Midousuji so bluntly, so personally-- it doesn't settle right with Ishigaki quiet yet, but the safety their distance provides plays a part in his boldness. His heart thumps strangely in his chest, and his fists grip tight in his lap.
"I mean. If that's not true, then..." Ishigaki clarifies, stumbling over his words. "Then what are we doing right now?"
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It’s true to Midousuji. And that’s why he doesn’t know how to answer Ishigaki’s question.
“I don’t know how to answer that, because I’m not liiiike you,” Midousuji drawls, squinting in a way that seems bitter, but truly, it’s introspective. It’s not like he isn’t trying to bridge—but it’s also true that he’s annoyed to feel prompted to do so.
“I don’t want to do things like that with other people. Racing, homework, whatever—companionship is not a component of my wants. Or needs.” It’s almost derisive—venomous. Almost, but it isn’t. And even with Midousuji’s progress, it’s still an idea he resents—sure, he realizes the merit of relying on people in a mutual capacity now. He can let himself be soft enough to experiment with leaning into others where they can answer his deficits—facets long since neglected, for so long convinced they were something he could overcome. Which he couldn’t, because, ironically, in that regard, he was like other people; people needed people. But Midousuji’s clarity isn’t even quite there, yet.
To answer Ishigaki’s question, however…
Midousuji swallows uncomfortably, feeling tension rolling through his tired muscles in a way that causes him to curl a bit further in. His fingernail presses a harsh crescent, white and sharp, against the side of his lower lip.
This is Ishigaki’s ask for a favor. Not Midousuji’s. Midousuji is doing this because he has an obligation beyond novelty and inspiration to Ishigaki; if Ishigaki taught him about how one can derive strength from relying on other people, isn’t it obvious that Midousuji should transactionally thus posture himself as someone worth relying on?
But, wow, imagine saying as much—even if he even knew how to articulate it, just like that.
“For meee… tedium is made stressful by the company of other people, because we aren’t the same. It’s more efficient to do everything by myself, and that’s easier; opposite of you. What you’re describing makes things harder for me. So… what we’re doing is… you made a request, and I’m fulfilling it. Like I said…” Midousuji’s heart is hammering again, and he’s annoyed. He’s aware he can be misinterpreted for all this, and that’s irritating—but what’s more irritating is the simultaneous clarity that he doesn’t know how to express himself, and if he did, he’d probably deliberately withhold on that expression. “…it’s not as if I mind.
“Is…”
Midousuji pauses, then rolls on his back, rolling his eyes anxiously into their upper corners. His knees are still lifted, despite the change of position, his other arm tensing all its muscles and cords stiff across his bony shins.
“…that…inconsistent to what you know about me? Is it…bad?”
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But what?
Ishigaki's paper is non existent to him now, and the silence that fills the room feels unpleasantly loud. Ishigaki can't find the right words. His thoughts seem so ignorant- so simple- in comparison to Midousuji's words that he's sure to have already thought so much about.
What a lonely way of thinking, he judges, and he feels a ting of guilt in his chest for his self-centered point of view. But as Ishigaki looks back on their opposing life styles, with the weight Midousuji must carry trying to do everything himself, and with Ishigaki's life bursting with formed relationships, there's no positive way he can choose to view it. If not lonely, Midousuji surely must feel empty, shouldn't he?
In return to Midousuji's complex thinking, Ishigaki decides to reply simply in the end- sweat already forming on his palms before he speaks.
"I don't want to burden you with what I want, but I have to be honest. It's just... I want companionship. Friendship. Those sort of things... with you."
Ishigaki's hands are balled into fists planted tightly in his lap, and he's thankful Midousuji can't see his reddening expression. When confessed out loud, Ishigaki can't help but wonder if he shouldn't have asked Midousuji anything at all. But still, he continues to clarify, with his pulse drumming loudly in his ears.
"I know we're not the same. I don't think we have to be. It might be selfish, and I don't understand it myself, but I want you to feel those things too."
With the few moments passing between his words stretching out wide, Ishigaki hurriedly continues to fill the silence.
"Ah- um. Jeez, I'm sorry. I'm just talking about myself now, aren't I? I didn't mean to project..." Ishigaki stammers, with plenty of sheepishness in his voice. "Well, in any case, you're safe to exercise those things with me if you ever change your mind."
Ishigaki exhales heavily through his nose as if he hadn't taken a breath since he's spoken. Still, despite how simple words are, he feels lighter with his feelings aired out. He's surely said more personal, more 'gross' things, hadn't he? And so he takes comfort in the fact Midousuji won't run away from his exposure. Probably.
"And if you don't, then that's alright too. I like the way things are. I don't want to change you. But... I hope you'll consider me your friend, regardless."
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This is stressful. It incites panic. So why doesn’t he just hang up? He doesn’t have a problem with the idea—or at least, not for the right reasons. He doesn’t care about Ishigaki’s feelings (he’s pretty sure); it’s more that he doesn’t want to stop talking to him. But he’s pretty sure he can’t take much more of any of that. His mind is a hot, uncomfortable buzz.
I want you to feel those things too.
Midousuji parses it slowly, and it loops in his head in a way that makes his skin crawl. But he thinks about it, too—thinks about the uncomfortable, nibbling feeling, warm and unbearable in his chest with Onoda’s stubborn and ceaseless kind gestures despite all of Midousuji’s cold, hostile rejections—the premiere UNIT2 keychain sits on his desk.
There’s Yuki, too—and the rest of his family. Kindness and acceptance (tenuous, in Midousuji’s opinion—they don’t really know him, less so than even Onoda) he’s been too numb to properly receive, even now. But at least he’s becoming aware of it.
“Gross…”
And, of course, Ishigaki. The asshole in question responsible for all these uncomfortable, burgeoning and awakening feelings. It’s overwhelming, and overstimulating… but like Ishigaki says, it’s basically exercise. He’s getting stronger, in some capacity, but there’s always the worry that this won’t shake out in Midousuji’s favor; he’s only taking a chance on it because there was evidence it can make him a better athlete, in some capacity. He hopes it wasn’t a fluke.
Midousuji swallows as he listens to Ishigaki breathe out his nose, inspiring that unbearable yearn to be physically close; over the phone, those things are more easily heard than in person. Unless, of course, that person were very close.
When Ishigaki says he doesn’t want to change Midousuji, a sudden stillness sweeps over him—though there’s still tension in his body, it diminishes somewhat, and Midousuji rolls onto his side again, hand curled by his face with its twin resting against his futon. He blinks at his phone in his little horizon across his bedding.
He’d never gotten that impression, he supposes—though he hasn’t been made to think about it before.
These are all things that Midousuji could say—things that would be useful for giving Ishigaki some clarity. But of course, Midousuji does not say them. He wouldn’t know how, anyway.
His gaze dips. Though he’s caught in a gross, tender spot (asshole Ishigaki), he’s still irritated. If Ishigaki’s acknowledging Midousuji is tetchy about this stuff, then why the hell won’t he just relent and shut up?
He’s probably the opposite to Midousuji in this way too, he considers; keeping things in is unbearable, as opposed to expressing them being unbearable.
“Gross. You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Midousuji concludes in snappy order, and peeks back at his phone. And that’s by design, so he isn’t irritated about that; even besides his natural strangeness, there’s a reason why no one fully understands him, or makes certain assumptions about him. If it’s not their own organic inability to understand someone as different as he is, it’s because Midousuji has deliberately mislead them with a loathing, shit-headed smile down that path by their hand. “Why else would I be subjecting myself to your company? On purpose?”
Even this is so revealing that Midousuji’s fingers twitch, tempted to hang up again.
“Just because I don’t feel those things the way that you feel them doesn’t mean that I don’t feel them.”
Midousuji smothers his face against his blanket with an irritated shriek, then pulls it over his head, hissing as he hides. His voice is muffled, but he’s shouting, so he’s sure Ishigaki can hear him.
“Gross!! Gross, this is groooosssss!! Uncomfortable! So gross! Talk about something else or I’m gonna hang up on you! Ishigaki-kun!!”
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Although his heart beat hasn't quite come to a lull yet, his fists unclench inside his lap, and he leans back into his seat- now using his pent up energy to tap his feet happily on the legs of his chair instead.
Jeez, is that all it took to make him feel like a school girl?
He only feels a little guilty at how what brings him joy brings Midousuji waves of obvious, uncomfortable confusion. If his kindness didn't out weigh his thoughts, he'd consider spilling his pent up feelings out more often than he already has, or at the least, thank him for admitting what he has tonight.
Still, it was undeniably unnerving, being so sentimental with Midousuji- the last person to want to hear such a personal ramble- but the weight lifted off his shoulders from spilling a tidbit of what he really feels when there's so much more unfound, pent up emotions, is worth it, he supposes. Surely he was bound to pop if he hadn't.
When his ears pick up the sound of a distant, muffled screech, he laughs to himself sheepishly. "Oh? Is that such an awful thing to admit?"
And then that screech abrubtly turns into yelling, and Ishigaki is quick to recognize that his string of ill words only translates to unrecognizable, uneasy feelings. Still, it's enough to make him jolt straight up in his seat, and he hurriedly attempts to comfort him.
"I'm sorry- I'm sorry!" Ishigaki pleads. "I know that was a bit much. S-so please, don't yell..."
His eyes look away from his lap for the first time in a long moment, and he's met with a screen to remind him what he's been straying away from.
"Ah. Right. My paper. You asked about that, didn't you?"
Ishigaki gives himself a short time to looks over the little he's mapped out, then at the clock, and he sighs.
"I told you to keep me from getting side tracked, but you didn't listen," He teases, his voice indicating a mock-up irritation.
"Let's see... it's about buying trends of the current generation. Advertising to a younger audience... those sort of things. About as boring as it sounds."
Ishigaki smiles again- this time softly and at his phone. A smile for Midousuji he can't even see.
"...Is that better?"
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midousuji’s really agro and indirect way of going what did i do to deserve u (if u arent gay)
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ant tag for ants
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