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
Relying on someone isn’t bad. That can be contractual. Reciprocal. What he’s afraid of is being dependent. Needing. Wanting is okay. Relying is okay. Maybe it’s okay.
It’s like Midousuji can feel the epiphany he had back then, when Ishigaki had reciprocated the way Midousuji had caught his fall by catching Midousuji’s spent body. It’s like it’s shaken off the clinging hooks of the terry cloth fabric. It’s like he…can feel Ishigaki. It fills him with…a lot. New, scary, exciting, bad, good, weird.
He pauses, then turns towards Ishigaki, eyes wide.
What a stupid thought, actually.
Ishigaki is…right there. He glances back at the towel, then back at Ishigaki, mouth hung open moronically as his shitty, under-greased emotional gears turn. Eyes back on Ishigaki again, Midousuji realizes it—he looks at where the corners of his mouth are pink from the taught, vicious grip Midousuji had only just relented, and his eyes fall, nervously, to the pleasant, shapely swell of Ishigaki’s lips. Pretty. A little understated, but full. One of his many beautiful features—the amalgamation of which, ironically, being what used to make Ishigaki invisible to Midousuji.
Pupils contracting, Midousuji’s breath dries to a brittle inhale and pause, coming to a realization as his gaze distracts somewhere over Ishigaki’s shoulder, gobsmacked.
This is it, isn’t it?
What people feel—what they describe—portray—when someone wants to kiss another person, isn’t it?
Not that he can do that. One, he doesn’t know how. Two, he can’t be so audaciously honest. Especially not here.
However, the desire and impulse stirs his only just-cooled blood to a warm simmer, approaching hot.
“You’re gross,” Midousuji concludes. To him, that’s adequate praise. And he’s back to being focused on the towel, his knees childishly tented towards each other—partially childish nerves, and partially in fearful anticipation for what young blood does in young men. But, pleased, Midousuji gives the towel another little flip on it’s corners. In his juvenile, smitten revile, Midousuji bites his lip, eyes widening.
“Towel… Reliable. Towel??” Flap. “Grrrroosssss... Ickygaki-kuunnnn. Marrrrtyrrrr senpai perrverrrrt.” Flap flap. “Nasty hero ikemen. Dumb dam. Pile of thankless corny rocks.”
Midousuji doesn’t even realize what nonsense is spilling out of him, but he can’t pay it any mind. Sometimes, when he feels this way, words just…happen. Kind of relentlessly. He’s teeming with it, like the feeling he gets when he’s awarded a big win on a podium.
“Yucky.”
no subject
Ishigaki wants to brush his own thoughts aside, sure that it's just his own unresolved tension tugging at him, but it's clear Midousuji is observing him. He absent mindlessly parts his lips.
...Is something on his face? Even then it's not in character for him to care, or not blurt out a blunt statement towards it at the very least.
It's just in that moment where there had been enough laps in time for the attention to build in the same rewarding way a stray cat comes to sniff at your hand, where Midousuji does just what he was wishing he wouldn't. His word abrubtly put his thoughts to a stop, and his mouth closes shut.
Midousuji is always difficult to distern, but without any bane to his tone, his insults do fall flat. It's clear, though the hidden undertones not so much, that Midousuji doesn't mind the positive attention.
Ishigaki does feel uncomfortablly see through now, but the rewarding feeling bubbling inside him grabs him harder than any of those anxieties.
The corner of Ishigaki's lip quivers. He can't hold it back, and he snorts out a quiet laugh- turning his head into his shoulder when he does.
"Hey now, your gift was late- You can't say I'm that obsessive."
He straightens himself, his smile still there.
"Towel... Reliable... Hah. That wasn't intentional, you know?"
His eyes meet back to Midousuji's before his face follows suit. There was a time where direct eye contact with the other took some amount of courage, but he's not thinking of that now.
"It's funny how things work out that way," he goes on. "I'm surprised... That you remember all that. The spheel I gave you, I mean."
Though there has been plenty of time for that truth to settle, with Midousuji's change of heart becoming more clear each day even with his victory aside, the fact that those words- though partially, desperatly hoping- weren't meant to be heard at all is still true.
"Back then, the only time I could say those type of things were when you were passed out."
It's then it come across his mind that there were always underlying feelings ready to burst out. Always something he wanted to say, but just can't, so be found other ways to show it. Much like today, right now, how the gift the other is toying with will do.
midousuji’s really agro and indirect way of going what did i do to deserve u (if u arent gay)
Midousuji doesn’t truly think Ishigaki is quite that bad—but part of him is more than tickled with humoring it. Vindicated, almost. Titillated. Where it used to repel him, now it…
Well, is certainly—actively—doing something else.
In fact, the idea of Ishigaki being that way with anyone else incites an…unpleasant feeling. Like missing a step, where you thought there would be one; that’s the trouble with relying on someone. Relying on anything. Especially feelings, moreso than people.
What a dangerous feeling to indulge. But since his previous strategies have proven recently unsafe to fail, risk has its own appeal—curious and invigorating, like gambling.
Midousuji ceases flapping the towel, holding it by its corner with a dainty, sinister pricking pinch of his index finger and thumb, his broad torso contorting in a sudden turn as his other hand curls its bony knuckles at his mischievous grin, its shape mirror to the giddy crescents of his villainously, gleefully squinting eyes.
“I know,” Midousuji says suddenly, eyes widening. He leans forward, well into Ishigaki’s space, expression blank—but minutely curious. “I’m pretty sure I’d sensed it before, too—I’d felt your presence, in the tent. In the first Inter-High. You were talking to me then, weren’t you?”
Like the way a mother talks to the child in the womb.
It makes Midousuji wonder, and in such a way that his eyes wander, curiously, and with some terrified trepidation, to Ishigaki’s chest—briefly.
“It’s like trying to recall a dream,” Midousuji explains.
Midousuji’s eyes snap back to Ishigaki’s, and his towel-free palm sinks the fabric of the bench they share.
“The details aren’t ever immediate, but I always remember that annoying feeling—the words fall into place around it, and so too, the person…”
His hand raises, clutched and awkward, all too tense all the way to his shoulder. Midousuji isn’t sure what he’s attempting, nor resisting, but feels both in active action.
Midousuji’s eyes fall on Ishigaki’s mouth, and he realizes the feeling. It’s obvious, but so sickeningly typical, it’s almost enough to jar Midousuji immediately out of the moment—to turn with a sudden, jilted stand, stumble away, change the subject—but Ishigaki’s feelings have suddenly fallen into question for Midousuji, too. His intentions. He may still be high from his win, especially when the good-luck charm he so wants to stick his dick in has trapezed into the glow of Midousuji’s vicinity…
But Midousuji is perceptive, even in murky waters. Sometimes. Still, that doubt keeps him lingering. Part of him wants to take, regardless—that’s the surest way to find out, isn’t it?
Midousuji’s eyes narrow, and he grins again, narrowing his eyes wickedly. Maybe he could tease something out of Ishigaki.
“What kind of man goes out of his way to do that for another man in such a disgraceful position? A dutiful commander? Even when he’s left his fleet…”
Midousuji’s hand snatches—hard—around Ishigaki’s jaw, suddenly, and Midousuji’s shoulders shake as his other hand lifts, still clutching his terry-cloth gift, pressing it to his boyish, hygienist-perfect smile, full of gray intent.
His thumb presses, stroking forward, to the corner of Ishigaki’s mouth. Midousuji’s sneaky grin is bit beneath his front teeth, hissing out another little laugh.
“You could really lead someone down the wrong path, you know… Even you aren’t so obnoxiously good-natured with everyone. Or am I just that fun of a project, you nasty martyr?
“Fess up, Ishigaki-kun.”
He’s teasing.
Absolutely.
Just that.
no subject
The more Midousuji goes on, and the closer his personal space overlaps his own, the more Ishigaki feels uncomfortably see through. He shifts in his seat, mouth open to say something- focused on that word, obsession- but nothing comes out.
Ishigaki had just completely tattled on himself.
Before he can give a timely response, Midousuji's hand is characteristically quicker than he is. His words ring loudly enough in his ears to stray focus from the pain in his cheek. He's gotten used to it, anyhow.
But then Midousuji's thumb, as if apologizing for his hand's crude behavior, intimately brushes the corner of his mouth.
The tent feels increasingly humid, but he knows it's not the weather. He can slowly feel how flushed he becomes in the moment, head to toe, scarlet all over.
In return, Ishigaki sputters a choked, incomprehensible noise.
????
Fess... up?
Fess up??
He knows???
There's no way. The same man who can't handle Ishigaki's words of encouragement without tantruming is suddenly poised at the idea? ...But what else could he have meant by that?
His pupils quiver. Surely Ishigaki is projecting.
Those if, ands and buts circle rapidly inside his head, but he remains as unconfident as he is stupid. Even with Midousuji taunting him, unbothered, with an expression like he can read every thought Ishigaki has. He doesn't know if the little gesture of his thumb is power-play or his own way of saying thank you. Either or, its broken his head.
It becomes increasingly difficult to form much of a thought at all, let alone a reply, but he does, eventually, come to the realization that he's been staring, empty headed, in silence with his mouth hanging open like a doofus.
His jaw snaps closed, and he sneaks out a slow exhale once he notices he hasn't taken a breath in some time. He shifts his focus to a dusty corner of the tent for the sake of his heart rate.
"Y-yeah... You’re right. I did that then, too." He manages to confess, forcing out an awkward, breathy chuckle afterwards. The way Midousuji poetically described it is enough to keep his anxietes... somewhat grounded. He's not upset, at least. "You're difficult. I didn't think you'd listen otherwise."
Saying just that is enough for him to consider heading back to Tokyo. That maybe the several hour train ride here to embarrass himself like this wasn't worth it. But he stays frozen where he sits.
"I.... Back then, well, if it was someone else I might have been able to say those sort of things under..."
He pauses.
It's hard to get his words out of his throat; they feel heavy and thick like jelly, much like each passing second. Midousuji has seen it, he's sure. Easily picking up the broken peices in what the team had came to be. Giving plenty of corny encouragement from the heart after what what they'd been put through. It was as natural for Ishigaki as it was truthful.
But like everything else Midousuji has done since he's entered his life, he challenged that.
"Normal... Circumstances," he continues. When they're not passed out. When they can't verbally screech back like a hawk and attack his face. When they don't eat up his thoughts every moment of the day.
The silence from a dehydrated, overworked corpse is much more kind.
He shakes his head.
No- it's not kindness he needed. That much is obvious. He could handle what Midousuji threw at him. It was acceptance he needed. That Ishigaki could be his authentic self in return. And...
Lately, Midousuji has shown Ishigaki can show that side of himself freely. Not without backlash, but acceptance nonetheless he's sure.
So what's stopping him?
Much like the misunderstanding of that very day, where he withdrew his hand from cupping his face, he is hesitant.
Here Midousuji is, finally able to form a connection with someone like he had always hoped for, and here Ishigaki is wanting to ask for more than that.
It didn't seem fair.
"But- well- with you, saying those things... You don't make anything normal." He sounds increasingly frustrated with each word, and it's not rightfully directed at Midousuji. It's at the way his own voice so-slightly wavers. It's at the ringing heat in his face.
And mostly how he doesn't know what he's trying to convey.
He lightly places his fingertips to the gloved hand that grips at his face. His eyes flicker back up at him.
"It's... different with you. You make things different."
His expression mirrors the pitiful, tight feeling in his chest. The way he dips his eyes back down to the bench below them is apologetic.
The words sit at his lips, the chance he's painfully unprepared for hanging right infront of him. His pulse beats loud in his ears and it says "say it, say it, say it."
Maybe this is it.
...
No, no.
Surely he's fucking with him.
It's true, there's a shift in his character, but it's still Midousuji. But whether or not Ishigaki projects his own feelings doesn't change the obvious outcome.
Ishigaki retracts his hand. His lips form a tight thin line.
Again, he's grown so indecisive in his age.
Maybe he just needs to hear him say it. Maybe he needs to hear Midousuji tell him no.
And so Ishigaki opens his mouth, the first syllables forming-
The sound isn't loud when he hears the tent door flap open, but with the tension breaking the way it does, Ishigaki goes rigid.
Inside the entry way he sees cresent, knowing eyes staring back into his.
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Ishigaki's face is hot beneath his hands, and Midousuji's eyes stray in idle observation to this, taking in the darkening flush. His gears turn fast, with some faltering, almost mirrored by the minor flitting of his dark, matte irises as he downloads and parses Ishigaki. This situation. His eyes are pulled by Ishigaki's retracting hand, and Midousuji's eyes are then back on Ishigaki's.
Stupidly, despite his prior feelings and thoughts, Midousuji isn't sure why his heart is racing.
Ishigaki's admitting to his psychically perverted loitering, though with obvious strain. He wonders about that—what it means. Ishigaki isn't saying anything at all, and it frustrates Midousuji, but intrigues his curiosity—he finds all this hesitation saying something much more, but it's too implicit for him to understand. Right now, anyway.
Then Ishigaki suddenly tenses, and Midousuji can see that Ishigaki's spotted something to put him further on guard. Curious, Midousuji, still gripping Ishigaki's face, turns his slack-jaw gaze to the origin of the shift.
"Ah."
His eyes widen, subtly.
"Komari-kuuuun," Midousuji states simply, eyebrows raising.
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It was Midousuji who'd actually prompted him to meet with him once the race was concluded, regardless of the conclusion, though, of course, Midousuji was confident in its anticipated result. And this time, as before, he'd been right. And this was typical. Briefing, data exchange, espionage dossier admittance...
And while Komari is the type of person who can (now) roll with punches seamlessly, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been surprised—intrigued—by the sight he'd soundlessly come upon. Midousuji sitting with Ishigaki, of all people—a long retired, former captain—gripping his face as they share a bench. Too close, but not too suspicious, really. Midousuji, while loathing of uninvited contact, has never had any trouble assaulting other people with disturbed proximity at will.
How Komari envied his victims, that way.
So too, Komari notices Ishigaki's tension upon Komari's discovery, which is perhaps a bit revealing in and of itself. Maybe. Komari isn't psychic, nor uniquely experienced with people.
But he is experienced with certain things, on a personal level. The flustering, the flushing complexion under Midousuji's incredibly weighty, pressuring spirit and body...
Komari's eyes narrow when Ishigaki's gaze meets his, and his smile tightens mischievously, resting his body towards the pole of the tent where his palm lay against.
"Midousuji-san," Komari answers back, and tilts his head just so, pale cyan hair shattering in soft strands across his face. "I'm sorry. Am I interuppting?"
Midousuji gives pause, staring at Komari, and slowly turns his gaze back to Ishigaki. Another pause is held, and Komari's curiosity burns deeper for that. Midousuji lets go of Ishigaki's face, but not with the typical forceful push he tends to eject his subjects with; it's a soft drop, and with it comes Midousuji's tired, rickety standing. His body, glorious to Komari, is then turned to him, and Midousuji wipes his brow, tired, dry tongue flopping from the side of his mouth in the direction of where his head tilts.
"Noooo, no," Midousuji intonates. "This is different business. Unplanned."
"I see," Komari answers.
"We can do our brief later. I've decided it's better when I'm a bit more recovered. The same for you. You pushed hard."
"Certainly," Komari answers again. "Thank you."
"You have nothing to thank me for," Midousuji gripes, walking with a bit of a crunchy gait towards the exit of the tent. Komari steps back a little, giving Midousuji's large, clumsy body some clearance.
They lock eyes, and Komari's smile is something that puts Midousuji, even, a bit on edge. Midousuji answers with a scowling glare, and he snaps his jaw.
"That's Ishigaki-san, correct?"
"Irrelevant questions. Mind your business," Midousuji answers, and he parts the tent with his bony wrist, disappearing beneath the flap.
Komari then turns his eyes to Ishigaki, smiling cordially. He tilts his head, resting his smooth, poreless cheek against the back of his pretty, long hand.
"It's a pleasure to meet you."
Komari doesn't know it—that Ishigaki knows about him, from previously viewing the races. Or rather, Komari knows Ishigaki has been there. He recalls Yamaguchi talking to the other team members about Ishigaki picking up Midousuji's tired corpse, from when Komari had incidentally compromised his plans with Midousuji in the InterHigh of his own freshman year. But he doesn't know what Ishigaki knows, per se.
Or what his relationship with Midousuji was—is?—like. He has vague, almost baseless ideas. Yamaguchi griping about how he doesn't understand some implications about baseless loyalty from Ishigaki.
It makes Komari wonder if they're somewhere in the same neighborhood.
Probably not, right?
"I'm called Komari Kishigami."
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His heart does not still, and his palms stay sweaty.
He can't make sense of it now. But he knows, somewhere in his brain while it shudders to put the pieces together past every instinct that’s screaming at him that he's crossed his own invisible, made up line, that in the gleam of Midousuji's eyes… There was no hostility.
Still, the unanswered questions linger heavy in the air.
He shifts in his seat, facing the entrance fully in a disarrayed plan to follow after Midousuji for an answer, but the social obligation that is Komari arrests him to his seat.
And Ishigaki sits primly when he's spoken to- back straight and hands in his lap with a conscious smile. It's only now he realizes Midousuji had already left.
"Ishigaki Koutarou," he says as evenly as he can. "The same to you."
Komari doesn't settle his nerves any. This is the first time they're face to face, but it's always been apparent Komari has an unnerving assurance that he knows something everyone else doesn't.
Midousuji aside, Ishigaki doesn't have many social anxieties, but with an unearthly beauty and the pressure Komari gives in their compact tent, he wonders if he just might. Ishigaki can flatter himself and say he's level-headed, that he's easy to talk to, but he's not entirely a socialite.
He envies the difference in Komari for that. He's glad Midousuji has found someone in overlapping personalities, then.
There's a lull that wouldn't feel loud if Ishigaki wasn't so worked up. It leaves a made-up awkwardness while his smile hangs, forced to find a connection between the two.
"I've heard of you from Midousuji." Not good or bad, but being mentioned neutrally is a positive sign given his disinterest in everyone. "And I've seen you in the last few year's interhighs. And today, too. He's right, you pushed hard!"
There's a relief that a conversation is going. His pulse calms, if only a little. A distraction. Still, he looks away from Komari's all-knowing-ness to study the extra supply of coolers and spare bike parts hiding in the dusty nook of the tent, allowing the silence between them to settle this time. His nature of being captain wants to kick in- he wants to meet Komari with genuine praise on today's performance, for continuing to lift what still feels like his own team, the subtle shift in Midousuji since his arrival… All of it.
Instead, his posture slacks.
The new weighted worry has already seeded itself too far- skin still pin-pricked with angst. Ishigaki wished, suddenly, that he didn't have to second guess every emotion and urge that tugged at him.
A worried thumb brushes over his now neatly folded hands, and his eyes flicker back up to Komari.
"He's pretty intense, huh?"
Well, Midousuji is seemingly their only common ground. So it's not too misplaced, is it?
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The scenario, and moreso, Ishigaki’s demeanor, reveals itself plainly, like scrawled text of a written passage. It’s not a revelation, exactly, that Komari can read people very well—perhaps because of his diefic idol—but it’s because of that very same connection that his pupils momentarily contract, sharpening, honing, to a kill. His heart may also be racing not for exhilaration, but nebulous trepidation as well. But it enthralls him all the same, in equal parts. This feeling, the information passages, feel as though they tendril around and command his nobility—but his sharp, actualizing gaze is brief. His expression, while remaining calculating and aloof (as it always is), softens a little bit; a polite, high-class smile practiced—ingrained—since birth comfortably settle into place, and Komari holds this expression through the lul after Ishigaki’s similarly polite reciprocation to Komari’s own greeting.
With the unpredictable and whispy grace of a feather, Komari is suddenly by Ishigaki’s side. Ishigaki tells Komari that he’s heard of him from Midousuji, which peaks a spike of interest once again within him. It makes Komari wonder what Midousuji has said—Midousuji actually isn’t as cold as people seem to think, Komari believes, always finding himself confused in the face of those attitudes. In his opinion, Midousuji gives praise where praise is due; he’s principled that way. And Komari has received that praise. His prodigal capabilities are maybe outlined in this way; Midousuji calls him by his first name, trusts him as a tool in a way unlike the rest of the team, and compliments Komari’s skill and hard work. His competence. Midousuji gives no false positives, and doesn’t judge Komari’s carnal motivations. In fact, he encourages them—and so, here he is.
“Pushing hard is what this team does,” Komari answers breezily, still smiling as his eyes stick hard on Ishigaki. Despite his perfect party-host response, Komari understands Ishigaki’s praise isn’t without its own weight; Komari understands he’s the exception to Kyoto Fushimi in its own wright. It keeps his smile taught, as a rebellious debonair in a ball. Komari’s eyes remain sharp on Ishigaki, analyzing, hungry, and curious—but his poise remains nonchalant, despite his honed, apex honing. His exterior completely betrays the opposite inverse of his inner world and feelings in perfect tandem.
When Ishigaki doesn’t offer much of a follow up, Komari understands why immediately; Kyoto Fushimi meant so much to him, it can’t be a surprise that he’d be given some somber, reflective pause.
But Komari’s in luck—he doesn’t have to languish in that awkwardness for a second too long before Ishigaki’s feelings offer to Komari a gem. His eyebrows raise in excitement, but he’s otherwise just as composed as usual, in typical perfect tight-rope toeing of his actualized self.
“Yes,” Komari agrees, perhaps too eagerly, demonstrated by how he leans into Ishigaki’s space with wide eyes—but they narrow, feigning a mellow ripple. His knee bumps Ishigaki, and even Komari is unaware he’s scooted a little closer. His curiosity is hungry because of their common object, but not because Ishigaki himself is particularly appetizing to Komari’s hands—but somehow, more than slightly, he’s quite appetizing to his mind. If Midousuji gives uncharacteristic pause around Ishigaki’s name, why wouldn’t he have that curious hunger?
“He’s amazing like that, isn’t he?”
Komari looks away, taking deliberate measure to keep his expression from being too excited—in fact, he looks placid, stone-faced measured.
“I’d never been inspired once, in my life, before I met him…” Komari, ignoring, or perhaps, hiding, how his saliva becomes thick and plentiful in his mouth, turns back to Ishigaki, his smile remaining mild. “Was it something like that for you, too?”
Komari tilts his head, just a little bit, and brushes his hair behind his ear; he lowers his voice, increasing its rumbling deep in his sternum despite its hush.
“I think people are… prone,” he elaborates in soft, out-loud exploration, perhaps unconsciously desperate for a like-mind, “to misunderstanding Midousuji-san.
What do you think?”
ant tag for ants
And then he leans in with what seems to be the first uncalculated expression of his- intense and hardly controlled- and Ishigaki moves back in response, tucking his legs closer to himself and raising his shoulders guardedly. There's not enough background for Ishigaki to go off to know what Komari is normally like, but it's clear enough he's triggered Komari's interest, and Ishigaki, in itself, finds himself drawn to it.
His posture relaxes when Komari returns to himself, but Ishigaki still stares wide eyed, captivated.
"…Yes," Ishigaki agrees, slowly, like he's processing what Komari says as it leaves his mouth. It clicked, then, so suddenly that Ishigaki feels something sharp spark inside him. A feeling of long awaited connection.
And then he leans an inch forward himself, nodding with certainty and a glimmer in his eyes. "Yes, exactly!"
He returns with an assured smile, his eyes floating back to his lap.
"Even myself, sometimes... I, well. I actually hated him at first." Ishigaki admits more easily than he would like. "I thought he took everything I had built away from me. It was like I was… growing backwards, at first. But that wasn't the case at all."
And frankly, Midousuji didn't care if it was or wasn't, and that, of course, all had played its part.
"And now, I…" Ishigaki closes his mouth, catching himself. He doesn't want to tattle on himself, but he doesn't want to deny his own feelings, either. Because that was the whole point, wasn't it? What other reason than to come down uninvited from another region, with a novelty that he put too much time into picking out even the wrapping it came in, than for that to not mean something?
Ishigaki's expression shifts then, sinking into something further out.
"Well, now I can't imagine life without him."
And just as quick as it had left him, self-awareness finds him again, and Ishigaki stiffens and faces Komari once more.
"Ah, sorry!" He waves his hand dismissively. "I shouldn't be airing out all my past to someone I just met..."
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Komari's eyes go from wide to narrow, and his fingers curl in a crescent, hiding half of his smiling mouth. In tandem, his legs cross.
"No, no, Ishigaki-san." He appears more chipper than severe, now, though the mania bubbles in toil beneath the surface. "There's nothing to apologize for."
Komari inches just a bit closer.
"I never hated him... I was fascinated by him. Entranced, even," Komari explains, and he glances out the corner of his eye to the entrance of the tent, as though to check for his presence—or anyone else's. "Since middleschool, I used to watch him and his team... I was amazed by him, even though I didn't care about cycling."
Komari leans even further in, and his limp fingers, by his mouth, then fan like a private changing screen as he glances out the corner of his narrow eyes, looking like some high-collared, gossipy house hen.
"In some ways, Midousuji-san does take things away from us. Even me, but I couldn't resent it."
Then, Komari's grinning again, still speaking behind the wall of his long, narrow hand.
His voice hushes, just a bit.
"It wasn't curiosity, and he knew it... it was hunger. He knew why I was watching him, and he told me so. With his words, his sharp eyes, and his body...he took away my dishonesty. My modesty, and my shame. My chains."
He leans back suddenly with an animated bounce, like he'd said nothing strange at all, his smile bordering polite again—bordering. "You know?"
Komari doesn't understand, but isn't afraid, either—but it's a little strange, that this is kind of turning him on a little bit.
"Being polite is well and good, Ishigaki-san... but it's hardly exciting."
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"Now- Wait a minute-"
Komari's shamelessness must have scared Ishigaki somewhere, so much so that he doesn't notice he's leaned away as if he might as well have some sort of plague. Ishigaki is plenty aware of his own feelings now, obviously. He wouldn't have come down here for something so corny or sentimental if he wasn't. Though his affection is still uncomfortably new, he has worked hard not to be crushingly ashamed of the realization alone. Surely anything more bold than today would be too much- too rushed, too uncalculated.
But this… this is entirely different. Komari looks at him with eager, laying his own adoration out so plainly when Ishigaki has only flirted with the idea. Despite hardly knowing the other, he has the inkling of a feeling that, terrifyingly, Komari is holding back if for no other reason than to be polite.
Komari returns to himself, unphased, and although that leaves Ishigaki blinking rapidly in bewilderment, the needed space is enough for his guarded shoulders to drop, if only a little.
"Hunger- hah- Well, I," Ishigaki attempts with a dismissive wave of his hand and eyes pointedly elsewhere, and when it comes out of his mouth dry and an octave too high, he clears his throat to try again. Separating the word is a fumbled attempt on its own not show that Komari hit the nail right on the head, he realizes, but Ishigaki is still desperate to save himself from the obvious. He's sure that Komari must know he has the knack for making people uncomfortable, anyhow…
"Now, that's a strong word. There's really not much there between him and I compared that, I'm sure..."
He shifts awkwardly, looking as if he wants to leave. Even in the moments Ishigaki has succumbed to fantasy about him, it has been purely motivated by his subconscious. Ishigaki has accepted it, but not out of his own effort. Is acknowledging it not enough?
Ishigaki expression softens then- replaced by something far away.
"I wouldn't even know if my…" He pauses. "Honesty, would be as well received by Midousuji. Surely, it..."
Couldn't is what Ishigaki would go on to say, but a far off memory then, slowly, floats into his head. A memory of Midousuji, mouth wordlessly agape, when Ishigaki had given his melodramatic speech with unthinking urgency, knowing full well that it would be the last message he could leave before he would fall to an otherwise bathetic end. That Midousuji was pure hearted, and to a fault.
Ishigaki was, and always has been, incredibly honest.
"You two must be very close if you've known him for so long..." He goes on, and he wonders if he should stay flattered by their mirrored interest, but he feels something foreign twisting in his stomach instead.
"Midousuji, he... certainly has a knack for reading people that one wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of." He says, and he's finally gained enough clarity for his eyes to meet Komari's again. "Do you really think he can see those things?"
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No, he does not perceive Ishigaki as a threat; Komari has his feelings for Midousuji, and they are there. In his own way, he has feelings for Midousuji. And so does Ishigaki—but Komari, despite having so little go off of, having so many recursive thinking skills from his novels alone, he knows that Ishigaki’s feelings are of a totally different sort. Ishigaki is not a threat, because despite his attraction to Midousuji—which is spiritual and also very much psychically visceral—Komari doesn’t want Midousuji, nor want of him.
If anything, there’s a type of arousing validity in someone else understanding the undeniability of the object of his attraction. In some ways, Midousuji is more special to Komari; what he represents, the way he’s freed Komari… but love is special as well. This mundane, innocent romantic feeling is something Komari understands, even if he doesn’t personally relate to it. What that means… who knows. It’s not a consideration arrived that inspires bad feelings or insecurity, so there’s no pressure or obligation to dwell on it.
He laughs, breezy and airy, when Ishigaki blinks, leaned back and flustered. He knows where that comes from, in a way, as well—maybe not the specific root, but the feeling. And the derision is where the commonality is, nevermind the hair-splitting specifics: it’s the taboo of not only being a man who’s attracted to other men, but more taboo yet: loving Midousuji, in whatever unique way that may mean to the individual.
Ishigaki’s hand fans back and forth in a dismissive wave as he stumbles into his response, and with a pointed smile, Komari’s hawk-sharp eyes watch each back-and-forth of that motion, then fix back onto Ishigaki—deep, straight into his eyes as Ishigaki clears his throat.
“Oh,” Komari says, with regards to the ‘comparison.’ “Is that right?” He laughs quietly, in the back of his throat—a high-class chuckle, so perfectly patient civil as his eyes upturned closed. “You’re sure. How interesting.”
The hunger, in context to this exchange, was Komari explaining his melding to this karmic fate of meeting Midousuji and being turned upside down by him, was beyond hunger. It’s to the perspective of the one who is changed by Midousuji—thus, when Ishigaki says he’s sure that there’s not much between them in comparison, it entices Komari’s curiosity to interrogate Ishigaki’s shadow. The ‘sureness’ in that context is between Ishgiaki and himself; they aren’t even speaking on Midousuji’s feelings.
That careless word choice, thus, reveals a lot. Komari wonders if Ishigaki wishes that Midousuji had a similar infatuation, expressed bare without mystery. But Komari doesn’t know their relationship, either; his curiosity, however, surely grows.
“And what’s the merit in that kind of thing being received ‘well’?” Komari challenges curiously, and his smile breaks to show his teeth, still leant forward into Ishigaki’s space. This statement from Ishigaki confirms Komari’s suspicion about Ishigaki giving himself away, accidentally talking about Midousuji’s interest when that was never the subject. Now, his thin, long fingers twirl his hair about between them, like the gossiping schoolgirls who pointlessly lust after him.
It’s an admission, isn’t it? That he’s interested in Midousuji, in whatever capacity that is, same or different. And Komari knows Ishigaki is Midousuji’s former captain—he also knows Yamaguchi has such high, idyllic sentiments towards Ishigaki, though rarely and only briefly expressed.
Just as there’s something about Midousuji, undeniably, there’s a little something about Ishigaki. Komari’s not sure if he buys it, but he’s wondrous in good faith at all times. So he’d like to think.
Ishigaki continues with insinuating musing that they’re close—and he looks down, smiling softly, still absently twirling his hair as he hears, and thinks.
“In a way,” he answers breezily, but doesn’t go further, more interested in what else Ishigaki has to say. And when Ishigaki finishes his words with a question, Komari’s eye’s pinpoint in their centers as he looks up to Ishigaki, his smile almost wicked with curiosity.
“See what things?” he asks, betraying his own excitement, perhaps unaware to how obvious it is, thinking he’s keeping his cool.
Komari chuckles low again in the back of his throat, and extends a hand—Ishigaki doesn’t look like much, but for Midousuji to humor him… Is the context purely professional? Is he like that sleeper bodily power-house, like that Sakamichi? Or is it something else? Komari’s smile neatens, and at the same time, in the same fashion, his thin fingers, with their beautiful, long nailbeds, straighten out the collar of his shirt.
“If you mean desire… well: yes. Certainly. If you have desire,” Komari says quietly with deliberate vagueness, but sternly enough in a way that it’s clear Ishigaki’s the only one meant to hear it, “he can certainly see it. He knows desire better than anybody. If anything, I think his eyes are sharpest of all with that kind of thing. He sees, measures, and judges desire.”
Komari’s eyes drop with curiosity, his hands stilling. Briefly, he wonders: where does that barometer come from? He’s 100% confident what he says is true, but that must be from a basis of comparison, right?
What does Midousuji desire?
Komari softly retracts his fingers from Ishigaki’s collar, and the side of his index finger rests against his lips as he smiles.
“It’s kind of you,” he shifts, eyes flicking back up to Ishigaki with that calculated, casual smile. “for you to still show up to Midousuji-san’s competitions… despite having long been graduated, as his captain.”
Tilting his head, Komari’s eyes remain fixed on Ishigaki.
He knows he’s going too far—his adrenaline is pumping, but you’d have know way to know it without having a hand against his heart. He’s pushing it; he’s being impolite, but it’s rare to find an of kin. In the conventional queer sense, sure, but also in the sense of so desiring such a unique, easily misunderstood muse.
“You have an unmet desire in knowing Midousuji-san, don’t you?”