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
Midousuji's eyebrows furrow incredulously, hands finally leaving his red forehead, jaw dropping as he scowls in confusion.
"Haaa??"
How was that a normal reaction? Even Midousuji knew what he was doing was weird, and inappropriate—but it also felt like it was his only avenue available per his limitations...Which probably wasn't true, but honestly, Midousuji doesn't know his own ass from his hand in these situations. His chest flutters, stomach twisting in a way that's nauseating, thrilling, and frightening at the same time. His response to that tight, strange feeling is to exhale heavily from his nostrils, turning his head away with a hard scowl as he edges his lightless irises to the corners of his eyes, staring at Ishigaki in a way that would appear aloof to the untrained eye. To those who know Midousuji well enough, of course, it's not just dismissive; it's actually just shy.
"What are you so worried about starling me for?" Midousuji can't admit directly that Ishigaki should be worried for himself, since Midousuji was...stalking him... But maybe that's not perchance so obvious at this juncture. Maybe Midousuji was passing through, and wasn't sure it was Ishigaki that had caught his eye!
...Unlikely...
Why did he do this? Fuck. He has to escape.
Then Ishigaki says it's nice to see him, and Midousuji's pupils contract to near pinpricks, his scowl deepening hard enough for the cords of his neck to pull and protrude, and he feels a sweat break out across his flesh, subtly, here and there.
"Nice...t-to—?" to see him? What?
Midousuji turns his head away abruptly; his spine suddenly bends at a forcible angle away from Ishigaki, yanking down both of his eyelids, eyes rolled upward as his knees buckle akimbo.
"Grosssss...!! Gross, Ishigaki-kun!! Agh!"
Midousuji rubs his face, huffing heavily, and seems to calm down a bit, because he stops screaming, or moving frenetically. But, he's frozen in place, bent in that same awkward, severe pose. He feels like he can't even look at Ishigaki. He's too brilliant; too radiant. Too bright, too sparkly. Since when did it get like that? Did something change, or Midousuji only just come to notice? His heart is racing, like his life is under threat. And it really feels like it, too. He's not positive he isn't gonna die.
"...Of course I'm fine. I just—I wanted—I..."
Wow. He can't even say it. He can't even get close.
no subject
Midousuji's accent was oh-so-comforting, and despite him putting on a show in front of Ishigaki, he finds his shoulders relaxing at the familiarity As much as he would like to think Midousuji had matured as a third year now, he still liked making everything as dramatic as possible, didn't he?
Bewildered that what he thinks he sees is Midousuji's ears flushed a nice shade of pink before he hides his face away, Ishigaki's heart twists up, giving a few off-beat pumps that almost make him dizzy. Was he that embarrassed? That was new, he thought, but he quickly tucked that fluttery feeling away for another time. If Midousuji thought what he had just said was gross, well, then what he actually felt would be revolting.
Ishigaki lets Midousuji stammer for a moment as he redirects his own thinking elsewhere, hoping a reply would come, but it never does.
"Ah," Ishigaki says, his thoughts clicking together finally, "you're here to check out Meiso aren't you?
midousuji: thank you for this pass to be a shithead
Midousuji blinks behind the shield of his thin hands. That makes sense. Midousuji of course feels similar, and Ishigaki probably has no idea that Midousuji wants to see Ishigaki, so it's not like Ishigaki knows he can just contact or approach Midousuji directly without some purpose behind it. And wouldn't you know? Ishigaki has opened up an opportunity with his next question for Midousuji to reveal just that: to go no, I actually just wanted to be near you, that some outside factor doesn't need to be the facilitator...
...so of course, naturally, Midousuji doesn't do that, though it does pop to mind. But like hell if he's going to admit something so vulnerable. Something so gross. Especially when Midousuji doesn't fully understand it himself! The opportunity Midousuji sees as presented is a convenient out; an escape from the panic that had become onset from being put on the spot about something he (somehow) wasn't prepared to deal with.
He lifts his head, fingertips at his chin, slightly pulling down his lower lip as he blinks at Ishigaki.
"Yes," Midousuji lies easily, and immediately. "Meisou."
He tilts his head, straightening up a bit, the ruse giving him the confidence he so direly needs to not spontaneously explode on the spot. His eyes narrow a bit, and because the ruse feels more characteristic for him in general—like if this was anyone but Ishigaki, this would of course be the case, and it's easy to imagine, to slip into the role—and his head slowly tilts to one side. Midousuji's finger hooks his mask, pulling it under his chin. A complete recovery, like Midousuji didn't just make a total clown of himself by slamming his forehead (still a little red) into a the pole he was (badly) hiding behind.
"After all, you may be leaving soon, but I'm just about to enter university, and I intend to compete." Midousuji grows a slow, sneaky smile, looking mischievous. Yes. This makes sense more than the reality, being that Midousuji was drawn to Ishigaki's physical presence out of overwhelming gratitude and appreciation he doesn't know how to quantify or parse. He does...at some point...want to talk about the 43rd Interhigh; his victory achieved. Ishigaki had come to see Kyoto Fushimi race, and had seen Midousuji's win. That bore a hole in Midousuji as well, the fact preoccupying him and frenzying his mind and feelings like all the other things. Ishigaki always came to oversee his former teammates; now, there'd be no familiar faces. Those of Midousuji's years were the last one. "Meisou is a well repudiated team, especially having absorbed one of Kyoto Fushimi's among the ranks of Hakone titans; it's important to get a bit of an edge."
Midousuji's fingers daintily cover the straight lines of his teeth framed by his impish smile, shoulders hiking with a childish, light laugh.
"Though I'm not sure how quickly you'd sell out your team's secrets, especially since you aren't quite done yet... That'd be pretty naughty of you. Who is Ishigaki Koutarou-kun more loyal to: Kyoto Fushimi's Midousuji Akira-kun, or his nice pals from Meisou~?"
Re: midousuji: thank you for this pass to be a shithead
Meisou a worthy component? Of course it would be, but... to hear it out loud- it was nice. Ishigaki grasped at that compliment, if that's really what it was. That intention was doubtful, but it didn't hurt to pretend, did it? Even if Ishigaki was unsure if he had ever gotten through to him- if there was an impact on the other's life- or if Midousuji's success was from his talent and that alone. But for Midousuji to think of the team Ishigaki helped build these past few years, maybe that was enough to satisfy his own desperation.
"You make it sound like I can't say no to you." And he was half right. If this were a few years ago Ishigaki wouldn't have ever been in the position where he could decline his request. He cursed himself for even having to give a second thought to that question.
Ishigaki, in the midst of being teased, notices that his own neck is craned up more than he remembers it ever being. It was clear Midousuji was towering over him. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that he had grown... he wasn't that 15 year old boy anymore, but jeez- hadn't he been tall enough? He shifts his gaze- being unable to bring himself to make eye contact with being tantalized on top of that, but he continued on.
"I can show you around, but that's about it. I mean, with what you already achieved this year, you might not have much to worry too hard about, right?"
no subject
When Ishigaki brings up the Interhigh, Midousuji pauses, smile dropping—but it comes right back, and he giddily snaps his neck to the side, his hand cupping the lower half of his face.
"Oh, I'm not worried..." Midousuji glances back at Ishigaki, delighted to the pit of his stomach and the tips of his fingers. He feels revitalized, somehow; invigorated by Ishigaki's proximity, Ishigaki's indirect subservience, and praise. It's funny, how it's like a rush—one that makes him feel warm. A little over-energetic.
This wasn't at all his original intention in coming here, but Midousuji had no intention besides...just...being around Ishigaki. So: he's winning.
"Well, lead the way then," Midousuji croons, extending his long neck in Ishigaki's direction.
"Your continued service is appreciated adoringly, Ishigaki-kun~ Still such a good boy."
no subject
"....... Right." Was all he could manage.
What the fuck was that?
Ishigaki doesn't dare to speak any more than that, afraid he can't without stammering or without his voice cracking like a prepubescent boy.
There was no reason to stiffen at his words, he knows that. His mind was just in the gutter, he tells himself. This is nothing new. Ishigaki following orders- enduring the abuse for the betterment of their team- that that was their thing. Maybe the time spent away from each other, living around normal human beings, made him forget that. Midousuji's turn of phrase would sound different out of context to anyone, right? Yeah... that was it.
Ishigaki continues walking, clearing his throat before his awed silence carried on too much longer.
"So," he begins, desperate for a change of subject, "what do you plan to do once you're out of high school? I assumed you'd become an athlete."
no subject
Well, it made sense, Midousuji supposes, squinting a little bit. People change... and it's not like they see each other all that often. But the idea of Ishigaki becoming a different person without his scrutiny makes his blood boil. It's strange to find himself deciding that's such an unacceptable reality...
It couldn't have been so much, could it?
Midousuji's eyes roll up, his lips shifting to make kind of an odd lemon shape around his teeth, contemplatively pulling his skin from the weight of his hand rested against his chin. Midousuji had been changing, after all. It wasn't natural feeling, though; all of Midousuji's changes and growth always felt so willfully onset, like he had to deliberately shape himself... Not like other people, who just did it by their nature. Maybe.
Midousuji finds himself staring at the back of Ishigaki's neck, his eyebrows raising inquisitively, finding himself increasingly curious about Ishigaki.
Then (thankfully?), he's jarred out of his thoughts when Ishigaki begins inane, neurotypical small talk. Midousuji rolls his eyes, his tongue flopping out of his mouth as he makes some guttural noise of complaint.
"Obviously," Midousuji answers, tugging his mask back up once his tongue is properly stored in the confines of his terrible mouth. "That's been the plan since I was 9."
And it would be a laborious endeavor, but that was life anyway. And besides, though it took a long time to start to make anything but a piteous wage as a pro road racer, Midousuji could get there quicker than others. Because of talent and hard work, yes, but because he wouldn't have to juggle some shit j-o-b awarded by his degree at the same time. There had been a reason Midousuji had been so frugal, his whole adolescence—he had to get good fast so he could make a decent wage, and protect as much of his inheritance as possible. He wasn't yet due to inherit it, but he would be soon—and he had to plan carefully. But he knows his mother would want for him to chase his dreams, even if his reasons for chasing them aren't all that healthy. Not that Midousuji's so self aware.
"Get some dumb degree to appease my family, then dedicate myself to going pro."
Midousuji turns to Ishigaki again, his long, slow strides finally putting him at pace with Ishigaki. He peers down at him, his heart doing a funny, nervous leap, anxious regarding the answer he might get to his coming question.
"What about you? You're nearly at the end of another road yourself."
Probably, before Ishigaki graduated, they'd only have a couple of races together as college athletes. The idea of Ishigaki as an opponent instead of an assist is strange, but kind of exciting.
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It's a difficult staying side by side with the starting rush of morning commute, but he sticks close enough, his shoulder almost brushing against Midousuji's as he continues onward. Silence stretches between them as he ponders his question.
"I don't know actually," Ishigaki eventually admits. Going to school for his family's sake hit close to home. It's what they wanted, it's the socially acceptable choice- reminded others more than himself that he was going somewhere in life. It was what he was supposed to do, but it didn't fill any voice in his life. Cycling was his best option, but when next to a child prodigy like Midousuji, that dream feels inadequate.
"I got options. I miss Kyoto, I want to go back. But... I can't stay there forever." He continues, shifting his gaze elsewhere. Here Midousuji was with a future so bright, and Ishigaki two years in with nothing to show for. "Not a lot of job opportunities, you know? Running my dad's shop just seems like too easy of an option. And it doesn't make all that much..."
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"You can do pro anywhere," Midousuji says, feeling something in him twist uncomfortably. More of that flighty, nervy feeling. Probably because Midousuji is pushing an obvious bias—and not because of cycling itself. He stares directly at Ishigaki again, his imposing figure leaned somewhat in his direction as they walk, though he's not intentionally putting on pressure. But his eyes widen, just a bit. Midousuji wants Ishigaki to stay pedaling—he wants him to go pro, because he desires that continued overlap of purpose. But Midousuji, even for his manipulative streak, is also honest; besides, that kind of psychological warfare was mostly for races themselves...
"But, pro cycling doesn't make a lot of money either, at first. It takes time. If you're a slave to your passion, it would work well for you—but to be honest," Midousuji goes on, tilting his head a little. "—lots of entry level jobs for people fresh out of college are similar. A tenured grind for a reward.
"In my opinion, there's not much money to be had anywhere right at the gate unless you chose a prestigious field specifically for its income. So, Ishigaki-kun...I'd say..." Midousuji's teeth snap, from behind his mask.
"It depends where your heart is."
gives u the worst reply in the world ^_^
When he glances up again, he's met with Midousuji's deep, lightless eyes. Ishigaki searches his face, as if it would give him the answer either of them were looking for, but his shoulders slump, defeated.
"I guess I don't know where that is." Ishigaki is thankful, though, for receiving an answer so- in his perspective, at least- thoughtful. Midousuji was most likely just stating what he felt was obvious, and a ping of guilt builds up in his chest for depending on the other for an answer so plain.
"You're right, though. And I don't have a lot of time to left to decide." He attempts to shift his tone of voice to something more light-hearted. "Hah... Maybe I've just been slacking without you telling me what to do all the time."
ITS NOT A CONTEST
As the walk, Midousuji isn't looking at Ishigaki, his finger absently hooked at the edge of his mask, kind of as a place to just tuck it cuz it's cozy, though it looks like Midousuji might be preparing to take off his mask at any given point. It's just a fidget.
"The way you think is like that. Meandering. Big. Too big. You consider too much, and you think about too many types of things. Then, a lot of your thought process is emotional, on top of you having such a complex tree system of any one thought. When emotions get involved with decision making, it becomes difficult."
Midousuji glances at Ishigaki through the corner of his eyes, a bit too skittish to face him fully, given the nature of what he's divulging. It's maybe a little personal for Midousuji, despite how it sounds like it's solely revealing for Ishigaki.
"I think you only thought more clearly with me around you all the time because I can easily tunnel my focus. I shed emotional reasoning, and the options left bare without their more sensitive 'what-if' aspects, you tend to see that I'm right, even if you sometimes don't like it."
Midousuji tilts his head, rolling his eyes and his crown away from Ishigaki, indeed now feeling a bit shy.
"...and in turn... Gross... You probably don't even know it, do you? It's recent, but... you sometimes provide clarity where I need it, because I don't understand those things... So, it's a balance."
The implication, being, that perhaps—they're both a bit off balance without the other to anchor them. Symbiotic. Midousuji's eyes narrow. He hasn't the stomach to admit it out loud so directly.
Shit. Why did he say that, actually... Well, it makes sense, because Midousuji wants Ishigaki to resume cycling... or to stay in Kyoto. Is it bargaining? Manipulation?
Maybe. But it's also true. That's why he's revolted.
Re: ITS NOT A CONTEST
Rambling on and on... About... Me?
"I didn't know.... you thought of me that much..." Ishigaki speaks quitely compared to the bustling streets around him, his eyes darting anywhere but on Midousuji. His face feels hot, and he can hear his pulse thumping in his ears.
"I left an impact on him...' Ishigaki thinks, his thoughts loud. "I got through to him..."
Ishigaki struggles to holds back a goofy grin, because he knows Midosuji well enough that he'd smack it right off his face, but he manages. His hand grips tighter on the strap to his bag while he steadies his breathing, gaining control of his thoughts.
"I never stopped thinking about you either. But... I'm sure you already know that." If any of the confessions Ishigaki spilled to Midousuji's lifeless body after each Inter High were actually heard, maybe Midosuji would really understand that, if his devoted actions as a captain weren't obvious enough. But Midousuji was a dense man.
"I'm sorry you have to go out of your way to pep talk an adult. I guess I'm still leaning on you like this, even three years later. Sad, huh?"
"But, hey." As if Ishigaki could not make the conversation any less gay, he continues on, nudging his elbow into the others side lightly. "Your way of sharing your thoughts is kinda poetic, you know?"
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Then Midousuji reels back a little, his snarl turning into a disquieted frown, looking almost horrified. Ishigaki's face... Why is it pink!! Stupid, gross pink!
And indeed, expression flashing back to furious, Midousuji almost snatches Ishigaki's face in a harsh, single-hand grip; his shoulder lurches in preparation, his arm muscles tensing, and he makes another stupefied expression. His hand reels back, fingers curling
gaylyby his chin, like he'd almost touched something covered in ants."Leaning on me..." Midousuji yanks his mask up, the line of it across his face a little crooked, eyes narrow as he glares away, brow gnarled for no particular reason. He grinds his teeth behind his mask. "Don't be ridiculous. You aren't leaning on me at all."
That's right. Midousuji was pulling for a team Ishigaki cared for—but it wasn't like Midousuji had anything to support for Ishigaki, anymore. He was the blood of all of Kyoto Fushimi, so of course Ishigaki was relying on him.
There's nothing to rely on, now. Midousuji's perspective was a paradigm conduit of sorts, perhaps, but with such casual touch-and-go, infrequent contact... how did that have any weight?
Midousuji jumps with a startled hiss when he feels Ishigaki's elbow in his ribs, then his eyes widen; his long arms shoot up like he's seen a spider (in a world where Midousuji is afraid of things like bugs), one of them akimbo. That—he—
Frankly, he doesn't know what to do with that. Midousuji smashes his gloved palm against the side of Ishigaki's face, shoving him very unnecessarily away with a screech. It's subtle, thanks to his crooked mask, but Midousuji's face is just a bit warm—the tips of his ears give him away, though.
"Stop ittt!!! Ishigaki-kun! Nasty!!"
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He opens the lock screen of his phone. In the corner there's a small blue icon of a text box. It perks his interested, but it's only his bank reminding him he's about to overdraft if he's not careful. It's stupid, he knows, but at every buzz his phone has made this week, his mind immediately wondered if it was Midousuji finally, willingly, reaching out to him.
Just as he foresaw, there was nothing. Ishigaki was conscious enough to know that if Midousuji had anything necessary to say, he would say it. And like most things to Midousuji, there was nothing of interest.
He rolls over on his side, a heavy breath leaving his nose as he opens his list of contacts. There's a lot he wants to tell him, but he keeps his text simple:
Fukutomi and Shinkai want to celebrate finishing finals! We're eating out tomorrow. If you're bored enough, you should come.
Midousuji had no connection to the two past cycling, and Ishigaki's first assumption is that Midousuji didn't intend to form one, but he knows Midousuji is changing- that he has people, plural, in his life. He's a few steps behind, but he's growing, and Ishigaki smiles at the thought- something fluttering inside him.
Ishigaki wonders if his message is convincing enough, but is soon reminded of the sweet, earthy smell Midousuji's packed lunchboxes smelled of in high school.
I'll pick a place with eel.
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When he finally had his own thoughts again, Midousuji was half way home. He stood with his leg kicked out to the side, staring blankly ahead of him, eyes unfocused. He wondered if this would be it. If this is the start of how they naturally begin to drift apart, just as Midousuji begins to covet his presence.
What an awful thing to do someone like Midousuji, he thinks, using his teeth to yank his glove more securely over his wrist—and continues onward.
The natural, obvious solution is to of course simply be more aggressive in asserting himself into Ishigaki's life. Make time. Communicate. But Midousuji's fondness terrifies him, and paralyzes him. It was a miracle he'd even managed to do the highly illogical and drastic measure of commuting all the way up to Tokyo just for a chance to see him—both extremely extra and immeasurably coy.
As Midousuji waits for the light to change, he thinks of Ishigaki's praise for his manner of speaking, fingers curling over his mouth as his eyes fall a little bit. People, from time to time, complimented the cadence of Midousuji's accent when they were feeling bold... but his particular manner of speaking, or how he chose to convey things... the last person who had complimented him for that sort of thing was the last person who ever really, really listened to Midousuji.
His heart clenches, and beneath his mask, he bites his lip, his ears burning again as he sets his pedal.
"Disgusting."
He kicks off the second the light lets him.
Once finally home, Midousuji carefully stores his bike where it belongs, where the memory of his mother pulls harder on his brain. The emptiness inside of him feels more needily vacant than usual, which makes Midousuji realize that for a moment, he'd forgotten his hollowness a little bit, maybe.
Scary.
Midousuji cleans up for bed, changes, rolls out his futon, and flops lifelessly onto his back. After about 20 minutes of staring into nothing, his mind a frenetic, disorganized replay of his day, Midousuji rolls onto his side, and he absently begins to pick at his lip.
What Midousuji was desiring was Ishigaki's nearness.
That just wasn't fair.
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More disturbingly, his own intentions and desires have gradually distorted—or maybe, come into clarity. A week later, at the memory of Ishigaki's petal-pink face and instances where he was near enough for Midousuji to feel his warmth and smell his cologne, Midousuji feels his body awash with hot tingles that makes him grit his teeth and scrape his nails down his face. When it happens the night after that, Midousuji has a screaming fit about it, kicking around and flailing in his bed, the duvet of his futon discarded haphazardly so it's crumpled, half across the floor. His breathing is rapid, expression cross and teeth grit.
"I refuse," Midousuji growls at nothing in particular, then whaps both of his hands against his face, rolling side to side as he shrieks again. He settles on his side, quieting, and finally lifts his head, eyes rolling up with an extremely annoyed, resigned frown, both of his eyelids yanked down.
His dick's hard.
"Is this what this is? Really?" Midousuji lowers his head with an offended, disgusting scowl. Midousuji yanks the elastic of his boxer briefs, peering into the shape of himself mostly hidden in the darkness of his drawers. "Absolutely not," Midousuji shouts, then snaps the elastic, rolling his head up as he grabs fistfuls of his hair. "Gross... Why..."
The fucked thing is, this isn't the first time it's happened, since meeting up. Midousuji feels like he just keeps setting traps for himself, then falls ass backwards into them.
Midousuji's face burns as memories cast their curse through their gentle floating through his head, and he growls out a long, graceless sound from the back of his throat. He screws his eyes deeply shut, tucking his face against his shoulder, almost hiding—and gathers a bite of the fabric of his tee in his teeth as he stiffly shoves a hand down his boxer briefs. He huffs heavily through his nostrils, revolted with himself, and his back rolls with an arch that ends with his hips pushing forward against the slow, hesitant, but deliberate grip of his hand.
"Ishhhhigakiiii-kunnn," Midousuji hisses resentfully, eyes opening to slivers. This couldn't be normal. You decide one person is worth your respect and you have to fight yourself to keep your hand out of your pants about it? Did he even like other men that way? But all the same, the sensation of his graceless, halting strokes deliver warm, quelling ripples through him. Much to his chagrin. It feels so much better than empty-headed jerking... Why?? WHY?
Then Midousuji's phone buzzes with a text, and he screams, jumping with a hard jolt, his hand flying out of his underwear as he rolls out of his futon, on the side opposite of his poor mistreated duvet.
Midousuji perches on his feet and hands, all limbs akimbo, and he scrambles towards his phone, leaning over it with a grotesque and severe extension of his neck that makes its cords bulge. He tilts his head, peering over the screen, then leaps away from his phone again. Knees up, Midousuji yells (a bit less decibel intensity than his prior shrieking), scrubbing his hands over his face vigorously.
"Gross!! Gross, damn it, nasty, disgusting!!"
That's what he got, though. Figures the second he caved to letting himself touch his dick about whatever demented shit is going on with him about Ishigaki, the universe would deliver him a deserved punishment like that.
Midousuji manages to flop back onto his futon, ignoring his petulant boner, looking unamused as he drags his phone in front of his face.
Gross. Why would I wanna hang around those guys
Not that Midousuji even wants to spend time with either of them, but Midousuji's 99% certain Ishigaki would be the only one having any fun in that scenario. He has no interest in bonding with Ishigaki's friends. Midousuji is a stubbornly acquired taste, if he isn't your fetish.
Midousuji scowls, eyes drifting away a bit. Ishigaki would be hanging out with those guys, though... Midousuji thinks to offer to hang out with Ishigaki afterwards, but wonders if that's his dick talking, even if there's no ulterior motive behind the idea itself. Of course he'd be unable to think of anything else besides being alone with Ishigaki.
He raises his eyebrows and drops his head when Ishigaki follows up with the offer of eel, and Midousuji's tongue descends as his brows furrow crossly. Like he's so cheap!! It's just eel!
...But that's a convenient bribe to feign as effective.
Midousuji's lips purse, eyes rolling up and away as he hums, raising and crossing his ankles.
well
ok.
but I'm showing up late
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Then Ishigaki bolts up, clasping his phone close to his face. Reading, grinning, victory rushing through him that his persuasion had been successful. Oh wow, it was that easy? He wonders if he should have texted sooner instead of having the week drag by as slow as it did, with so many questions building up, but decides the space he had given Midousuji was more than justified given how little they had talked these past few years.
Okay! I'll let you know where we decide on.
Ishigaki feels satisfied as he plugs his phone into the charger, then begins to nods off soon after, falling asleep easier than any of his recent nights.
--
Their plates were mostly cleared, his friends talking across the table amongst themselves- maybe flirting he thinks, but he can't be for sure- Fukutomi's face is too hard to read, and Shinkai is a few too many drinks in.
Ishigaki does feel buzzed too, a light and airy feeling begin to build in his muscles, but he's too busy eyeing the entryway of the restaurant to really notice. Midousuji said he'd be late, it's a two hour train, even longer if he decided to cycle here. Maybe he should have considered the latter, he realizes, twirling his glass to watch the ice-cubes clack around.
"What's wrong? Afraid your date won't show up?" Shinkai's voice is a little too slurred, a little too loud. His teasing manages to make Fukutomi's shoulders shake as he holds back a snicker, but Ishigaki only frowns.
"Jeez... You know Midousuji, he doesn't like these sorta things." Ishigaki pouts.
Ishigaki notices Fukutomi's legs were faced outwards, away and disinterested in the table, and Shinkai is now leaned contently into the other's neck. It seemed like he had been ready to drag his boyfriend home for some time. It didn't occur to Ishigaki that they probably wanted to... accompany each other. Kyoto was a backwards region, so it wasn't until these two that he ever saw two men so casually intimate.
"It's okay. I've had a good night so far." Ishigaki leans back into his seat, giving them a light-hearted smile. "You two can head out if you want."
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He squeezes his eyes shut with frustration, circling his hips against a lump made from his bunched up duvet, then types up his response.
gross k whatever
Midousuji shoves his phone out of sight, rolls onto his back, and rests his arm over his eyes. He lays like that for a long time, and similar to the days following his Interhigh win, he doesn't have an easy time falling asleep for much the time after.
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Midousuji hadn't been looking forward to this get together, which is why, increasingly, he wonders why the hell he agreed to go. He's been debating back and forth just ghosting the endeavor entirely, which is why he eventually ends up a little later than originally intended. If it's a ruse he needs to spend time with Ishigaki, there's others to be had—but it wasn't like Ishigaki had reached out to him at any point before then, busy with his own life. One of Ishigaki's many good qualities was that he wasn't the clingy type.
Increasingly, Midousuji's beginning to worry that in certain circumstances, he might be.
In fact, it's that maddening desire for nearness that finally makes Midousuji lug his overgrown body up to his bike, groaning almost the entire duration from his bedroom to his bike's room, eyes rolled and neck deflated with his tongue lolled. He didn't want to go. Fukutomi was like if a rock were a person, and Shinkai is—something. One of he last times they'd really interacted was when Midousuji had taunted him for his trauma, so that could be a little awkward. Not that Midousuji felt a lick of remorse, or anything... but it was odd facing your enemies out of context. There's a chance they may encounter each other in a race before Shinkai graduates, too. So it might be a good opportunity to refresh his dossiers, Midousuji tells himself...
When he finally arrives, it's as if he appears suddenly; Midousuji is by no means a graceful person, but he can startle people with his presence if they're preoccupied at times. So he stands in the hall, at the sill of the entryway of the room that Ishigaki, Shinkai and Fukutomi have taken up for the night—and he stands there, frozen, hand lifted, the rattling of the beads at the entry parted by Midousuji's thin, gloved hand being the sound alerting to his entry.
It's what he sees that has him stopped in his tracks, awkwardly hovering there like a vampire awaiting invitation to be let in. Fukutomi and Shinkai appeared to be...cuddling? Is that normal? Are they always like that? Midousuji's eyes are stuck on them for a moment, his brain struggling to parse that (not even so much because they're two guys, though Midousuji is surprised that of all people, those two specifically swing that way), then fall on the handfuls of empty sake glasses.
Oh. Right. College. Of age. Are they like that right now because they're intoxicated? Or is it always like that? Ishigaki must be aware. Are they like that just with the other?? Is anyone a potential victim of necking once intoxicated???
"Grooooossss," Midousuji announces in a low, slow drawl, tilting his head and rolling his eyes away. "Drinking is one of the worst things you can do to your body as a road racer."
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"Midousuji!" he chirps, his body finally relaxing- relief. He had just finished his second glass while waiting, so his voice comes out higher than he would like. He's not in as bad of shape as Shinkai, but he's in a good mood, perhaps the perfect balance between the drastic difference in the friends in front of him.
"Midousuji-kun." Fukutomi adds, flatly, face unchanging. Shinkai greets him as well, giving him a goofy smile. By then, the two were out of their seats. Fukutomi has a strong hold on Shinkai as his boyfriend staggers around- his feet having trouble deciding on where to go.
"Aw, don't be so uptight." It's no surprise to Ishigaki that that's the first thing to come to Midousuji's mind. He pays no mind to Midousuji's familiar ill-mannered way of introducing his presence to the table. "Wait- you don't drink? I guess that's not shocking... I forget how young you are."
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Midousuji's eyes fall to Shinkai's unsteadiness. Gross. He can't help but wonder... why do people do that to themselves on purpose?
"Usagi-chan. Mo'ai-kun."
There. There's their greeting.
And that's when his eyes find Ishigaki's glass—the disdain turns subtly to curiosity.
"It's nothing to do with young," Midousuji answers, removing and pocketing his mask as he finally shambles in, and plops himself heavily beside Ishigaki. "I live by myself. I could probably buy it if I wanted it. But it dehydrates you, and makes you gain weight. Strains your muscles and organs."
It wasn't unusual for jocks to avoid alcohol, per se—but Midousuji was definitely just uptight. It's not like drinking every once in a while hindered anyone's performance or stats. Despite his admonishing, Midousuji is leaning into Ishigaki's space, eyes wide on the little glass. It probably comes across as judgmental, still...
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"Well," Fukutomi starts, adjusting his partner's arm over his shoulder. "I don't think Hayato wants to embarrass himself any more in public tonight than he has."
"Yes I doooo... " Shinkai protests dizzily, weakly attempting to sit back down at their seats, but Fukutomi is sturdy as he manages to guide the dead weight practically hanging off him.
"Good night, Ishigaki."
"Night." The humor in Ishigaki's voice is prominent, and he waves a hand, amusingly watching as the two struggle to make their way out of the building.
"That afraid to try something new, huh?" Ishigaki then teases Midousuji. Its not unlike the other to do something that could mess with his composure, so as much as the thought of flushed Midousuji has been floating in the back of Ishigaki's head tonight, he doesn't pry.
He then takes note of Midousuji's lightly damp face, inky strains of his black hair he'd been growing out sticking to his face. A few hours on a bike is nothing for Midousuji, but its plain to see he needs to sit down. A ping of guilt hits Ishigaki's chest, realizing he really did just selfishly drag the other to another region, in a place he didn't even want to be, crowded with people he didn't want to see. Perhaps he'll pick a better, more casual spot next time if presented another chance.
"You're probably hungry right? It's not too late to order something." Ishigaki states, shifting their used dishes in an organized pile to the side- partially for Midousuji's sake, but it was a habit he had picked up when he put the overworking waitresses in consideration. "I know you aren't excited to come to these sort of things, so... I can pay. If you want."
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Really, Ishigaki hadn’t made Midousuji to do shit. Midousuji had demonstrated many times he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do—but surprisingly, when invited to most things, Midousuji doesn’t tend to decline, like when he’d joined Kyoto Fushimi for a fishing trip when Ishigaki was still captain. Which may be why Ishigaki’s takeaway isn’t that Midousuji had come all this way for something that didn’t sound fun is an indication of how strongly he wanted to be in Ishigaki’s company. But a fishing trip, for example, had meant Midousuji would get to eat fresh catch. Sure, he was promised eel, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t buy average quality restaurant eel in Kyoto. But these are the finicky nuances of his identity and the subtleties of his expressions that Midousuji unknowingly hides behind, though likely by his own design through the years of how he’s structured himself.
The truth was, the inconvenience wasn’t so bad. Midousuji didn’t really mind, in general not really the type to complain in the grander scheme of things.
When Ishigaki asks if he’s hungry, his expression brightens, posture straightening subtly. “I’m always hungry. Menu.” Midousuji reaches across the table, and immediately begins to inspect the laminate offerings once secured. It made sense—Midousuji worked as hard as a good percentage of professional athletes, ever since high school. The way he trained probably came to a cost of 4,000 to 5,000 calories per day, nevermind his height paired with his ectomorph bodytype and high metabolism.
When Ishigaki offers to pay, Midousuji pauses, then stifles a laugh against his palm. “Gr—oss," Midousuji taunts. "Don't act like you put a gun to my head. I'm pretty sure you have less money than me."
Midousuji suddenly becomes aware, with the others gone, he doesn't... need to be sat right by Ishigaki. He could move to the other side, the space freed up.
Midousuji looks back at the menu, flipping it to the other side, and pretends it hadn't crossed his mind.
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The second drink had made his mind fuzzy and causes a delayed response, but he eventually scoots down to the right side of the booth. An odd decision, he notes, but he knows Midousuji is a cluster full of them.
Seeing how graceful Midousuji flips through the menu is refreshing in contrast to seeing Shinkai struggle to keep himself up moments ago. Now that the table is quiet he can't help but realize how much he needs to watch his composure. There wasn't any tension he felt around Midousuji, not anymore at least, but he didnt want to open the opportunity to tease him more than their usual routine. He fixes his posture, sitting up straight.
"Well. You're definitely right on that." Ishigaki recalls his text message from the night before, and his shoulders slump. "I honestly shouldn't have spent as much as I did tonight, but... I've needing a night like this for awhile."
"And I don't know how to say no to Fukutomi. His face is scary. Not like yours, though. Your's is more like a..." Ishigaki thinks, but he's interrupted by a hiccup before he continues on with a knuckle pressed against his lip in embarrassment.
"Kinda like an owl."
That... was a weird thing to say. But it's Midousuji- he reassures himself- the same man who's tongue hangs out if his mouth half the day and flicks flies off his cheek with it.
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“Haaa?!”
Midousuji whips his head into a tilt, and he yanks down his lip with one finger, and uses the other to press against his teeth.
“An owl doesn’t have such perfect teeth!!” Or any, obviously. Not that Midousuji has spent so much time reflecting on his likenesses to animals...
But it makes sense. It’s not that Ishigaki doesn’t understand Midousuji as formidable—he resisted that perspective only very briefly—but he also never saw Midousuji as a beast. In the conventional sense, different from Midousuji’s understanding by his own paradigm, he never truly Midousuji as a force with “teeth.” Which is why Midousuji stifles a little laugh, his mind playfully twisting around how Ishigaki must think of him. How it was certainly true he was Midousuji differently, and in a way that was enough to in time bring Midousuji willingly to him. Like this, in this booth.
“How funny. By your own admission and through the correlation, you did acknowledge my face as being scary...”
Midousuji’s just teasing, for the most part, being as he knows Ishigaki never had the sense enough to really be scared of him. Or maybe more accurately, he had the sense enough to not be scared of him.
“How mean.” Midousuji bends his neck and posture to peer up at Ishigaki, leaned over the table. “Not very senpai of you.”
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"But I thought you wanted to look scary. That's like, your thing." Ishigaki replies, ribbing right back. Midousuji was close enough for his breath to hit Ishigaki's nostrils for that moment, and a sense of unfamiliar longing hits him when the other eventually turns away. But Ishigkai is obviously much too straight to second guess that.
He accompanies Midousuji's facade, patting his broad shoulder lightly. "I mean, It's not like it's working. I guess with the teeth, you look more like... Totoro."
Ishigaki slides his hand back to his side, eyes returning to the menu in front of them. "If you ever feel like being threatening, there's a lot of races to attend out here. If you like Tokyo enough that is."
(steals someone elses owl/totoro/mido content for this rp and runs)
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