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.
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..."
no subject
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."
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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?”