Midousuji Akira (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
discarding) wrote2018-10-13 02:38 pm
discarding) wrote2018-10-13 02:38 pm
Entry tags:
aerimido for peach aka midos perpetual doki hell
just gonna use this as a gen catchall, will hopefully gather up and link all prior TL in this entry
aef AU, NDE - 1/2
for months, with no real, meaningful goals to repress his humanity, pathetically, Midousuji had felt himself begin to relent. Ishigaki had actually planted that scene, and Midousuji didn't realize it until Ishigaki had actually shown up in this place. shown up, became a vampire, died before his very eyes, and not but a month later, totally vanished.
they'd been bonded—desperately rattled up from the incident of Ishigaki's death, even though he knew it was coming, Midousuji waited until Ishigaki came gasping back to un-life, and with a trembling hand, he'd smashed his wrist to Ishigaki's face, hissing incessantly with wide, tired and frantic eyes, his mouth drawn taught, all his teeth bared and clenched as he forced himself to be Ishigaki's first feed. he ignored Ishigaki's ensuing guilty tears, unable to shake the memory of watching Ishigaki pass. how it made him wonder about how his mother went, how she'd been with no one she really knew.
it made Midousuji realize he appreciated Ishigaki, which was horrible. gut-wrenching. it was strange to be forced to realize how traumatizing it would be if Ishigaki died, even if it hadn't been in front of him—especially if it had been permanent. not like here, which is why Midousuji had underestimated how much it would impact him.
they grew closer, a little bit. a shameful, pathetic pull—Midousuji was finally letting himself get reigned in by his keeper, resigned to his own human predilections. then he'd vanished, just like that, leaving Midousuji to stare to nothingness from the tops of his knees, curled up on the hill where they'd spent long, humid nights, often not saying much at all. empty, just like when his mother had died.
his first hint Midousuji had actually been aware of, regarding this danger—folding to the need of human connection—had been Aerith. it was confusing, because those feelings were different from Ishigaki's. a little. the fact that they were only a little different tail-spun Midousuji's brain, making him wonder if he just didn't know how to attach properly. he'd been severed for too long, maybe; it was humiliating, being aware of the thirsting, gaping abyss inside him.
he knows his feelings for Aerith are romantic, even if his feelings towards Ishigaki were bit more of a confusing case. and when Ishigaki vanished, not but two weeks later, it was the anniversary of his mother's death. Midousuji sat on that hill again, his ears deafened by the thick chirring of cicadas. he had no bike to take him home—because his bike was his home, as were the roads it could travel. and he had no grave to pay respects to. for the first time since he was a baby, Midousuji's eyes grew hot with tears, his otherwise stoic face dimpling just slightly at his chin—and he ducked his forehead against his bony knees, making up his mind.
the idea of getting closer to Aerith was now more terrifying than an enticing, risky curiousity, novel and sunny. all the warm feelings she'd slowly filled in him felt ominous, now—a place like this, it made sense. it was foolish to get close to anyone, but this stupid place facilitated the need for it to survive. but what does surviving even mean? what is the reward?
if you die, you don't die. if you indulge in human connection, that's when you die—a miring, degrading realization Midousuji made, biting his lip as his vision swam, hot and blurry, as he slowly closed his hands around his crown, taking slow fistfuls of his own hair. he didn't realize it, or perhaps didn't face it, while knowing deep down—but part of why he'd stayed away from all this is because the loss is too unbearable.
he can't call heartbreak for what it is, but he knows its feeling. he cared too much about Aerith to lose her—and couldn't risk getting any closer. he knew these risks, and arrogantly ignored them.
so Midousuji didn't reinstate a bond—he didn't want to go through the trouble of arranging it, much less risking being open from his most vulnerable, private places in his heart and soul. he'd let Ishigaki in there.
he missed Ishigaki being there.
instead, Midousuji elected to withdraw. he stopped using his watch, for a couple weeks, and made himself scarce. stopped showing up to his job. then, he left. just got up, and left. left behind his watch in his cottage, not taking more than a simple rucksack that didn't even have a change of clothes (just more layers), and left towards the wilds. he didn't really care if he starved, or befell some kind of beast. sure, the idea of having such a violent death was scary, but he was too hollow to process it realistically. and the emotional pain was far more eviscerating. he was a survivor, but not a survivalist.
and that's how he processed his grief. he didn't shed any more tears. he didn't let himself. and it wasn't so bad, really. in fact, it started to feel like the right choice—Midousuji knew it was madness talking, but he was content to let it vice and twist his brain however it wanted. in fact, going mad would be a welcome reprieve. Midousuji had debated grabbing a store of alcohol before he'd left, but deduced (accurately) that it wouldn't wall it away at all—it would only box him in with the beast that was his heart.
and, predictably, while he'd weathered away for quite some time, Midousuji didn't even feel when he was starving—didn't notice he'd lost his shoes. and legitimately, he did not care. he toiled, spuddling, with magics—attacked and killed game, but made no use of the spoils. he went from feeling nothing to feeling delirious, pointless amusement, wondering if he was going to be overcame by starvation, or explosion.
eventually, Midousuji gasped loudly, his voice painful and dry as he lurched suddenly forward. it was similar to when you'd be falling asleep, but suddenly, you were so sure you'd just missed a step on a flight of stares, jolting awake to catch your fall. but Midousuji was indeed lurching forward in this manner, like he'd not realized he was on a curb—but what was similar to that experience was that it was sudden, and disorienting. Midousuji's long, bone-thin arms windmilled, too tired to even shriek, as he barely managed to clumsily slap a palm to the wood floor, darkly finished.
heaving, Midousuji felt the rest of his body drop to the ground, pulling him onto his side. Midousuji's mouth gaped open; his mind still buzzed, and everything... hurt. catastrophically. he could taste blood, but wasn't aware of how it was dried at the corners of his mouth, and from his ringing ears to down the back of his head, as well as his neck. his body burned, and, puzzlingly, he was naked. mostly. there were some patches of fabric singed into his skin, here and there, but it hardly kept him decent. most of his sleeve clung uselessly to an almost in tact loop around his waist. otherwise, he was butt-ass naked, and not even aware if he was naked or dressed. unaware that he was covered in wounds—strange ones, too, like he'd been slashed with burning knives. aside from those, it was just a lot of burn marks.
he realized it when he managed to push himself up—the sight of himself startled him, both because it was horrific, but because he knew this room. turning with great labor, Midousuji looked to his entry point.]
Ah... my...
[and he collapsed sideways again, letting his bony limbs tossle atop eachother uselessly, staring to the cracks in the wooden walls.]
...mirror...
[and Midousuji laid that way, for at least an hour or two, until he was found by a startled witch of the coven. he gave her nothing, not reacting; she'd thought he'd died again, until she touched his pulse. the warmth of her touch made him grit his teeth, widening his eyes in a strange flinch. she gasped when he rolled his eyes to her, rasping venomously.
he wasn't really aware what was going on—he was still with madness.]
2/2
he was gathered up then, by some other witches, and taken to hospital.
days later, Midousuji's eyes suddenly snap open. he's been given some temporary bond potion, he can tell—some stranger he doesn't recognize. with lucidity coming back to him, Midousuji begins to realize it's probably a monster from the coven. his brain feels strange—scratchy like it's full of thistles, embering coals and cotton. his body hurts significantly less than before, however, and his wounds have almost healed entirely, thanks to careful rounds of healing sessions done to his unconscious body.
so he just lays there, slowly coming to realization, but his face showing nothing for it.]
I died then, didn’t I?
Gross.
no subject
it isn't a hard concept to understand. people have a place to be, things to do, lives to live that don't have room for her in them; there are a thousand reasons, a thousand different contingencies, and she's never really asked to hear any of them. it would hurt more to know the reason than to recognize the act itself: her mother left because she didn't have the strength to live anymore, and she couldn't fault her for it. the rabbit she looked after in the gardens in her youth left, killed by some monster, surely, and she couldn't fault it for its folly. some of her friends left, after hearing her shriek and cry and beg for the voices she heard in the lifestream, the ones struggling to pass on. zack left to a mission and never came back, never wrote her anything, never could. the turks that she knew disappeared, narrowed down to just the handful that kept an eye on her.
tifa left, from this place. cloud convinced her to stay close to him and then he left, too. and zack, drawn to this place with her, bonded with her, left too.
their apartment--the place where zack and cloud had lived, and invited her to stay--grew cold after awhile. too painful to smell and feel and touch all the things they had touched. she knew they had a reason for leaving: and probably not a reason she wanted to know. in her heart of hearts, she knew already anyway. back at her old cottage, where tifa had held so few things to begin with, it became easier to cope.
midousuji made it easier to cope. and then he wasn't there anymore, either.
at first, she'd sent playfully threatening messages, the kind that he might say are gross, disgusting, the kind that would at least maybe encourage him to reply if only to argue with her. he never replied. then it became more serious: tell me where you are, what's happening, i miss you, are you hurt and nothing ever came back. she went to classes and never heard a word from him--went around the city, and found herself without any chances to see him or hear his name or anything about him.
and when had he become so important to her? he had become her best friend, the only person she could talk to without holding back, the person who tethered her to this place more than even zack could.
day by day, her chest ached. a weight settled there, full, like a balloon ready to burst; day by day, she went through the motions of practicing her magic and tending to her garden, mending her clothes and drying tea leaves, but nothing ever felt real. nothing felt tangible anymore; she stopped smiling at the staff in the bakery, stopped having the energy to even pretend to be fine. she never talked to anyone beyond the pleasantries and polite inquiries, never stayed after class to speak with the other witches.
eventually, the pain became too great. going to the infirmary seemed ridiculous, but she'd been at a loss: even with her own talent in healing magic, nothing seemed to work, and even worse, she could feel her own magic slipping out of her fingers, weak and hard to manipulate. it's in the clinic when she finally hears about him--and at first, she's incredulous. angry. terrified.
with that weight in her chest, a hand pressed to it as though to keep her heart inside, she takes the path from the clinic to the hospital. darts down the halls and through doors until she's taken to the large, sterile room that houses a seemingly never-ending sea of drawn curtains and stiff beds. her fingers clutch at the front of her dress, digging into it, and by the time she finds him, her breath is gasping, anxiety clawing its way up into her throat.
she stopped crying a long time ago, and yet the tears, dried up around her lashes, seem to dribble and curl up underneath her chin despite her determination.
there he is, lying on a bed, unconscious. one of the healing witches, doing her rounds, gently explains what had happened, or at least what they assume had happened; at that point, aerith's taken to a seat at midousuji's bedside, her breath rasping like she can hardly believe it. in an instant, it's zack's face that flashes into her memory--her head dips, trying to steady herself to keep from tumbling into the dizzying fear inside her. for a long time, there's just the buzzing inside her head; she doesn't know how long she stays at his bedside, just that she stays there, falls asleep in the chair, wakes up and falls asleep again.
when midousuji finally wakes, aerith is still there. her hair looks flat, pulled out of its usual braid and instead trapped in arching curls around her face and shoulders; her cheeks are pink, her eyes glassy, and it looks like she's still been crying despite being so goddamn adamant about not doing that sort of thing anymore. his voice clenches something in her chest; she hadn't realized quite how sorely she had missed hearing it until this moment here.
gross, he says. she thinks he likely hasn't taken a good look around the bed just yet; so she clears her throat, a soft sound, and laughs despite it all. )
Pretty gross. ( she agrees, in some hoarse rendition of her usual chipper. like this, it sounds almost like she's making fun of herself. ) I think you'll be here for awhile longer.
WHAT THE FUCK I THOUGHT I RESPONDED TO THIS IM SO SORRY (1/2)
his eyes widen, just slightly, when he hears the clearing of her throat; even with the raspy, tired quality, and even without the distinct, unmistakable little chuckle of self-deprecation, he recognizes the voice. he feels like his blood freezes, then burns, fizzy; his fingertips tingle. it’s a type of dread he’s never experienced.
he rolls his eyes, slowly, towards Aerith—and for once, he’s completely at a loss for what to say. his head turns towards her in full, though his body still seems pretty immobile. his eyes are still wide, even for him, and he looks dumbfounded; his jaw opens, then closes. not with a snap, like usual; the subtle clicking of his teeth, the shifting of his dry tongue as he swallows, all suddenly feels unbearably loud.
he’s in a hospital. Aerith, haggard, is sitting here, beside him; she looks exhausted.
he’d known. he knew, when he left to die—he wouldn’t let himself think about it, and tried to hold onto that denial as hard as he could. the memories of his descent into madness are, of course, understandably spotty—and altered, likely, from the damage his mind must have been undergoing. it was too easy to forget her. jaw softly dropped again, though his head is still rolled towards Aerith, he looks away, eyes rolling down. he sees the state of his hand, and twitches a finger as he tries to grasp it.
Midousuji hadn’t been at his mother’s bedside, when she died. he didn’t really get that kind of closure—and back then, he naively was so confident there was no way things were going to get as bad as they did. had he known, it probably would have been all the more agonizing—but less confusing, when she never came to saw him race.
he’s gone to clinics, but he’s never been to a hospital since—dangerous, considering how reckless he’s been with his body.
his stomach churns painfully, causing him to clench his jaw, swallowing dryly again, slowly. he remembers his mother expressing so gently her concern for his physical wellbeing; how she feared how reckless athletes could be with their bodies.
his life was important to his mother. and then she died.
but the truth is, even before this place, he’s met people who have come to feel the same concern for his recklessness. and now, finally, Midousuji understands plainly where that recklessness comes from. his emptiness, that makes it so easy. and it had killed him.
it was despair.
connection—empathy, remorse… none of them are impossible. but they’re difficult, and new. Midousuji actually feels almost humiliated, caught in this position; he realizes what he’s done to Aerith. and it’s the very thing that hurt him so badly as a child, it almost killed him.]
You…don’t have to stay, then, [he says dryly, then winces, realizing that sounds so dismissive and cold. but he doesn’t know how to do it. he’s been slowly learning, but that’s the problem—outside of sport, he’s so slow. and that kind of vulnerability is terrifying. it’s selfish to protect himself from that fear, but even without that fear, he has no idea how to…
…do the right thing. that’s never been his burden. living with no attachment freed him of these things, but connections have found him, whether he likes it or not.
he glances to Aerith again. his heart pounds.
he does like it. he blinks slowly, finding it a little surprising she’s here, actually—but he knows that Aerith cares about him. even if she was mad, she’d still be here.]
…I…
[he what? what could he possibly say? articulating any of this out loud compounds in its horror: realizing with more clarity what he’s tried to do, how sick he really is (and actually seeing it for the first time, and facing it all so suddenly)—what excuse is there?
there is none.]
no subject
he’s quiet for a moment, his gaze slipping away again for the focus to pull words from his heart and mind.]
…I know I’m not… naturally very kind…
[his fingers flex, weakly.]
I know I’m…indelicate. And I know that I… can be cruel, and abrasive. I can be careless… I am those things… But also…
[Midousuji glances back up at Aerith; a weird pain, one he’s never felt, wells through him. but it’s not from his injuries.]
…I did something I never wanted to do.
To you.
[this was something he never wanted to damage. to discard. how many times has he forgotten his mother’s advice? to handle things delicately. now, he realizes, this means frightening things, too.]
I caused damage.
[he’s never cared, before. if his actions hurt someone, if it damages whatever that person’s self-perceived “connection” with him is.]
omg don't worry about it, it's ok! i know you're busy!!
they might reassure that it would always happen just like this, but magic is volatile, this place is volatile, and it takes and gives and injures without thought. she wouldn't have been surprised if he woke up mute, woke up destroyed, woke up as an entirely different person.
you don't have to stay, then.
it isn't the cruelest thing he's ever said to her, maybe. but in this moment, it feels like it. the weight of exhaustion, of loneliness, of being by herself in this place and now, next to him, not being wanted either? even as she straightens up in the chair, trying to square her shoulders and brush it off, trying to return to the lighthearted, confident banter she always offered him, she can't find it.
the silence is there for a long moment. her tears pool, bubbling and breaking down both of her cheeks, hooking around her jaw; he likely won't remember the sight of her like this anyway, and so she lets herself cry, ugly and pink-faced and silent, sniffling just enough to keep from letting snot drop onto her dress.
she listens to him in that silence, lets him take the time, and space, to get out what he needs to--she doesn't push him, doesn't pressure him, doesn't interrupt or interject in anger or upset or even feeling. she gives him that space, lets him work it out himself; her hands fist in the skirt of her dress and then flatten it out against her thighs, and there's a soft, numbing shake of her head.
i caused damage. she doesn't want him to feel indebted to her, because of it--doesn't want him to carry this with him. )
You're alive. ( there's a severe weight in her throat, from the crying--gently, she clears it, before trying to speak again. ) You're alive, and I don't think you would ever purposefully...
( it's hard to find the reassurances; her vision is blurred, and one hand lifts, pats the back of it to one side of her face, then the next, trying to catch the tears before they fall into her lap. )
Don't be upset with yourself. It's alright. You're here. I'm very happy you're here.
( no one would believe those words looking at her--but they're true. she's so relieved he's alive. )
busy + irl trifles + brain full of holes by default = bad combo
does that matter?
consequences are consequences; the path doesn’t matter. it’s like winning versus losing. results are all that matter.
Midousuji lifts his heavy head, just slightly, with his tired, weak neck, his attention caught further, because…
oh, god.
tears.
he’s never made someone cry—maybe when he and Yuki were little, but while the first time was mortifying, he soon came to understand she was just kind of a crybaby. she’d cry every so often, though it never really involved him—seeing her tears was uncomfortable, but had nothing to do with him, so he’d politely, awkwardly look away. an unbearable sight, when it isn’t those he’s bested in contexts were appropriate.
his brows pinch, subtly, and his breath trembles just as slightly, throat tightening with emotion—another unfamiliar, startling response to these unfamiliar feelings of remorse. sympathy. Midousuji can’t even identify them, but he doesn’t let the unfamiliarity disrupt him as it usually might.
his muscles flex, slow and feeling like they’re riddled with fiberglass; they strain visibly, and the corners of his mouth stretch in discomfort, twitching at one side as his skin becomes taught with this frown. shakily, slowly, he pushes himself up with his elbows—his breath shakes further from the strain, and he turns at his shoulders, just enough, exerting the rest of his strength from their battered coffers to extend a tired hand with limp fingers.
the knuckles of his dry skin brush the soft, silky tears, his eyes still locked on her face. they shift, occasionally, just slightly, taking care to take in all of her expression. not to punish himself, but all the same, to remember always—what he should avoid. the reasons why he can’t bear this. the reasons why he must.]
Don’t cry, [he rasps quietly, and slowly, from his dry lips. he leans forward, just a little bit.] Aerith-chan… Don’t…shed tears for me.
[he can feel how his arm strains, but he ignores the increasing ache. he’s emaciated from his leave, and weak from his death. but while it’s alarming to feel so uncharacteristically weak, it doesn’t matter.
this isn’t a circumstance where he can make an order without a bribe. as the one who’s responsible, the one who’s made this awful mistake, he must offer something in exchange—even that is audacious, on its own. so it has to be a good offer.
it’s okay. he’s a hard worker. his head is back on his shoulders; he’s finally found a different goal. the despair—losing Ishigaki, forcing him to accept he cares for someone, which then forced how terrifying love is to the front of Midousuji’s entire design…because of the risk of loss. that he has been forced to accept that loss is perhaps something he’s uniquely weak to, to where it can be fatal.
but he isn’t alone, now. in this context, selfishness cannot be excused.]
Going forward, I’ll…make sure…
[feeling the quick onset of his exhaustion, coupled with the emotional weight he’s unaccustomed to carrying, Midousuji’s head suddenly drops, eyes still wide—but his hand remains perched, the backs of his fingertips gently curled against the warm wetness of her soft flesh.]
I’ll do anything… to make sure I never see this again.
it's all good ♥
so why can't she? his fingers feel cold, scratched and rough against her skin, but she doesn't care at all. the tears smear down over her lashes, wet against the skin of her cheek, and she almost apologies for how they must be touching them; if he can barely handle her presence on a good day, or handle the way she touches him all the time, how can he handle something like this? it's gross. probably gross. her head shakes, slightly, and a bit of her hair, wavy from the braids, touches his hand; her lips feel dry, licking over them to try to steady her voice. )
You're all I have. ( this is said very delicately--almost like she doesn't want to burden him with the truth of it. ) Of course I'm going to cry for you...Dummy.
( with a faint shake of her head, she reaches up: even though she can't stop crying, she knows precisely what she needs to do, and at least having that sort of clarity helps fuel her movements. both of her hands lift, damp, to touch at his hand, holding it carefully between her palms as she stands up, stiff, from the chair. slowly approaching the bed, she bends his arm in gently until she can lay it back down on the bed next to him; there, she gives it a faint squeeze before letting it go entirely. )
I know you're...exhausted. I'm...sorry. I didn't mean to...( a little hiccuping breath: determined, she swallows it down, steadies herself on her heels, her watery gaze focused on the bedspread and not, in fact, his face or any part of him. ) I'm sorry. Would it...
( licking her lips again, she brings her hands up swiftly wiping the tears off her cheeks--before she finally steels herself to look at him, gathering up the remains of her shattered confidence to bolster herself enough to ask. )
Can I stay here until you...wake up again? In...Over there. ( a faint tilt of her head to indicate she means the chair she'd been seated in: for now, she stands stiffly at the side of his bed. ) If I go...back, then I'll just...worry. About you.