Midousuji Akira (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
discarding) wrote2023-02-28 07:32 pm
discarding) wrote2023-02-28 07:32 pm
“canon” aef spinoff - ishimi
When Ishigaki first arrived to Aefenglom, Midousuji felt no delight; his stomach, in a way so subtle it was almost imperceptible, had dropped; an empty coldness washed from his head to the tips of his fingers, hollowing his core in a way that made his mouth dry, his mind wiping into a blank static.
Typically, when people from their own worlds arrived to this place, people would express some “too bads” about it, but also palpable relief for a familiar face.
Not Midousuji.
He’d been dreading it—in this place, where his existence holds no purpose. No real way to race, no point to innovate and cultivate that sort of world… It wasn’t the world his mother died on, and it wasn’t the world where he could carry her honor on his saddle across the finish of Tour de France to give himself permission to drop dead. No way to go back, no way to die—no escape, no reason to live.
For months, Midousuji has carried on an empty, complicated existence. His home world, compared to most of the Mirrorbound, is simple—but even outside of its mundane context, its simplicity could not be overstated for the simple fact that it had a born-in formula. And that formula was his purpose. You get up, you eat, you train, you discipline and manipulate, you grow, you fight with all you have—to win. Being forced to exist without what’s kept him moving forward all this time is what indeed makes this place a complex, miserable hell; a complex nexus, but it’s felt like it was designed specifically to destroy Midousuji.
But then, he’d… began to grow; began to change. What else did he have? Without the ability to run away (not that he’d been running away from anything back home; of course not! He is legitimately convinced this is true, even now), and with the need to connect to other people for survival… What choice did he have?
Magic was interesting, in its own way—he did like it, once he wrangled a way not to resent this gift so completely. And to his surprise, once it made sense, it clicked fabulously—his new prodigal project. But his output, his bastardized, rerouted purpose, demanded energy and external symbiosis for balance. Bonds. Which he’d managed to keep business—he’d managed to wall himself away perhaps harder than ever, so afraid of people seeing his vulnerabilities. In a world that’s actually, truly, absolutely dangerous, the stakes are much higher than the asphalt roads he ruled with such domineering ease back in his natal, simple universe.
But somehow…even outside of bonds, he’d become…
Well, he doesn’t know how to describe it, but the truth is he’d become attached. Not to the space, but to his horror, to a person; a girl. A girl strange, and beautiful, carrying an equalizing darkness and wisdom, masqueraded as naive people pleasing. Complex, fascinating, unpredictable, and…shaping. She scared him, initially, because it became clear to him rather abruptly he was a threat to this safety he needed in being invulnerable. But once he gently sank into it, as with Onoda, back home, he began to feel a disturbing, slow-building…relief. Perhaps it was because he had nothing else to do. Maybe it’s obvious a paradigm shift could occur, in those circumstances.
This relief, in part, came with the realization that Ishigaki was right—that relying on other people is what can give people power, in the right contexts. In this world, it’s so literal; his magic flourishes, and so-to-therefor his power and safety, with Bonds. But the way his heart became a little lighter, in a way that nauseated him, made that day to day easier. Perhaps just a distraction. But that was more what Ishigaki meant, right?
The less literal interpretation of relying on someone.
All the same, in sum, Aefenglom is still a unique hell, designed specifically to twist Midousuji in every direction he doesn’t know how to bend in, and absolutely does not wish to. An unforgiving landscape to simple people. Never had Midousuji been forced to feel more simple, nor…completely isolated. Not lonely. But ironically, this place forces him to face his own smallness in that it’s absolutely rooted in his own simple humanity. He is human. He is more human than most people here—and he’d never felt that, back home.
And unlike half of the transplanted Mirrorbound, he’s had the small blessing that he gets to remain as human. A witch.
For months, since Ishigaki’s arrival, Midousuji had been taunting him—ever since he was handed the Coven’s diagnosis that he indeed was to become a Monster. But his anxiety, interestingly, spiked to an all time home. He channeled that into playful, antagonistic mania. When it became clear, based on process of elimination, where Ishigaki’s transformation would lie… Midousuji did not relent.
Until September.
Ishigaki found him, late at night. Midousuji was watching the fireflies, but had come there earlier, far before dusk, letting the sun warm his skin, listening to the thick thrum of cicadas (interesting, that even here, he couldn’t escape their song), staring into nothing; meditating by coincidence, paralyzed by his emptiness.
He didn’t react, when Ishigaki had sat to him. He had nothing cheeky to say, about how it’d be so hard for Ishigaki to feed himself even with the blood bank—how vampires were uniquely discriminated against for how nasty!! the native Aefenglom people found them, in their ignorance—how Ishigaki better get a parasol, or else he’d burn to a crisp, and die. Many times, he’d thought of riding with Ishigaki in the unforgiving heat; how Ishigaki’s complexion took the warmth of the sun in evidence; in proud display, the way Midousuji’s couldn’t; he’d thought of how Ishigaki detests nothing more than doing harm; he’d thought of how Ishigaki is so social, and will surely become isolated himself. Cast to the shadows—seen as a monster.
That night, he looked at Ishigaki, having not absorbed anything the fledgling vampire had said; he just stared, mouth agape, and thought about the time.
The time.
One more month, and it’d all be real. Even before his research mania, Midousuji had been here long enough to know that the average full turn-time for a monster Mirrorbound was approximately three months. October would be it, likely. And Midousuji had learned, the second he determined Ishigaki would likely become a vampire, what the grand finale was for vampiric transformation. Ishigaki knew too, but Midousuji didn’t want it to leave Ishigaki’s head—he didn’t want to give Ishigaki room for escapism, no matter how cruel that may have seemed. Reality was crucial for Ishigaki’s survival in this process. Midousuji’s jeering was a warning; a bracing. Ishigaki doesn’t know about all the research Midousuji has done about these changes; about the creature clan he was to be pulled unwillingly into the fold of; about the history of humans versus vampires.
Cutting him off, having heard nothing, Midousuji then plainly asserted they Bond. It wasn’t a request. Ishigaki was stunned, and Midousuji stared, unblinking. Ishigaki stammered some useless, polite refutes—but Midousuji, being from the same culture, and ostracized for it because of his forwardness, Ishigaki finally accepted his gift. Ishigaki had his own bonds, but Midousuji didn’t care about that.
His would be the one that mattered. In fact, Midousuji knew their connection was the only one that was really important, here in this horrible place, to Ishigaki. Midousuji had become aware of how big his presence was.
And more importantly, he knew what was coming for Ishigaki. They both did.
So too, for Ishigaki, the sun would soon be setting.
They went to the Coven the next day, and Midousuji said no vows—nor did Ishigaki (at Midousuji’s screeching follow-up order, the previous night, after giving Ishigaki a rough face-shake).
Going forward from there, Midousuji has just been waiting.
Weight’s been melting from Ishigaki’s frame, subtly, but it’s too obvious to dispute now. Blood doesn’t yet have its gourmet aromatics, and there is no craving—but food makes him sick. Ishigaki’s done his best to hide it, but he has no idea how sensitive Midousuji is to this kind of thing, even if he credits, and is aware of, Midousuji’s genius and powers of observation.
He’s become slower, weaker; his eye bags, while always distinct, and in their own strange way, handsome—a natural result of his skeletal structure and fat distribution, have become sickly in a more universally telling way. Then, Ishigaki’s visits became fewer; the last time Midousuji had forced himself entry to Ishigaki’s home, he’d spotted a cane. Ishigaki made some stupid little comment with some lame, apologetic laugh about it, but Midousuji could tell that Ishigaki knew, by Midousuji’s wide, stuck eyes, that Midousuji understood its true implication.
“You don’t have to hide that from me,” was all Midousuji said. “And you better not, going forward.”
Tonight, they’re at Ishigaki’s—usually, Ishigaki would come see Midousuji, affording him the option to be nonchalant. Midousuji doesn’t let himself examine his feelings, as they’re Bonded, unless he knows Ishigaki is asleep—but even then, he does his best to stay away from expounding or expanding them. He knows them, so there’s no reason to agitate them, or give them life. Ishigaki can’t read his mind, and that’s what’s important. All the same, now, Midousuji visits Ishigaki. And the change if scenario isn’t the only change there is; the frequency has ticked up. Ishigaki is probably aware Midousuji is being controlling, because Ishigaki isn’t being truthful. They both know why.
When Midousuji had come through the door, he’d noticed something off. It’s been bugging him, through their time together—the talk has been infrequent, as Midousuji remains untalkative as usual, burying his head in a book or practicing magics. But when Ishigaki gets up to get the hot water from the stove, as he’d offered tea earlier, he suddenly swoons, nearly collapsing—his elbow bolsters him against the wall, head heavy and neck loose. Midousuji springs from his spot on the floor, using his long leg span in huge strides to roughly grasp Ishigaki’s wrist, yanking him straight.
Ishigaki apologizes and laughs, saying he got up too fast, and Midousuji’s eyes widen as he stares into Ishigaki’s face.
Tonight, Midousuji realizes. It’s going to be tonight.
He recognizes this scent; he remembers how subtly—so subtly, he hadn’t noticed, that his mother’s scent began to change as she came closer to her death. In fact, Midousuji doesn’t realize that change of scent as a memory until this moment.
His vision almost shifts, like he’s going faint himself, though he feels none of those physical comorbid reactions. His brain feels suddenly slapped with realization, and his body goes rigid with tension; his teeth clench hard behind his closed lips, and his heart beats hard, slowly ramping its cadence.
Midousuji’s nails dent his skin, his jaw clenching, cords popping from his neck.
“Sit down,” he orders slow, firm, and low. “I said I would make it when it’s ready.”
Midousuji’s palms become clammy.
“I’m understood, aren’t I? Ishigaki-kuuuun.”
Typically, when people from their own worlds arrived to this place, people would express some “too bads” about it, but also palpable relief for a familiar face.
Not Midousuji.
He’d been dreading it—in this place, where his existence holds no purpose. No real way to race, no point to innovate and cultivate that sort of world… It wasn’t the world his mother died on, and it wasn’t the world where he could carry her honor on his saddle across the finish of Tour de France to give himself permission to drop dead. No way to go back, no way to die—no escape, no reason to live.
For months, Midousuji has carried on an empty, complicated existence. His home world, compared to most of the Mirrorbound, is simple—but even outside of its mundane context, its simplicity could not be overstated for the simple fact that it had a born-in formula. And that formula was his purpose. You get up, you eat, you train, you discipline and manipulate, you grow, you fight with all you have—to win. Being forced to exist without what’s kept him moving forward all this time is what indeed makes this place a complex, miserable hell; a complex nexus, but it’s felt like it was designed specifically to destroy Midousuji.
But then, he’d… began to grow; began to change. What else did he have? Without the ability to run away (not that he’d been running away from anything back home; of course not! He is legitimately convinced this is true, even now), and with the need to connect to other people for survival… What choice did he have?
Magic was interesting, in its own way—he did like it, once he wrangled a way not to resent this gift so completely. And to his surprise, once it made sense, it clicked fabulously—his new prodigal project. But his output, his bastardized, rerouted purpose, demanded energy and external symbiosis for balance. Bonds. Which he’d managed to keep business—he’d managed to wall himself away perhaps harder than ever, so afraid of people seeing his vulnerabilities. In a world that’s actually, truly, absolutely dangerous, the stakes are much higher than the asphalt roads he ruled with such domineering ease back in his natal, simple universe.
But somehow…even outside of bonds, he’d become…
Well, he doesn’t know how to describe it, but the truth is he’d become attached. Not to the space, but to his horror, to a person; a girl. A girl strange, and beautiful, carrying an equalizing darkness and wisdom, masqueraded as naive people pleasing. Complex, fascinating, unpredictable, and…shaping. She scared him, initially, because it became clear to him rather abruptly he was a threat to this safety he needed in being invulnerable. But once he gently sank into it, as with Onoda, back home, he began to feel a disturbing, slow-building…relief. Perhaps it was because he had nothing else to do. Maybe it’s obvious a paradigm shift could occur, in those circumstances.
This relief, in part, came with the realization that Ishigaki was right—that relying on other people is what can give people power, in the right contexts. In this world, it’s so literal; his magic flourishes, and so-to-therefor his power and safety, with Bonds. But the way his heart became a little lighter, in a way that nauseated him, made that day to day easier. Perhaps just a distraction. But that was more what Ishigaki meant, right?
The less literal interpretation of relying on someone.
All the same, in sum, Aefenglom is still a unique hell, designed specifically to twist Midousuji in every direction he doesn’t know how to bend in, and absolutely does not wish to. An unforgiving landscape to simple people. Never had Midousuji been forced to feel more simple, nor…completely isolated. Not lonely. But ironically, this place forces him to face his own smallness in that it’s absolutely rooted in his own simple humanity. He is human. He is more human than most people here—and he’d never felt that, back home.
And unlike half of the transplanted Mirrorbound, he’s had the small blessing that he gets to remain as human. A witch.
For months, since Ishigaki’s arrival, Midousuji had been taunting him—ever since he was handed the Coven’s diagnosis that he indeed was to become a Monster. But his anxiety, interestingly, spiked to an all time home. He channeled that into playful, antagonistic mania. When it became clear, based on process of elimination, where Ishigaki’s transformation would lie… Midousuji did not relent.
Until September.
Ishigaki found him, late at night. Midousuji was watching the fireflies, but had come there earlier, far before dusk, letting the sun warm his skin, listening to the thick thrum of cicadas (interesting, that even here, he couldn’t escape their song), staring into nothing; meditating by coincidence, paralyzed by his emptiness.
He didn’t react, when Ishigaki had sat to him. He had nothing cheeky to say, about how it’d be so hard for Ishigaki to feed himself even with the blood bank—how vampires were uniquely discriminated against for how nasty!! the native Aefenglom people found them, in their ignorance—how Ishigaki better get a parasol, or else he’d burn to a crisp, and die. Many times, he’d thought of riding with Ishigaki in the unforgiving heat; how Ishigaki’s complexion took the warmth of the sun in evidence; in proud display, the way Midousuji’s couldn’t; he’d thought of how Ishigaki detests nothing more than doing harm; he’d thought of how Ishigaki is so social, and will surely become isolated himself. Cast to the shadows—seen as a monster.
That night, he looked at Ishigaki, having not absorbed anything the fledgling vampire had said; he just stared, mouth agape, and thought about the time.
The time.
One more month, and it’d all be real. Even before his research mania, Midousuji had been here long enough to know that the average full turn-time for a monster Mirrorbound was approximately three months. October would be it, likely. And Midousuji had learned, the second he determined Ishigaki would likely become a vampire, what the grand finale was for vampiric transformation. Ishigaki knew too, but Midousuji didn’t want it to leave Ishigaki’s head—he didn’t want to give Ishigaki room for escapism, no matter how cruel that may have seemed. Reality was crucial for Ishigaki’s survival in this process. Midousuji’s jeering was a warning; a bracing. Ishigaki doesn’t know about all the research Midousuji has done about these changes; about the creature clan he was to be pulled unwillingly into the fold of; about the history of humans versus vampires.
Cutting him off, having heard nothing, Midousuji then plainly asserted they Bond. It wasn’t a request. Ishigaki was stunned, and Midousuji stared, unblinking. Ishigaki stammered some useless, polite refutes—but Midousuji, being from the same culture, and ostracized for it because of his forwardness, Ishigaki finally accepted his gift. Ishigaki had his own bonds, but Midousuji didn’t care about that.
His would be the one that mattered. In fact, Midousuji knew their connection was the only one that was really important, here in this horrible place, to Ishigaki. Midousuji had become aware of how big his presence was.
And more importantly, he knew what was coming for Ishigaki. They both did.
So too, for Ishigaki, the sun would soon be setting.
They went to the Coven the next day, and Midousuji said no vows—nor did Ishigaki (at Midousuji’s screeching follow-up order, the previous night, after giving Ishigaki a rough face-shake).
Going forward from there, Midousuji has just been waiting.
Weight’s been melting from Ishigaki’s frame, subtly, but it’s too obvious to dispute now. Blood doesn’t yet have its gourmet aromatics, and there is no craving—but food makes him sick. Ishigaki’s done his best to hide it, but he has no idea how sensitive Midousuji is to this kind of thing, even if he credits, and is aware of, Midousuji’s genius and powers of observation.
He’s become slower, weaker; his eye bags, while always distinct, and in their own strange way, handsome—a natural result of his skeletal structure and fat distribution, have become sickly in a more universally telling way. Then, Ishigaki’s visits became fewer; the last time Midousuji had forced himself entry to Ishigaki’s home, he’d spotted a cane. Ishigaki made some stupid little comment with some lame, apologetic laugh about it, but Midousuji could tell that Ishigaki knew, by Midousuji’s wide, stuck eyes, that Midousuji understood its true implication.
“You don’t have to hide that from me,” was all Midousuji said. “And you better not, going forward.”
Tonight, they’re at Ishigaki’s—usually, Ishigaki would come see Midousuji, affording him the option to be nonchalant. Midousuji doesn’t let himself examine his feelings, as they’re Bonded, unless he knows Ishigaki is asleep—but even then, he does his best to stay away from expounding or expanding them. He knows them, so there’s no reason to agitate them, or give them life. Ishigaki can’t read his mind, and that’s what’s important. All the same, now, Midousuji visits Ishigaki. And the change if scenario isn’t the only change there is; the frequency has ticked up. Ishigaki is probably aware Midousuji is being controlling, because Ishigaki isn’t being truthful. They both know why.
When Midousuji had come through the door, he’d noticed something off. It’s been bugging him, through their time together—the talk has been infrequent, as Midousuji remains untalkative as usual, burying his head in a book or practicing magics. But when Ishigaki gets up to get the hot water from the stove, as he’d offered tea earlier, he suddenly swoons, nearly collapsing—his elbow bolsters him against the wall, head heavy and neck loose. Midousuji springs from his spot on the floor, using his long leg span in huge strides to roughly grasp Ishigaki’s wrist, yanking him straight.
Ishigaki apologizes and laughs, saying he got up too fast, and Midousuji’s eyes widen as he stares into Ishigaki’s face.
Tonight, Midousuji realizes. It’s going to be tonight.
He recognizes this scent; he remembers how subtly—so subtly, he hadn’t noticed, that his mother’s scent began to change as she came closer to her death. In fact, Midousuji doesn’t realize that change of scent as a memory until this moment.
His vision almost shifts, like he’s going faint himself, though he feels none of those physical comorbid reactions. His brain feels suddenly slapped with realization, and his body goes rigid with tension; his teeth clench hard behind his closed lips, and his heart beats hard, slowly ramping its cadence.
Midousuji’s nails dent his skin, his jaw clenching, cords popping from his neck.
“Sit down,” he orders slow, firm, and low. “I said I would make it when it’s ready.”
Midousuji’s palms become clammy.
“I’m understood, aren’t I? Ishigaki-kuuuun.”
no subject
“You’re so dramatic,” Midousuji says very quietly, his affectation flat, unable to muster the focus or wherewithal to inject his tone with derision or bullying scorn.
Ishigaki must be scared, Midousuji thinks. Of course he would be.
It was funny, back home, Midousuji never thought about anyone else ever dying—swearing his heart closed was partly why, but since learning of Ishigaki’s diagnosis, he thinks that even if it were someone he didn’t particularly care for back home who’d met some untimely, painful end, he’d be at least a little disquieted. Death is a scary thing.
How foolish—how ungrateful he was back home, treating his own body like a means to an end. The context of his mother’s words, years and years and years later, are finally almost in what their proper intended place was. Midousuji is his mother’s precious legacy; his body, and his life, mattered too. Maintaining himself like a machine, but not respecting his own limits, just as he had with the De Rosa… Like it didn’t matter if he lived or died. The fact that he’d actively wished for death even in this place.
Ishigaki here, in this condition, has utterly shifted his perspectives.
And it’s kind of—
horrible, yes… but so too, it’s…
Midousuji’s breath catches, stuck in his throat, ribs subtly expanding.
It’s amazing, really.
Is it that death really the only thing that can change Midousuji? At least, to great, bounding pace? He’d always managed smaller evolutions all the time—closer to what would get him his victory, but not…
Yes, there is something else.
Growing towards something else…
Some other meaning.
What is it?
“Whether I like it or not, somehow, I’ll probably always be burdened by your company.”
What Midousuji really wants to say is that Ishigaki isn’t going anywhere—but he can’t bring himself to allude to his impending death as directly as he normally would. Indeed, over the last weeks, the closer it’s gotten, the less referential Midousuji’s been. The sense for that kind of thing just doesn’t go away.
“Stupid,” Midousuji says so softly that it’s nearly in whisper. “Stupid, stupid, you’re so stupid, do you hear yourself? Ridiculous.
We’re right here,” he says almost rigidly. Though his voice is still quiet, his voice becomes increasingly terse. “So who cares, Ishigaki-kun? We’re right here. Now. We’re here. So who cares?”
His hands nearly slip in his fierce grip around the little ceramic mug.
“Like you won’t see a stupid myrtle tree ever again! Like you’ll never leave this place! Like we aren’t right here, right this second, together!”
Midousuji goes still, muscles locked, his heart pounding. It’s only ever gone so fast when he’s making a break for the finish—he hadn’t meant to say that that way. But he wasn’t saying anything all that intentionally. He feels like he’s losing his grip.
Together…
no subject
Ishigaki connects one sentence to the other, and he feels a churning inside him, resignation swimming in his eyes. He calls out his name, too hurried to hide how difficult it's been to keep his voice steady, and so it comes out of his throat in such a way that the only part that could surely reach out to Midousuji is a very soft "-suji."
Ishigaki extends out his arm, blindly and silently patting the sheets until, for the first time since he's came to Aefenglom, he indicates contact. It's not much, though- his arm lifts only for his fingertips to lightly brush the other, unsure of which part of him he's really touching, before sliding back onto the sheet without any friction to stay otherwise
He wishes he wasn't so delirious, on the edge of giving into his fatigue with his blurred vision a reminder of how useless it feels to keep his eyes open. It's as if his organs were shutting down, because that's what it feels like, internally, with the sedative dulling what would otherwise be agonizing pain, and his eyes being two of them- unfocused and stinging with pain at the little light they take in. But most of all, he wishes he could read Midousuji's face for better clarity. Ishigaki can tell by the subtle shift of his silhouette alone that he's as tense as the air between them.
It takes a great deal of self-control not to grimace when he sits up, and the room spins when he does. He reach out vaguely until he's touching Midousuji with meaning. His palm lands on his wrist, and the dampness of his own skin against his catches him off guard despite the way his bangs stick to his forehead. He's been sweating, so cold he hadn't taken any notice.
His grip is hardly one at all. Ishigaki still doesn't know if Midousuji likes to be touched- he's never dared to go through with trying, but Ishigaki needs him to look at him. Or maybe, Ishigaki needs to look at him. He can't see the details, but something crosses Midousuji's face that isn't just irritation, and it confirms Ishigaki's disbelief.
He’d never suspected anything like the root of his all his hostility to be… fear of any kind.
Midousuji is scared.
"Midousuji," he tries again, and it's not much stronger than the first try, but at least it comes out fully.
"When I look at you, when I'm here, I just can't help but think of all those things." He says, quietly, and this time he puts in the effort not to sound so pathetic. If his face tightens, he relies on it being written off as pain.
Ishigaki takes a forced breath in, then, suddenly aware how much talking he's been doing, and how taxing it is to do so. Karma, maybe, when Midousuji has already told him time and time again tonight to keep quiet. His chest feels tight, like there's something heavy pushing down on it.
But still he carries on, as if that might make it stop.
"It's a good thing… They're connected, I think." he goes on, his tone returning to the same genuine sincerity as before. He smiles, though he's unsure if his eyes are meeting inside Midousuji's like he thinks they are. "They're why I've liked being here, in Aefenglom. And why I like being here, right now… Together."
He blinks sluggishly, dizziness settling in and staying.
"It's just, if I don't think of those things, then I'm thinking about what's happening right now, and honestly... I'm a little nervous." His stare drifts somewhere else, unable to focus on anything. "And I'm in a lot of pain. And I…"
Somewhere between then and now, his head has lolled forward, and now he's involuntarily facing their hands.
"...Should lie back down."
no subject
However, the static clears up suddenly, and Midousuji’s iris’s twitch and contract, a clarity, though still anxious all the same, suddenly snags him somewhat; his eyes dagger to their corners, body and neck unmoved. The stroke of Ishigaki’s fingertips registers physically, but it’s off—there’s no warmth, no spirit, no organized purpose. But Midousuji keeps his attention on Ishigaki regardless, eager to hone on exaction.
Because that’s what this is about. That’s why Midousuji is here in the first place.
So when Ishigaki sits up, Midousuji’s eyes widen, sucking in a breath tensely through his anxiously clenched teeth, glued by his terse, nervy jaw. His blood runs cold when Ishigaki’s palm rests clumsily against his wrist, where the claminess is jarring to Midousuji—even when his mother was nearing her end, her skin didn’t feel quite like this. But, similarly, her hands were cold, and weak. Midousuji’s lightless, dark eyes bore hard on Ishigaki’s hand.
Ishigaki, always so full of vigor, conviction and brightness… is withered—withering, increasingly, right before his eyes. Wasting away. Talking nonsense. Sweating vigor. Wasting breath. Shivering away from the obnoxiously fortified model human Ishigaki has always been.
To behold, in all this tragedy, although expected—foreshadowed, even—is truly a disgusting reality to behold in its unwinding. So unbelievable, antithetical, and yet undeniably, nothing else but the present and bleak inescapable reality of this very repulsive situation.
When Ishigaki says that he’s nervous, it’s of course understandable—typically, this is something that Midousuji would utilize nefariously. Either put it in his pocket, or actively twist and shimmy a blade in someone’s vulnerable back. Someone showing their vulnerability so plain-hand is rife in the way that someone begs for a punishment after being foolish. In short: indeed, it is pathetic.
But it’s not normal pathetic.
It’s not debased. It’s not some nasty innate human trait, over-saturated, expected, and thus so worthy of rebellious derision—it is, only, simply human. In a way that makes Midousuji connected, despite how it makes his skin crawl, realize, he too, is also merely human.
“Don’t think about anything then,” Midousuji says tersely, but more quietly, less with the urgent jetting of air from anxious, huge lungs. Still without looking at Ishigaki, Midousuji sprawls his hand against Ishigaki’s chest—but gently (unusual for him), fingers widely fanned, using careful, light pressure to guide Ishigaki back again. Simultaneously, he swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing innocuously. As if vicarious to Ishigaki’s sickly state, Midousuji’s own palms feel cool, and clammy.
Gently, gently, gently, Midousuji guides Ishigaki back down this way—from a very gentle, disquieted extension of his triceps, and tense fingers and knuckles.
“Don’t talk, either. You’re right. Just—” Midousuji’s breath catches so, so subtly, it may not be noticeable; awkwardly, he swallows around it, and clenches his jaw anew, with twice the pressure as before. “Just lay back down. Don’t waste your energy useless sentimentality.”
Midousuji’s heart thuds heavily in his chest-such that it’s as if it’s seeking to revolutionize against the very ribcage that protects it. His hand, flat against Ishigaki’s chest as it guides him back down to a more hospice ease, trembles coldly.
In this scenario, Midousuji has a far higher likelihood of coming out okay. So he has to shut it all out. Discard everything outside of guiding the present. Embrace static, and strengthen against the unknown.
“Reeeesttt, Ishigaki-kun—just…rest. Stop it; shut up.”
His ribs stiffly inhale, but Midousuji doesn’t quite get a full breath; he leans back awkwardly, trying not to look at Ishigaki, though his hand remains perched on his chest.
“There’s nothing certain of the present,” he lies. “Tomorrow, I’ll inconvenience myself with dragging your sorry body up for exercise, nutrition, whatever. For now…”
Midousuji’s lip stiffens again, and he glances shakily towards Ishigaki through the corner of his eyes, molars grinding. He slaps his free hand against his face, regulating the surge of incredible, large emotions welling in him. All so foreign; so disturbing.
“…Ishigaki-kun goes to sleep.”
And that could be true. He’s not psychic, after all! Fear can throw off prediction!! It can dissuade, mislead…
But somehow, deep in, Midousuji knows that’s not what this is. And he feels that Ishigaki knows just as well as Midousuji does. Even so, it’s free to wish for this to be untrue.
1 / 3
Ishigaki understands then, when he's fully returned to bed, why Midousuji had guided him to his room at the first sign of hopelessness. He wonders if this has been their unspoken understanding from the very beginning: that if they can't do this- can't make light of everything that's happening- as if Ishigaki surely will wake up tomorrow and their codependent nannying will continue- then it will be the end of Midousuji's sanity, the snap of the only thread of what's fully and wholly tied to his survival here. And it felt selfish, now, for Ishigaki not to assume he had an impact. As if Midousuji wasn't also in a human amount of pain. As if Ishigaki hadn't always been so desperately reminding him of the very same humanity. As if that wasn't the point of it all.
Ishigaki desperately wants to protest, to lighten the mood as if he wasn't the one who soured it, to apologize for dying at all, but it's clear the best thing to say is nothing at all. He just stares for a long moment, expression grown somber.
It's plenty convincing not to ramble on, anyhow, with Ishigaki's heavy eyelids struggling not to close despite something terrible twisting in his chest. He blinks forcefully a few times more before finally giving in, a barely audible sigh passing his lips when he does.
"Tomorrow," Ishigaki echoes on another exhale. He hums in agreement.
There's still the chance that the morning will bring Midousuji's diligence as usual. He'll be shoved awake and kept from sleeping until noon the way his body wants to, then hurried out of bed to at the very least comb his hair and get himself dressed in enough moderate decency not to be worth scolding for, all before he's sat down to peck at a breakfast he doesn't want to eat.
It's grown too familiar to not picture easily.
"Looking forward to it…" he says, voice grown quiet.
"Goodnight, Midousuji."
2 / 3
The first hour brings a sleep needed in a way he hadn't slept since before he had shown visible signs of changings. The kind that leaves his mouth open and exhaling nasally breaths, the kind that has him dreaming nonsense of his daily life, as if the days and weeks and months spent here felt more like home than not- a place tucked away from all else, Midousuji's scent melting into his own.
Successfully lulled, but the ether is to wear off sooner or later and his condition, inevitably, only worsens- the decline quick when it does.
Ishigaki has gone from comfortably tucked to a pathetic, crumbled up ball. Even in sleep he's smothered in pain, stuck somewhere between conscious and not, lucid enough not to dream but not aware enough to give focus to anything outside of the pain. Cocooned in his blanket, he pants, hand limply covering his face as if subconsciously he'd be able to hide away the pain he so desperately kept Midousuji from seeing all this time. If Midousuji is still nearby to hear his groans sour the air, he doesn't know.
And then, the noises stops. He doesn't groan or shiver or toss. His breathing shallows, each breath farther away from the other. Every organ aches, screaming their protests, and every cell in his body feels as if they've given up the fight and are loathe to support his restraint.
He had always thought the very end would be something pleasant, but Ishigaki isn't- hasn't ever been- lucky.
And maybe it would be, if his soul wasn't being dragged away, borrowed, chewed and spit back up by hell- turning him into something he isn't. It's the final act of becoming a wireframe version of himself, as if taking everything away from him- the melted weight off his frame, the golden light in his eyes, his independence- hadn't all been enough. There's no euphoria to coax him, no velvty warmth waiting for him on the other side. The aches felt before now seem like a dull, lazy torture. There's only a searing pain now, flash-burning with acid from the inside out, and he can see the flames when it comes.
3 / 3
Despite the continuous preparation put into this very moment, Ishigaki can't grasp onto what's happening. In some desperate act of terror, he instinctually calls out, but the words are choked by another spasm- a sucked in, dry gasp. His fists twist tight into the sheets below him, jaw clenched shut, teeth bared to the ceiling.
His heart, despite the panic swelling inside him, does not sprint in his chest like he feels it should, nor does the way his rapid, deep breathing do anything for him- it's only subconscious, as if it was some learned, social habit ingrained into him. All that's he's left with is an irritating sense of thirst, and a power he's too scared to give into. His hunger is the only thing that feels clear- bright and loud and at the forefront of his mind- everything else faded into the background, hazy, blurry, less important.
1/?
The decline of his health, certainly, is the most obvious. But it’s his own stress, too—Midousuji can tell. Of course he can—so could anyone. The niceties are so strained that they nauseate. They almost make Midousuji mad. He understands, because he understands Ishigaki, somehow, well enough—why Ishigaki is doing it. But that doesn’t mean Midousuji appreciates it. It doesn’t mean he agrees, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t almost make him angry. The polite prostrating even in this type of futility. But Midousuji’s at least empathetic despite his stunted to design there’s no right way—he doesn’t have some better suggestion.
In Ishigaki’s shoes, he probably would have just completely isolated, and go on some starved rampage thereafter. Midousuji’s way is not smarter, but none the less, he’s entitled to the irritated, queasy feeling in his stomach, the one that makes him swallow uncomfortably hard around the dry swell of his adam’s apple, beaded in the fresh dewing of sweat.
So Midousuji’s jaw is locked, terse-shut, glancing away hard and stubborn when Ishigaki weakly and politely whispers of tomorrow.
He sits, remaining tense, gargoyle still, even after Ishigaki falls asleep. And Midousuji realizes, when he comes out of it, that it’s maybe been a minute. A frozen five to ten minutes…without realizing it’s really been more like twenty minutes. If he was less stressed, and more present, he’d be able to realize this based on the way he has bright white crescents in his palm from where his nails were indented into the flesh. He stands, somewhat clumsily, and pauses to still, eyes wide to the dusty, somber and amber air around them. It’s dark, but not dark enough.
Midousuji carefully shambles about to check all corners for light, to smother it out. He gets a large bowl, from the kitchen, and puts it by the bed. He sits back by the bed, and from his sleeve, he gently shakes loose a knife—and keeps it in the loose, dry hold of his bony fingers. Finally, he looks back at Ishigaki.
And he doesn’t look away. Not for a long time. Careful, still, almost holding his breath, Midousuji slowly settles onto his side, wide-eyed to his resting …
…what is Ishigaki, exactly?
His resting…
Friend. That’s not quite it; his regular repulsion pushes against the idea instinctively, but he’s changed quite a bit in his time in Aefenglom. Even accepting he may indeed have a few friends here and there—even accepting the struggle that is accepting he has friends, that those bonds are worthy in some capacity, humiliating and debasing even at their base utilitarian capacity… that isn’t what this is. Nor is Ishigaki his mentor, his teacher—but upperclassman no longer applies, at their ages, in this world, and even back home, in the context of what things have become.
Midousuji finally exhales—slow, and steady.
Ishigaki is something else that he isn’t sure there are words for. Even for regular people. Even for regular circumstance.
This isn’t normal.
Midousuji’s knees draw up to his chest, slowly and quietly as his wide, restless eyes stare in full, nervy, wide-eyed anticipation and observation. His arms curl inward as well, but he still holds the knife, occasionally adjusting the hilt in his palm by rolling it in anxious flexing.
Time passes some more. Midousuji’s not sure of its passage exactly. It feels like years, on one hand, but realistically, it feels like thirty minutes. It’s about three hours.
Hours of quiet, hours of staring, hours of Midousuji’s mind being a snagged, buzzing static. He thinks about his mother, how he never got to say goodbye—but this isn’t that, either. Someone dying by your side isn’t the same as a goodbye when only one person is conscious during the passing—and also, Ishigaki’s going to come right back. So why is he so nervous? Why is he…
Much more, why is Midousuji so certain Ishigaki is dying tonight? What if this some neurotic misfiring? It’s due soon, for certain—but there’s been subtle tells all week that things have been escalating—and there’s just something to now.
Midousuji blinks, slowly, once—and his lip line tightens just slightly, his chin dimpling.
He rolls the knife in his palm again.
He’s coming right back, so why does it even matter?
His mother died almost 15 years ago, so why does it matter?
They aren’t the same. They aren’t the same thing. They aren’t the same people.
It’s hard to swallow. The exhale is tight, too. Midousuji blinks once again, this time, less slowly, but harder. His lip trembles, then straightens; his shoulders slack as the disassociation is forced in, and the skin of his face smooths out again.
He gazes forward.
It’s not the same.
It isn’t the same.
2/?
He doesn’t even notice that he’s thrust himself up so his narrow waist bends as he remains laid on his side, propped up with his elbow. His other hand rotates the knife once more, so tense he suddenly can’t breathe, eyes still empty, wide, and alert.
Ishigaki’s words are strangled, to where nothing really comes out much at all, and Midousuji’s gut twists in a way he’s never experienced. He’s experienced a smaller kind of it—when his mother was wheeled away from him, fast, so fast, almost faster than he could run… His heart races just like then, but with the pressure of being more aware. He watches Ishigaki struggle, his breath caught in frozen pause in his big lungs, tense and anticipating…
Then, Ishigaki finally settles again. Midousuji is frozen in his pose, which must look like someone who’s nervously chained to the promise of their assailant. But that isn’t why the knife glints in its fretting turns.
After another fifteen minutes, Midousuji finally settles, slowly, back down onto his side as he were… and again, he watches Ishigaki; now, his free hand curls nervously in front of his lips in a spidery, anxious cage, picking at his lips, or tapping their fingernails on his teeth.
Still, Midousuji barely breathes. He watches, and fights desperately within himself to say it’s his imagination that Ishigaki’s warmth rescinds.
That his breath stops, when he isn’t awake to do it on a whole adult lifespan of muscle memory… that he’s still, so still. A type of peaceful rest Midousuji’s never had the misfortune of seeing before, but is twistedly, deep down, in some part of himself, vindicated in seeing.
“Ishigaki-kun,” Midousuji chokes very quietly, and slowly, swallowing uncomfortably again, this time around his words. Minutes after, Midousuji carefully extends a hand, brushing his fingers across Ishigaki’s cold cheek—just the backs of his nails. Midousuji’s eyes briefly flit there, and back to Ishigaki, staring with abysmally dark eyes. Midousuji feels something inside himself empty in a way that’s beyond pain—an icy, searing coldness that hollows him out. His throat is so dry. Slowly, he fans out his hand, uncertain—and unsteadily, he flattens his palm and his fingertips against Ishigaki’s face.
His eyes feel weirdly…a bit…hot. His hand relaxes a bit, and Midousuji finds Ishigaki’s uncannily cool—cooling—flesh is soothing against the nervous heat of his palm. His thumb brushes across his face, between his cheek and his nose, and Midousuji’s chin buckles a bit again.
Ishigaki’s eyes will never be gold again. He’ll never be warm again. He’ll never have a living heartbeat.
This place, Aefenglom, is so terrible. And Ishigaki, so annoying.
But this is so far from anything Ishigaki’s ever deserved.
“I never…forced you,” he manages, tense and quiet, “to watch my back.”
He wants to rescind his arm, but finds, uncharacteristically, he can’t. He gently moves his thumb again, finding his voice increasingly hard to squeeze out from his breathless, tight lungs.
Midousuji never wanted to experience death again. He’d probably feel this frightened watching anyone die. And he’d probably do this, he’s accepted, for Sakamichi—even more surprising people in his life, to be frank.
But he wouldn’t be feeling like this. Gut rotten, and punished for someone getting into his heart again. And he knows he deserves the punishment, too. Tayoru…
In Aefenglom, it’s how you survive. But it’s different, with someone from back home. Someone who changed you. Who forced you without you realizing it that it needed to happen.
“I didn’t force you to change.”
Midousuji’s eyebrows pinch, subtly, in the center, feeling his chest well, his breath becoming a bit scattered in panic—but he keeps it quiet, keeps it repressed, and that only makes him feel all the more strangled.
“And I…hope you know…”
Midousuji’s fingers brush shakily across his sideburns, watching Ishigaki’s peaceful expression as his panic wells. “I…didn’t ask for you to change me, either.”
After some time, Midousuji finally withdraws his hand, curled up on his side again, and he waits patiently, trapped by his duty and his terror. The knife twists in his hand again, and Midousuji swallows stiffly once more, exhaling heavily from his nostrils.
It’s late, so late—but there isn’t any way his body can understand that. There’s no way he rests.
It feels so foolish.
Ishigaki will be back.
Soon, very soon—even if it’s never again warmly, with golden eyes and that grounding, rhythmic pulse.
In the last hour of Ishigaki’s rest, Midousuji, in latent remorse for not having absorbed it sooner, Midousuji grips Ishigaki’s cold, lifeless wrist.
He stares, waiting.
ok change of plans
Ishigaki can recognize that he feels awful, still left frail and malnourished, but his head spins as an onslaught of newfound sensations flood his body. A primal instinct thrums inside of him, bursting with excessive energy and vitality.
His skin burns in pinpricks as his heart, now beating leisurely in pulse, circulates back into itself. The numbness in his body eventually lifts enough that he takes notice of the hand, now uncomfortably warm against his cold skin, gripped at his wrist by the rhythmic pulsing underneath it- and when he does, his eyes flash in its direction.
Ishigaki bolts upright. Only his subconcious has taken in the metalic shine of his knife, clasping the wrist that holds it above their heads. His face is only a few inches away, and saliva pools into his mouth and involentary hangs open, as if already knowing what it wants before he does.
But he stops there, inhaling slowly and deeply- a thick taste at the back of his throat. It's what he can't yet recognize as the usual scent of something he isn't- something he wouldn't notice so deeply if he was- of testosterone and a fleck of sweat, but it's familar, his heighten scent bringing out reminisce of riding in the summer heat. And there's an aroma of something else entirely, uniquely warm and strangly sweet over powering that. Ishigaki's eyelids, which had grown relaxed in his moment of something close to intoxication, open fully.
He stares bewildered, trying to piece together the fragments of his memories. The eyes before him were, just hardly, hooded and tired. The corner of them blotched pink, the eyes themselves bloodshot from exhaustion. Worry worms itself in, and it's only then does his name return to him.
Midousuji's words flash through his mind, his once muddy silhouette now clear as day before him, “So who cares, Ishigaki-kun? We’re right here. Now. We’re here. So who cares?”
Ishigaki sucks in a breath. Whatever primal instinct he has, falters. Though bloodlust still ultimately at the forefront of his mind, his eyebrows twitch, pinching together into something less savage and more pitiful, bared teeth now closed over with a chin dimpled frown.
"Midousuji," he rasps, his voice hardly recognizable.
His eyes slowly roll to his hand, noticing the way his nails leave red crescents into Midousuji's skin. He's still lost the ability to form much of a coherent thought, and he can't seem to quite let go, but he can notice how his nails, just barely, weren't pressing down hard enough to break skin. That if he were to put any more force, they certainly would, and he would easily snap Midousuji's wrist if it went much passed that. That it hardly felt like he was gripping at all.
He looks foward at him, terrified. What's keeping him sat still is surely the result of Ishigaki's years worth of persistent self endurance. He wouldn't be able to tell if his care for Midousuji is in addition to that, or if it's what's beckoning him to sink his teeth in. But Midousuji suddenly undergoing a shift- suddenly seeming so much more present, more human, more like he wants to make a space for Ishigaki in his life… That’s really not something Ishigaki's heart has been able to take. He wants Midousuj near him, he wants to keep Midousuji safe and well just as he's done with him, and now, he wants to eat him.
Ishigaki recognizes the stinging in the corner of his eyes. The bottled feelings of last night, of their time in Aefenglom, of everything, want to come forward, but he just continues to stare, unblinking, without letting the tears fall- eyes wide and wet as he leans back and shakes his head.
While Ishigaki silently wrestles with an insatiable desire for a temporary high, his grip losens, hand weak and trembling. His eyes have grown unfocused, not really looking at Midousuji now. As hard as it was to reconcile with the disgust he felt with himself, it was easy to be mesmerized, listening intently at Midousuji's thrumming pulse.
"Midousuji, " Ishigaki breathes, voice quiet and broken, and he's not sure which he's begging for. "Midousuji. Please..."
no subject
Coming and going, his eyes sting, but no tears well, though his eyes gloss just slightly, so briefly, here and there. Invariably, he thinks of his mother. Morbidly, wonders about her corpse—something he’d never done before, something he’d never allowed. Always, Midousuji compartmentalized truly processing it, or letting in any of his dark, heavy grief. But now, he’s being made to literally lay with it. To lay with death, to sit with his grief.
Even this death is unnatural, which keeps Midousuji tethered. Rigor mortis doesn’t ever quite set in, though he’s sure it should have. Ishigaki did indeed have that horrific death rattle in his final breath, hours ago, and it plays in a loop in Midousuji’s head, surely to haunt him for all his sleeps to come. But that’s about the only typical thing, as far as he knows.
When Ishigaki’s finger twitches, Midousuji’s heart immediately accelerates, his pupils shrinking pinprick as they immediately zip with a sharpness to the movement. It’s happening.
Then Ishigaki lurches up, making Midousuji jump; it’s more than just startle or excitement now—fear is in the mix as well. Especially when Ishigaki grasps his arm so roughly, causing Midousuji to force himself up, despite how stiff his arm and side are, trying to leverage against it to where it almost looks like the start of a grapple. The strength in that grip is undeniable, and Midousuji’s eyes stick there with fear, his jaw dropping soundlessly, just slightly, his breath caught. Ishigaki’s nails nearly break the skin, sharp like talons.
But…they don’t. Of course they don’t. Even like this, Ishigaki has such restraint, resilience, and…gross. Compassion, yeah.
Midousuji forces himself to lock eyes with Ishigaki, his adam’s apple drawn tight and high, his stomach feeling like it’s squishing up against his battering heart. But he isn’t afraid like that. He has resolve. He’s ready, more than anything. He…wants this, and won’t let something as silly as primal fear get in his way.
It feels—wrong. Demented, even, to be this excited. Or maybe that’s not the right word. Is it panic? It’s like when the phase of a plan is triggered—the programmed rush of the next execution. But, definitely fear, too.
Midousuji’s eyes widen slowly, and when finally the frenetic riling in Ishigaki seems to simmer a bit (which—how? How is that possible?), Midousuji, after great deliberation, decides it’s safe to move. It’s then that Ishigakai’s voice comes out weak as all, feeble and needy. He pries Ishigaki’s hand off his arm—it leaves excited welts where his claws rake his skin, and Midousuji exchanges the hands the hold the little blade. The arm Ishigaki’s just been holding takes firm grasp of it, and Midousuji’s other arm extends.
Thin, pale fingers extend forward—then hesitate, as Midousuji briefly glances at Ishigaki’s face again, unused to such proximity. He continues, fingers trembling, and he skirts them along Ishigaki’s face. His palm rests against the side of his face, gently at first, then with a more deliberate, full pressure; a bit clumsily, his cold, clammy palm (which feels warm against Ishigaki’s ice-cold skin) caresses slowly downward. He holds his hand there for a moment, holding Ishigaki’s gaze now.
“Do not beg me like a dog,” Midousuji finally manages, voice low, rough and dry from strain and fatigue.
He extends his other hand, and without breaking eye contact, he makes a clean, deep cut across his wrist. He doesn’t delay, because he knows Ishigaki will frenzy; in fact, he’s surprised he hasn’t already. Midousuji’s fingers shift so that they rest along his cheekbone, and he presses his bleeding wrist against Ishigaki’s mouth, leaning forward with a severe, blank expression.
He’d practiced this motion many times, the movement and the pressure of the blade, while the blade had its guard. Over and over, alone, rehearsing as some macabre coping ritual.
And here he is now—pushing his weight into Ishigaki, his breath tense and heavy, but almost restricted; his adrenaline is still going wild, so his blood wells healthily against Ishigaki’s lips.
“Open your mouth,” he demands, almost breathless, but with enough tension for it to sound almost spat. “If you don’t, you’ll kill me.”
Midousuji doesn’t make it mean to sound as if he’s doing this out of self preservation. He doesn’t have to be here at all, after all. If Ishigaki thinks that, though, it might save Midousuji some of the humiliation.
He’s here against his fear, not because of it; he isn’t feeding Ishigaki to save himself, but because he wants to be the one to do it.
They’re Bonded, after all, aren’t they?
The toll would be too great on Ishigaki to do this to someone he doesn’t know exactly as well, wouldn’t it?
Midousuji relies on Ishigaki to siphon away his excess magic and keep him from the madness, and Ishigaki relies on Midousuji to keep him from becoming a mindless beast. They rely on each other, and Midousuji’s proving, for once, on purpose, that it isn’t just incidental that Ishigaki can rely on him.
He’s realized that this is what he’d always wanted, and never got, before his mother was taken from him.
To nourish.
How disgusting, to realize that’s what’s the deepest thing inside of him. As his wrist stings, surging thick goads of blood, Midousuji thinks of the logo of his Del Rosa; how this is the sum of his heart’s deepest, darkest desire, pushed right out from his veins for the purpose of…this.
It feels crazy, really, and he knows it’s delusion—a technicality. But it feels like cheating death—it feels like a chance to be grown and strong enough to bring someone from the brink, and keep them from it. A chance to take all those feelings back, and bend them to a new way.
He knows once Ishigaki begins to feed in earnest, it will hurt much, much more. But Midousuji’s not even sure how much he’ll really feel it. How convenient adrenaline is. His fingers rest in Ishigaki’s hairline, hand naturally repositioned from pressing his wrist to Ishigaki’s mouth, and Midousuji tries to ignore how his fingertip brushes the edge of his slightly pointed ear.
It repeats in his head, almost fanatically, me, me alone…
Feed on me.
no subject
Their eyes are locked, and Midousuji is touching him, hand warm, holding him in place as he spoke. Midousuji wasn’t one to be gentle- his hands were heavy, his fingers rough- but this time his touch is suspiciously kind, painfully gentle when he trembles the way he does. And there's fear, true fear, in Midousuji's eyes, but Ishigaki has known Midousuji long enough to recognize something else deeper inside them. It's the look Midousuji gives when he wants something. When he has a goal.
The words manage to click, and Ishigaki shakes his head in disbelief, somehow feeling as both seen and misunderstood entirely.
"Stop," he hisses at the first moment's realization, but Midousuji extends his hand with a skillful stride, elaborating his intent.
"Don't--"
Skin splits, the metallic tang of iron immediate, and Ishigaki's pupils blow fully dilated. It's ultimately useless, impossible to deny- he already knows- but he thinks to grit his teeth before his mind slips away from him. And there's a flash of betrayal before it does- teardrops threatening to spill over his eyelashes from Midousuji's complete disregard of his own safety, of Ishigaki's own feelings, before the little humanity he has left slips from his eyes.
His entire body trembles, the veins in his neck and temples bulged beneath his skin- a poor and stubborn last ditch effort of self-control. But a snarl rolls out anyway, raw and deep, his eyes rolling to the ceiling as he steadily convulses. Midousuji is saying something, pushing his bleeding wrist into him, but Ishigaki doesn't know what it is. It all quickly becomes white noise, everything else fading away until its singled out by one word.
There's something drawing him forward. And it isn't just bloodlust.
His eyes unroll, staring straight into Midousuji's.
He can only assume, with his mind overcrowded and enamored by want, that what's echoing in his head and doubling back into itself hypnotically, is a manifestation of the word…
Mine.
A harsh snarl gives voice to the sudden spike of aggression, mixing bloodlust with passion, hunger with desire. Before he realizes it, he's already launched forward and wrapped himself tight around Midousuji, fangs deep into his wrist- the combined cut and bite gushing blood healthily into his mouth. And it tastes good. It tastes really good.
It triggers a frenzy of primal instincts, and he's swallowing thickly, the months of malnutrition quick to remind itself. And there they lie intwined in his bed, Midousuji pinned underneath, where Ishigaki holds Midousuji's wrist between his head and theirs by the grip of his teeth. He can feel Midousuji's warmth at his chest, can hear the steady beat of his heart, and Ishigaki digs his nails, sharp and possessive, into his shoulders.
There's a string of sounds, half-swallowed growls in the back of his throat between one swallow and the other. It was exhilarating- euphoric, even- to sink into his own want- to think of nothing else but that want, because anything else is waning away with each second, sinking under the smothering heat of Midousuji’s presence. As if anything before had all just been a long and arduous journey, filled with sacrifices and self-imposed restrictions. That it was all, inevitably, leading up to a moment much like this. As Ishigaki's sucks hungrily, all his needs coalesce. Everything tangles and knots together, pouring out of him at the same time, impossible to identify. There is no, perseverance, no dignity, no patience. There is only the pleasure he gets from the stolen intimacy of a parasitic act.
Mine, Ishigaki thinks. Mine...
no subject
Midousuji isn’t entirely unaware of their tension, nor his own feelings, though he still can’t pull any trigger in any type of decisive declaration for what either of those things are. He remembers, distantly, back home, he always thought this kind of thing was stupid; the eroticized romanticism of vampires, prey and predator, etc… Sure, he likened himself to a predator to a bunch of mindless prey in racing, but it wasn’t the same kind of allegory. There’s nothing heightening or erotic about this, at least not right now—it’s debasing, and worse, entirely voluntary. A deliberate act of compassionate submission.
But that doesn’t mean he isn’t an animal without instincts or clarity—he pushes his wrist against Ishigaki’s hungry mouth, even for how it twists his tendons and makes him wince an eye, hissing through his teeth as his pin-prick pupils bore intensely on Ishigaki, jaw terse. He presses his wrist against Ishigaki as if to keep him on task with his feeding site, in Midousuji’s self preservation.
Twistedly, as also anticipated, Midousuji still derives a satisfaction from this. Sure, they were bonded, but that felt a lot more voluntary than this. It had to be Midousuji. Ishigaki, though a beast rending Midousuji for nutrients now, is still, and will still, be Ishigaki. A man tenacious only for the strength of his heart’s futile compassion. But Midousuji is also acutely aware of how important nutrition is for recovery in all of its forms. Ishigaki would be too guilty to even go to a blood bank.
And anyway, Midousuji wouldn’t want Ishigaki to do that even if he had the capacity. He is a being propelled by his near demonic need for control, versus Ishigaki’s compassion. In this complex woven spell, here they are—and Midousuji pushes terse, tense breaths through his teeth in rapid succession as he struggles to situate as is most safe beneath his starving companion.
Midousuji’s other hand raises in tense, awkward clawing forward, seeming unsure—and his sharp elbow hooks just as pointedly to take a tense fistful of Ishigaki’s hair. His eyes tremble along with his breath, gradually rolling back as he endures the pain, his molars grinding.
Ishigaki may go on further than he needs—how one eats to bloat when starving, the hunger cues satiated too late. But Midousuji knows that right now isn’t quite the time to interrupt, though he’s trying to keep his wits about him enough to know when to get Ishigaki to stop. And more importantly, how to exert this boundary. Which…
Maybe he didn’t think that one through as much. He was too overcome by everything else preceding this.
Death isn’t real, in a place like this. But they’ll be set too far back if Midousuji fails Ishigaki in advocating for his own survival, however he can. But he’s a weak man, in comparison to Ishigaki.
For now, all he can do is hazily, in a panic, try to find his neck steps once he’s several more ounces depleted.
“I-…Ishigaki-kun,” he grits out tersely, briefly blinking both of his eyes shut hard. His skin is in a clammy cold sweat, from panic and adrenaline both. “You aren’t an animal. Y-you aren’t…a baby. Okay? Don’t choke.”
A couple more strangled breaths, as Midousuji squirms. His fingernails dig into his scalp.
“Easy, easy, eeeeeasssyyyyy,” he almost growls, but it comes out as a half snarl, half sputter, one of his legs idly lifting to better accommodate Ishigaki’s position. “I’m not going anywhere, and neither is my blood! Don’t kill me; don’t kill me! You need me!”
no subject
But Midousuji is persistent, and this time the adrenaline isn't enough to mask the pain with the way he claws his back once more, nails digging deep enough into an already bloodied intersection of scratches that Ishigaki feels the skin rip when he does.
Ishigaki responds with a reflexive groan that bubbles the blood in the back of his throat, and Midousuji's efforts are rewarded. He pulls away, a thread of saliva and blood connecting his lips to Midousuji's wrist when he does.
But Ishigaki doesn't stop out of any sense of sympathy. Nothing Midousuji said had been processed. There's only the sense of urgency that amplifies every minor annoyance, and a delayed recognition. Ishigaki picks up, instictually- just as instinctually as Midousuji had clawed and drawn blood and faught for his escape- the sounds of primal terror. He's putting up more of a fight than it's worth.
Ishigaki sits up fully, roughly pinning Midousuji to the bed by his shoulders. And there he stares blankly, mouth hung open, teeth stained red. Midousuji's expression is twisted into something that can only be described as the face of someone who's realized that they have, undeniably, fucked up.
Misled by his own vanity into thinking that the laws of nature- if that what it was, here in Aefenglom- don’t apply to him. And now he lies before Ishigaki, pupils shrunken down to pinpoints, skin damp, trembling. It’s only Midousuji who would have that sort of conviction.
Ishigaki decides that it's not a good look on him.
Despite leaving Midousuji a noticable shade whiter, the fullness hasn't hit Ishigaki's stomach yet. There's an urgency gnawing at him, still undeniably unsatisfied. He's had only enough to be able to pull back, to assure himself that if Midousuji were to run away now, it wouldn't be very far, or long enough to matter.
He places his hands firmly to the side of Midousuji's face now, pulling him upward and inches away from his own. Running on pure instinct, thoughts a single cord of want, he stares expectantly into Midousuji's eyes.
And he waits.
no subject
Involuntarily movement and sound…
The mere idea of that sort of lack of control years ago, and even now, was enough alone to make Midousuji’s skin crawl. He’d centered all his strength and solitude around control; deliberately amplifying his off-putting traits, and pushing people too far to so much as touch him. The idea of this kind of vulnerability has always been nightmarish, and Midousuji has had barely the blink of an eye to develop any sort of callous of deliberately stripping away his power like this.
The first time Midousuji had ever loved, it was a center to amplify his power—this is a first, sacrificing himself with enough confidence in himself all the same to care for another person. The way he wished he could fold the laundry while his mom was sick before she went to hospital, or done the dishes without clumsily breaking them.
Midousuji gasps breathlessly, as if he’d been held underwater, when Ishigaki’s bloody mouth finally leaves the sacrificial wound on his wrist. His eyes dart sharp, wide and anxious to Ishigaki’s palms when he pins Midousuji down like that.
Did he miscalculate? Truly, was he going to die? Death didn’t mean much in a place like this, but the humiliating misery of dying now when he was so confident he could go against his own nature to be selfless proving how pointless kindness to this extent is truly so foolish is foolish enough to incite his panic. Midousuji’s already broad ribs flare in nearly triple the average rate per breath; he’s so literally drained that he’s surprised his heart can still beat so frantically.
Then his eyes widen just a bit more in tense, surprised flinching as Ishigaki’s hands cup around his face, almost lifting Midousuji’s head.
And Ishigaki’s hands are so…cold. His mother’s hands were so warm, so loving; something he’d subconsciously melt towards, rather than arch away from—as Midousuji does from Ishigaki.
His breath falls in tandem to the silence as Ishigaki stares at him. The calm diminishes Midousuji’s instinct to palm Ishigaki in the orbital socket (which would have ultimately killed Midousuji in the long run, with Ishigaki’s current state).
“I-Ishigaki-kun,” Midousuji clumsily chokes out, swallowing dryly after. His hands close weakly around Ishigaki’s wrists. Midousuji can’t say the things he’d think would be the most effective in these scenarios, typically; soft, warm-hearted and earnest, personal things… That type of vulnerability is more difficult than the type he feels as helpless prey. How karmic.
But it doesn't even really matter—Midousuji finds that he can't quite understand why he was even thinking of that. Effective how? Ishigaki's eyes, rid of their honey gold, bear down on him in piercing carmine. For months, knowing this was coming, Midousuji thought, though he didn't admit it or phrase it to himself this way precisely as it's too honest, that he'd miss that color. That the coldness of Ishigaki's tongue and touch would disturb him—and it had, moments ago.
His head swims in a groggy, sticky warmth; his cooling, frailing body starts to feel it too. It's thrall, which Midousuji didn't anticipate that Ishigaki might use so early—he hadn't accounted for it because most vampires he'd met weren't able to use it, much less so powerfully, in the freshest moments of their turning. And since Midousuji is under the thrall, he isn't even realizing this—thrall doesn't cross his mind at all.
His fear turns to a sort of bittersweet fondness. This was a long time coming, and Midousuji had made his decision for a reason; he wants Ishigaki's health. He wants Ishigaki to move forward without fear, self hatred or guilt in that health, too. Never admitted, but true since they'd discerned Ishigaki's determined path by this world.
Dying isn't permanent. Right. Maybe Ishigaki will stop himself, and Midousuji will survive. Midousuji is too addled in this intoxication to consider that he also went into this with the goal of protecting Ishigaki from the trauma of murdering the person who's effectively been his care aid. But right now, Midousuji feels passive to the idea of utter sacrifice. Peaceful, even.
So with his hand trembling more out of nauseous nerves than terror, nor anemia, Midousuji just…partially mirrors Ishigaki. He rests his hand against Ishigaki’s cheek. His eyes lid partially.
“…It's probably not enough, isn't that right?"
His hand, still against Ishigaki's face, strokes more towards the center—his thumb brushes Ishigaki's bloody lip, smearing it away from the corner of his mouth. His eyes stick there, where the blood pinkens beneath his thumbnail. His other wrist gently comes to rest atop his own stomach, where the blood lets into his shirt lazily, but steadily; similar to a mosquito, a vampire's bite has anti-coagulant properties, and unlike mosquitos, it leaves a powerful, warm numbness rather than itching. There's no more pain. Midousuji doesn't even notice his wound, even though his tendons had nearly been crushed.
His hand lifts slowly away from Ishigaki's face, resting instead against the back of his neck—and in a gesture probably closest to an embrace Midousuji's ever executed willingly, he pushes against Ishigaki's neck, where it meets his skull. He rolls his head sideways, making eyecontact with Ishigaki once more as he extends his long neck, guiding him towards it.
"Maybe you've had enough that giving you my neck won't kill me."
Midousuji entered this plan trying to do everything to avoid getting his neck bit—for the intimacy of it, and the fear. Ishigaki isn't practiced in feeding; instinct may lead him to a productive bite site, guided by pulse, but that doesn't mean it's impossible (though it is unlikely) that he may do enough damage that would bleed Midousuji out even if it weren't for his blood being thinned.
"But who knows... You're greedy, gross... like a child. But go on, have your fill; this time, I'll allow myself to surrender my body for your health."