The subtle changes in expression, the rise and fall of his voice. Ishigaki is so focused he almost misses what Midousuji is saying. His eyes follow his touch, breath held tight when his knuckles brush against him. His faces feels empty when they leave, but then they return, bare and mockingly gentle, cold skin against his heated face.
Midousuji's thumb brushes and stops- a small gesture with a subtle and clandestine sign. And it's then as if something had broken, and Ishigaki almost heard the snap when it did- the barrier between belief and disbelief. He steps back, closing the distance between him and the door, eyes frozen open.
When he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a faint noise in the back of his mouth. He closes it, swallows, and tries again.
"…Yes," he says, like he's responding to a command rather than a question. It's then he's noticed somewhere between then and now, he's tilted his head, just slightly, into his touch. Whatever game Midousuji is trying to play, Ishigaki is clearly following his lead.
What was once labeled as patronizing and condescending is now "honest" and "honorable." If he were to tell Ishigaki that years ago, he would have laughed, marking it off as manipulation, if not vied for more context. And now here is, folding at his words without much of a second thought.
Whatever he wants to call it, he's not wrong. Ishigaki can't lie.
Midousuji is clearly waiting for something as his brain shudders to put the pieces together past every instinct that’s screaming at him to escape. He laughs softly, nervous- a flounder to break the silence he's made.
"I thought maybe you'd have an idea," he says, quietly. "Since it's so obvious."
Ishigaki isn't entirely stupid. He knows what he's been, selfishly, doing overtime. But it's not that Ishigaki is hiding his passion, it's that he is only showing the excess bleeding out from what he can't hold on his own. As if his passion in itself is an essence made to be seen; an active paradox that he must resolve. At one and the same, his love must be known and not known.
He closes his eyes, a look of defeat washing over his features, and he holds up his hand just an inch away from the one that holds his face. But it only lingers there.
Hesitation, still even now. What if Midousuji rejects the idea? Just the thought is what's kept him quiet for so long, protecting him from his own want. Maybe that would teach them both something. Ishigaki not to follow a boy for years on end who tried so hard to keep closeness from happening, and for Midousuji not to hold the face of an unwavering man with a touch so convincing.
A feeling has welled up in chest so large it's suffocating. He feels like he wants to apologize. Midousuji is so gentle with his touch, so patient while Ishigaki finds the words when Midousuji is always so quick to know the right ones. It's unfair. As if punishing him, Midousuji is saying "This is your fault. You made this bed and now you’re lying in it."
His fingers curl back into his palm. He exhales deeply, eyes opening again, but only to gaze half-lidded at their feet.
"That is a long time to be gone. It is to me," he says, tone forced to stay even.
Blood roars in his ears, his pulse loud enough to hurt. But he says it anyway,
no subject
Midousuji's thumb brushes and stops- a small gesture with a subtle and clandestine sign. And it's then as if something had broken, and Ishigaki almost heard the snap when it did- the barrier between belief and disbelief. He steps back, closing the distance between him and the door, eyes frozen open.
When he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a faint noise in the back of his mouth. He closes it, swallows, and tries again.
"…Yes," he says, like he's responding to a command rather than a question. It's then he's noticed somewhere between then and now, he's tilted his head, just slightly, into his touch. Whatever game Midousuji is trying to play, Ishigaki is clearly following his lead.
What was once labeled as patronizing and condescending is now "honest" and "honorable." If he were to tell Ishigaki that years ago, he would have laughed, marking it off as manipulation, if not vied for more context. And now here is, folding at his words without much of a second thought.
Whatever he wants to call it, he's not wrong. Ishigaki can't lie.
Midousuji is clearly waiting for something as his brain shudders to put the pieces together past every instinct that’s screaming at him to escape. He laughs softly, nervous- a flounder to break the silence he's made.
"I thought maybe you'd have an idea," he says, quietly. "Since it's so obvious."
Ishigaki isn't entirely stupid. He knows what he's been, selfishly, doing overtime. But it's not that Ishigaki is hiding his passion, it's that he is only showing the excess bleeding out from what he can't hold on his own. As if his passion in itself is an essence made to be seen; an active paradox that he must resolve. At one and the same, his love must be known and not known.
He closes his eyes, a look of defeat washing over his features, and he holds up his hand just an inch away from the one that holds his face. But it only lingers there.
Hesitation, still even now. What if Midousuji rejects the idea? Just the thought is what's kept him quiet for so long, protecting him from his own want. Maybe that would teach them both something. Ishigaki not to follow a boy for years on end who tried so hard to keep closeness from happening, and for Midousuji not to hold the face of an unwavering man with a touch so convincing.
A feeling has welled up in chest so large it's suffocating. He feels like he wants to apologize. Midousuji is so gentle with his touch, so patient while Ishigaki finds the words when Midousuji is always so quick to know the right ones. It's unfair. As if punishing him, Midousuji is saying "This is your fault. You made this bed and now you’re lying in it."
His fingers curl back into his palm. He exhales deeply, eyes opening again, but only to gaze half-lidded at their feet.
"That is a long time to be gone. It is to me," he says, tone forced to stay even.
Blood roars in his ears, his pulse loud enough to hurt. But he says it anyway,
"It is when it's you."