N A V I G A T I O N } gen
MIDOUSUJI AKIRA
discarding - homeless
discarding - homeless
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STRANGERSおまけ
There's nothing more aggravating than being an amateur—than doing your best to walk with new legs, aware that you're near fatally clumsy in your lack of skill as you actively push to just stay upright and not trip.
Midousuji has been distinctly aware of his shaky gait, traversing things that are basically alien to him. But human connection has its distinct results, loathe he is to admit it, when it comes to his racing. But the nature of sex and romance and friendship, more than Midousuji even previously understood on an intellectual, eye-rolling basis, has proved to be more confusing than he could have imagined. It's a little embarrassing that his pandora's box has been his own withered little black heart, and he still doesn't enjoy utilizing it this way. It's like the foreshadowing has been right under his stupid dick this whole time in some fruity little red scrawl of a heart against bright chrome.
Eyes wide and empty, Midousuji barely absorbs the tinny, chaotic beats in his ear pods, head slightly hung as his big body sways slightly along with his large cycling bag. There's a lot on his mind, but he's not letting any of that through, at the moment, in an act to preserve his energy and sanity.
He's going to Italy—tomorrow. And he's booked his flight out through Tokyo. Word's not really out, though some of his cycling friends know—not everyone on his team is great at keeping tight lip. After all, Naruko's on his own team—not a legendarily discreet person. But outside of cycling, Midousuji knows there's a good chance word hasn't gotten out all that far, and there's a similarly decent chance that Ishigaki hasn't heard. Midousuji hasn't been wanting to think of it, because of the strange frenetic pressure it wells him with; makes his limbs stiff and locked, his head hot, his heart racing, his skin balmy.
Midousuji and Ishigaki have been spending time together, here and there. Back when he was a freshman, it was once a season. Then in his next couple years, maybe once a month—with the occasional text or call, no less. Calls became more frequent. And in the last six months, so have their in-person meetings, despite the distance. Maybe twice a month. Especially as Midousuji's anxiety began to grow when he learned Ishigaki had outgrown Kyoto, and intended to stay in Tokyo; that Midousuji had taught him the world was so much bigger than Kyoto, and how Midousuji panicked when that also meant that Ishigaki's world was bigger than Midousuji. The same feeling that caused this baffling anxiety was the same thing that chased Komari into Midousuji's bed, and was the same thing that had made Midousuji decide to fly out from Tokyo instead of somewhere closer, and was the same reason he was on this train right this second.
It almost seems Ishigaki's had a taste of his own medicine, though that's not possible, if Ishigaki indeed doesn't know he's going to Italy. And even if Ishigaki was aware... well, on Midousuji's part, it's not like he's moving to Italy. But it's a long trip, far away, with odd timezones. The coincidence of the timing versus Ishigaki's recent behavior all the same feels silly, Midousuji thinks. How Ishigaki's been so in his grill about spending time together lately... It twists his stomach in equal parts embarrassment and butterflies, which in turn makes him feel nauseated with himself.
His hand twists against the hanging plastic loop used to steady its passengers, the motion squeaking under his glove.
Midousuji's aware of it now, that he desires Ishigaki. And that, in fact, he's been in love with him for a while. He didn't realize it until he worried he might have feelings for Komari—and after contemplative comparison, he realized Komari was actually standing in an embarrassingly large shadow. Worse, Midousuji realized that just before his sexual relationship with Komari tied itself off with a bow. They hadn't been fucking too often, due to the same distance, but it was still at least once a week&madsh;and the sex was intense, not to mention. Going from virginity to that sort of regular fix left Midousuji...parched, to say the least. His quiet moments with Ishigaki have been difficult to bear, which has probably made Midousuji seem terser, and quicker to end their time spent together... Maybe that was why Ishigaki was getting so clingy, and not because he caught wind that Midousuji's leaving for a few weeks.
Midousuji steps off the train at last, and politely moves his big body away from traffic, standing in front of a bench. He's had enough. Enough of this unbearable sexual tension, enough of coquettishly tiptoing around the deplorable reality of having feelings for another person, enough of the unsaid and the anxiety. Midousuji had thought about going directly to Ishigaki's, but being he has his travel bag, as well as his bike, etc... it'd be pretty embarrassing, and annoying, to show up with all his shit if Ishigaki's with his stupid friends or whatever.
After staring at his phone for a bit, he pulls his glove off by its fingertip using his teeth, and sends Ishigaki a message.
> Are you home?
> I'm in your area.
No apologies for the short notice, of course.
> Speak now, or for 3 and a half weeks, hold your peace.
Midousuji has been distinctly aware of his shaky gait, traversing things that are basically alien to him. But human connection has its distinct results, loathe he is to admit it, when it comes to his racing. But the nature of sex and romance and friendship, more than Midousuji even previously understood on an intellectual, eye-rolling basis, has proved to be more confusing than he could have imagined. It's a little embarrassing that his pandora's box has been his own withered little black heart, and he still doesn't enjoy utilizing it this way. It's like the foreshadowing has been right under his stupid dick this whole time in some fruity little red scrawl of a heart against bright chrome.
Eyes wide and empty, Midousuji barely absorbs the tinny, chaotic beats in his ear pods, head slightly hung as his big body sways slightly along with his large cycling bag. There's a lot on his mind, but he's not letting any of that through, at the moment, in an act to preserve his energy and sanity.
He's going to Italy—tomorrow. And he's booked his flight out through Tokyo. Word's not really out, though some of his cycling friends know—not everyone on his team is great at keeping tight lip. After all, Naruko's on his own team—not a legendarily discreet person. But outside of cycling, Midousuji knows there's a good chance word hasn't gotten out all that far, and there's a similarly decent chance that Ishigaki hasn't heard. Midousuji hasn't been wanting to think of it, because of the strange frenetic pressure it wells him with; makes his limbs stiff and locked, his head hot, his heart racing, his skin balmy.
Midousuji and Ishigaki have been spending time together, here and there. Back when he was a freshman, it was once a season. Then in his next couple years, maybe once a month—with the occasional text or call, no less. Calls became more frequent. And in the last six months, so have their in-person meetings, despite the distance. Maybe twice a month. Especially as Midousuji's anxiety began to grow when he learned Ishigaki had outgrown Kyoto, and intended to stay in Tokyo; that Midousuji had taught him the world was so much bigger than Kyoto, and how Midousuji panicked when that also meant that Ishigaki's world was bigger than Midousuji. The same feeling that caused this baffling anxiety was the same thing that chased Komari into Midousuji's bed, and was the same thing that had made Midousuji decide to fly out from Tokyo instead of somewhere closer, and was the same reason he was on this train right this second.
It almost seems Ishigaki's had a taste of his own medicine, though that's not possible, if Ishigaki indeed doesn't know he's going to Italy. And even if Ishigaki was aware... well, on Midousuji's part, it's not like he's moving to Italy. But it's a long trip, far away, with odd timezones. The coincidence of the timing versus Ishigaki's recent behavior all the same feels silly, Midousuji thinks. How Ishigaki's been so in his grill about spending time together lately... It twists his stomach in equal parts embarrassment and butterflies, which in turn makes him feel nauseated with himself.
His hand twists against the hanging plastic loop used to steady its passengers, the motion squeaking under his glove.
Midousuji's aware of it now, that he desires Ishigaki. And that, in fact, he's been in love with him for a while. He didn't realize it until he worried he might have feelings for Komari—and after contemplative comparison, he realized Komari was actually standing in an embarrassingly large shadow. Worse, Midousuji realized that just before his sexual relationship with Komari tied itself off with a bow. They hadn't been fucking too often, due to the same distance, but it was still at least once a week&madsh;and the sex was intense, not to mention. Going from virginity to that sort of regular fix left Midousuji...parched, to say the least. His quiet moments with Ishigaki have been difficult to bear, which has probably made Midousuji seem terser, and quicker to end their time spent together... Maybe that was why Ishigaki was getting so clingy, and not because he caught wind that Midousuji's leaving for a few weeks.
Midousuji steps off the train at last, and politely moves his big body away from traffic, standing in front of a bench. He's had enough. Enough of this unbearable sexual tension, enough of coquettishly tiptoing around the deplorable reality of having feelings for another person, enough of the unsaid and the anxiety. Midousuji had thought about going directly to Ishigaki's, but being he has his travel bag, as well as his bike, etc... it'd be pretty embarrassing, and annoying, to show up with all his shit if Ishigaki's with his stupid friends or whatever.
After staring at his phone for a bit, he pulls his glove off by its fingertip using his teeth, and sends Ishigaki a message.
> Are you home?
> I'm in your area.
No apologies for the short notice, of course.
> Speak now, or for 3 and a half weeks, hold your peace.
“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.”
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aef info {WIP} click to expand
Basics
Name: Midousuji Akira
Age(s): 16
Sign: Aquarius
Date of Birth: 1/31
Gender: Male
Canonpoint: End of IH42 D2
Height: 6'1
Blood Type: (secret)
Bonds: 1
Magic Specialty: Sample
UN: HOTARU☆KUN
Time in game: 4 months
Player: jaz
Timezone: EST
Contact: ![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
poisonparfait
Appearance
Midousuji is currently at between 6’1” and 6’2”, with large shoulders and a large rib-cage to match, very much touting the silhouette of a haunted, inverted triangle. His limbs are long, slim, and a little knobby, even when he’s packed with dense muscle, which will surely atrophy away in his time in Aefenglom, as Midousuji is woefully incompetent at any form of exercise besides cycling. He has an impressively small waist, and narrow hips framed below. He tends to appear more slim when dressed casually, and his posture and demeanor are so withdrawn when not competing or being actively agitated, it may compound his “smallness”—but even so, Midousuji always emanates an unsettling aura. Finally, for his size and voice, Midousuji may accidentally give folks the impression he’s older than he is. One could argue his behavior would give him away, but it’s so off-beat that it could just be chalked up to eccentricity. ymmv
Midousuji tends to have a surprisingly stylish look, cohesive and simple, though you wouldn’t suspect him to have such inclinations; he typically prefers basic, well made articles of clothing, but has been known to sport a a morbid motif or two. He’s also worn light health goth. this kid has a reddit account i know it
Midousuji’s eyes are usually unreasonably wide, and they almost never blink. They appear dead like a fish’s baking in the sun; they’re matte and usually unfocused, mysteriously carrying very little light. Suffice to say, even if Midousuji isn’t being over the top with his grotesque contortions (and the weird, gross sounds that accompany them), even his mild modes carry an air of being strangely haunted; to those supernaturally attuned, he may initially seem cursed, or inhuman, but it would be probably quickly realized he’s a normal (“normal”) human. He almost never makes eye contact, unless he’s acting on defense or offense, and he’s often doing strange things like pulling on his eyelids, snapping his teeth, or vigorously rubbing his hands up and down his face when stressed.
When Midousuji is acting on the offensive, he tends to lean into being repulsive as possible—the traits that got him teased or bullied in childhood are now weaponized against his perceived dissenters. He knows what people find unpleasant about him, and he’ll exaggerate those qualities as much as he can to intimidate and to repel.Personality
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Abilities
Magic
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Plans
Tentatively set and kind of ever changing! But for now, the following:
↝ Midousuji, while preferring to master one skill instead of waste time on achieving (dismal) partial mastery of many skills, will initially be practicing all types of magic with delirious fervor. He had to find out cycling was his thing before pursuing it, so he has to figure out what kind of magic feels right to him.
↝ Midousuji, understanding that he needs income outside of food and rent (he won’t want to stay at the Coven for long; he hates the communal vibe, and prefers to have his own little bubble), will seek employment at the Coven. He doesn’t trust the Coven (because he trusts... no one), but he’ll see it as an advantage; he can study, and being competent as a library servant means that he’ll have boot-camped understanding of where to find all sorts of information. It’ll excelerate his studying. He wants to be ahead of the curve so no one can have one over on him.
↝ More tentatively, Midousuji, despite taking up magic pretty immediately, will likely neglect getting a bond as long as possible—even knowing that more practice with magic in hand leads to more build-up, thus endangering the witch. So uh. We’ll. We’ll see how that goes.
↝ Midousuji will also be studying whatever forbidden magics he can, though not in practice. Too risky for a novice. How long can one mathematically be a novice, with such a late start?
↝ Eventually, Midousuji will probably settle on being an illusionist. While, you know, probably also actively, actually losing his mind. Fun for all!
In-Game History
Fill this out with Midousuji's history in Aefenglom as it develops. Here's some placeholdery text until then.
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Cum sociis natoque penatibus et magnis dis parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. Donec quam felis, ultricies nec, pellentesque eu, pretium quis, sem.
Nulla consequat massa quis enim. Donec pede justo, fringilla vel, aliquet nec, vulputate eget, arcu. In enim justo, rhoncus ut, imperdiet a, venenatis vitae, justo.
Nullam dictum felis eu pede mollis pretium. Integer tincidunt. Cras dapibus. Vivamus elementum semper nisi. Aenean vulputate eleifend tellus.
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Bonds
If one is bonded to Midousuji, they can expect long spells of no emotional feedback through their bond. Occasionally, there will disturbingly high spikes of stress or mania, depending on what Midousuji's current situation is. Depending on whether or not Midousuji really pours into magic, a Bondmate may expect to feel a constant, but distant, low sense of stress (though Midousuji's stress will of course be quite high), like an oncoming pressure headache that won't go away.
A Bondmate can also expect echoes of Midousuji's dreams, which he himself does not remember, and are always nightmares; subjects can vary from nightmares about hearing his mother's last heartbeat, or abstract dreams around failure.
1;
Soren - dragon; a cordial business arrangement. Midousuji likes the vibe of it, because Soren is cold, and aloof—icier than even Midousuji! They linked up after Midousuji propositioned the network for a NSA Bond, citing he wanted someone who wouldn't care about him, wouldn't care if Midousuji didn't care about them, and would politely mind their business about any dream/emotion feedback looping.
2;
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midomizu psl for niigo
[it’s another drolling, nothing day. the stasis as usual in the routine purgatory that is his life between races. the thrills of competition and pushing his body to his limit, the rush of crossing the finish line as number one, or the ego-crushing blows of defeat—all on hold. the only things he really feels, that brings him out of his numb autopilot that propels him emptily through exams, commuting, scripted, quiet chatter with his family…
there’s also maybe the recent, worrying stirring in his heart—the little hiccuping smolder of a tiny ember in its lands Midousuji had considered razed, and salted. perhaps by trauma, and certainly by design; he doesn’t want to think about it, that maybe a part of him knew that life could be inside that part of him again if he’d let it. and letting it wouldn’t lend to victory—or so he’d previously thought.
he’d thought that embracing any sentimentality would put him on the path to ruin—he sees it happen to countless others. but lately, he’s noticing it’s not such a universal rule that wasting time, dilly-dallying in the lives of nothing people. only because some of those people he’d turn his tiny, flat nose at for engaging in those activities have overcome Midousuji, who has worked so much harder. dedicated his life to make himself a machine. empty.
and a loser, again and again.
so he’s been experimenting, a little, with what he’s not yet brave enough to name it for what it is: friendship. a bleak epiphany from some hazy memory of his former team captain going on about stupid warm-hearted crap versus Midousuji’s cold logic, and cross-extrapolating Midousuji’s one weakness: his devotion to being alone, and utterly self sufficient.
it’s such distracting thoughts that make Midousuji accidentally completely shoulder-check a passerby, and given his impressive wingspan for his age, it’s with enough force he nearly loses the bag slung across his shoulder, containing his broken down DeLose.
when the other person staggers, she drops her bag—and from within those bag contents comes a noisy clattering of jewel plastic, cascading like sheets. he pauses, then carefully picks out his earplug, surely a contributor to his clumsy blunder.]
Sorry…
[he isn’t, really, but he’s back in polite society. curiously, he tilts his head, bending at his tiny waist to help gather the CDs back up—and as he straightens, his mouth, beneath his mask, gapes in slack-jawed, awed surprise. he recognizes the band name… and how silly is it? how strange, to have CDs when nearly all music is now digital? he tilts his head the other way, noting signatures. autographs.
why does this person have so many of these?]
Amai…
[not the name of the band, but one of the members—the one he follows, recently kind of on a kick with the group, often accompanying his chaotic thoughts as he trains. he boggles at the stranger, then, carefully cradling the CDs to his chest so they don’t fall, he extends a gloved hand to help her steady her stance.]
Do you…
[whyyyy. is he wasting time with idle chit-chat with a total stranger? like he cares if other people like the same music he likes. maybe per this experimental “being more open socially” thing, or… but there’s also a curiosity: why such antiquated merch? and why so many autographs? are they forgeries? is this person a scammer? or a supplier?]
…know this group?
there’s also maybe the recent, worrying stirring in his heart—the little hiccuping smolder of a tiny ember in its lands Midousuji had considered razed, and salted. perhaps by trauma, and certainly by design; he doesn’t want to think about it, that maybe a part of him knew that life could be inside that part of him again if he’d let it. and letting it wouldn’t lend to victory—or so he’d previously thought.
he’d thought that embracing any sentimentality would put him on the path to ruin—he sees it happen to countless others. but lately, he’s noticing it’s not such a universal rule that wasting time, dilly-dallying in the lives of nothing people. only because some of those people he’d turn his tiny, flat nose at for engaging in those activities have overcome Midousuji, who has worked so much harder. dedicated his life to make himself a machine. empty.
and a loser, again and again.
so he’s been experimenting, a little, with what he’s not yet brave enough to name it for what it is: friendship. a bleak epiphany from some hazy memory of his former team captain going on about stupid warm-hearted crap versus Midousuji’s cold logic, and cross-extrapolating Midousuji’s one weakness: his devotion to being alone, and utterly self sufficient.
it’s such distracting thoughts that make Midousuji accidentally completely shoulder-check a passerby, and given his impressive wingspan for his age, it’s with enough force he nearly loses the bag slung across his shoulder, containing his broken down DeLose.
when the other person staggers, she drops her bag—and from within those bag contents comes a noisy clattering of jewel plastic, cascading like sheets. he pauses, then carefully picks out his earplug, surely a contributor to his clumsy blunder.]
Sorry…
[he isn’t, really, but he’s back in polite society. curiously, he tilts his head, bending at his tiny waist to help gather the CDs back up—and as he straightens, his mouth, beneath his mask, gapes in slack-jawed, awed surprise. he recognizes the band name… and how silly is it? how strange, to have CDs when nearly all music is now digital? he tilts his head the other way, noting signatures. autographs.
why does this person have so many of these?]
Amai…
[not the name of the band, but one of the members—the one he follows, recently kind of on a kick with the group, often accompanying his chaotic thoughts as he trains. he boggles at the stranger, then, carefully cradling the CDs to his chest so they don’t fall, he extends a gloved hand to help her steady her stance.]
Do you…
[whyyyy. is he wasting time with idle chit-chat with a total stranger? like he cares if other people like the same music he likes. maybe per this experimental “being more open socially” thing, or… but there’s also a curiosity: why such antiquated merch? and why so many autographs? are they forgeries? is this person a scammer? or a supplier?]
…know this group?
post wip june catchall
MIDO
1 & SO WHAT??
2 CRUSHED PEARLS
1 & SO WHAT??
time; summary
[actiontextactiontextactiontextactiontextactiontextactiontextactiontextactiontext]
DIALOGUE
2 CRUSHED PEARLS
time; summary
[actiontextactiontextactiontextactiontextactiontextactiontextactiontextactiontext]
DIALOGUE
Entry tags:
for gamanyeah
For months, Midousuji had pushed himself as hard as he could.
Physically, of course, but there were other limits to experiment with. Less comfortable, less familiar. Midousuji Akira has never been against doing whatever he has to to win, including fighting dirty—deploying sabotage, instigating physical harm, forcing himself beyond his own limits to the point of injury time and time again... but included, a stone unturned, was what Midousuji had considered to be unfathomable. The worst thing—the thing he scoffed at and mocked the most. Connections with other people. Deriving strength from them.
Funnily, the person who Midousuji would be, traditionally, most apt to ignore, had instead somehow became the one person he found he'd listen to—quietly, without acknowledgement, but it came to that none-the-less. Someone whose presence he could sense even when he was out cold, and sometimes, someone whose voice would leak around and into the crevices of his mind like sticky, honey-sweet and vile ichor in that same state.
Ishigaki told Midousuji what his weakness was, and initially, Midousuji could barely recall. And once it came around to him, turning in his brain, his blood boiled with anger—because Ishigaki—always there, persistent, whether Midousuji wanted it or liked it or not—not only because he trusted Ishigaki's word, but because his advice and criticism were from such a place of human standard that Midousuji couldn't relate to. Couldn't understand. Who could he rely on? For whom could he possibly find inspiration to pull? How was tying your strengths into the wills of other people, with emptier weight and less stake in the game, supposed to make you stronger?
But Midousuji, nonetheless, toiled towards this goal, and hated every second of it—it was like breaking his every bone by hand himself, and splinting, forcing them to regrow incorrectly. And through the entire process, his thoughts furiously turned, burning around Ishigaki. He hadn't even realized that Ishigaki, at that point, had been his most trusted resource; the source of what would be the deciding factor to his goal.
What he was relying on.
And, in turn, what gave him strength; Midousuji's eyes were wide, almost in disbelief when he'd not only passed the finish line in first on the third day of the 43rd, and, Midousuji's final, Interhigh. By his own merits, to no one's surprise, of course including Midousuji's, he'd taken a victory for Kyofushi in the first day, dominating the sprint course. Midousuji had always placed well. But with that missing piece finally in place, mind and body numb and buzzing, Midousuji had taken the final victory he'd so sought after. The victory that was his make or break—the piece to be taken and settled, to determine if he'd continue as pro, and to in turn, some day, work towards Tour de France.
It was true that Midousuji had struggled, with success, to put more trust in place of his team, still strictly trained and regimented as ever... but primarily, he'd been pulling because of Ishigaki. With his head stuffed to capacity with thoughts of him. Inadvertently, though it nauseated Midousuji to acknowledge it, Ishigaki had been the reason why he pulled, and had been the one who shaped Midousuji to his final form. The victor.
Kyoto Fushimi had talked amongst themselves about their surprise regarding Midousuji's reaction—the look of disbelief. And it did seem strange—Midousuji was confident, and self assured. But they misdiagnosed the nature of his surprise. It wasn't the victory itself, but more its reason.
And that reason was Ishigaki.
Once passed finish, Midousuji's arms fell heavily after his triumphant, ecstatic posing, his elbows bruising against the handlebars of his bike. In disbelief, his head hung, jaw slung slightly open, his lungs burning as he panted heavily through a dry, sore throat, watching as his sweat pelt his shaking arms. He was spent—empty, totally drained, as always, since he always pushed himself to or past his limits... but there was something else present that day.
Midousuji felt he could barely walk, though it was more than exhaustion—he managed to get over his stupified shock with a snap of his teeth (after some time of his team wondering in hushed, worried mumbling if he was okay, having expected he'd be more excited for their win), all grins after that. And to his surprise, though he didn't want to belabor the fact, he was proud of them, too. Also a bit of an unusual feeling—but Midousuji was able to assuage his nerves about it, because evolution was the only way to ensure victory. This just wasn't a form he was used to. They were just feelings he'd never felt, before.
And that numbing, preoccupying buzzing in his head about Ishigaki didn't cease that night. Midousuji barely slept, staring off into the darkness aimlessly for hours, despite his exhaustion. It carried on that way for weeks, actually.
Here and there, days and nights, Midousuji had found himself distantly fussing about it. Ishigaki was in Tokyo, and he'd soon be graduating. He might have returned to Kyoto, at that point, and Midousuji felt queasy at the way the thought made his heart stutter and his stomach lurch, unable to recognize it as a sort of excitement inspired by hope. He just quantified it as what he could understand: a gross distraction. His instinct to things like that, given that they're 1) uncomfortable, and most unforgivably, 2) distracting, had always been to amputate them at their inception. Keep his heart cold and comfortable, but he knew now that wasn't beneficial to his growth.
Yes, evolution had gotten more of his attention and care as a goal than growth, and in this time frame after the 43rd Interhigh, Midousuji realized this. Emptily, distracted, Midousuji went through the motions of his graduation, of exams, and realized without that amputation, to rid himself of the preoccupation... there had to be some kind of action. With Ishigaki. His unexpected trump card, and unexpected resource of strength. The person who'd earned his respect. Midousuji had initially been dismissive of him, since he seemed so standard on the surface—someone beautiful to the point of being unremarkable, someone charming, sensitive, and all the rest of Midousuji that he holds in contempt as the antithesis to his own design.
But gradually, Midousuji realized other things—that no matter what, whether he likes it or not, Ishigaki can, and will, see Midousuji. And since his late mother, no one else ever has. Not only did Ishigaki see Midousuji, but he persisted in pursuit of Midousuji's benefit. Not only all of that nonsense, but Ishigaki was actually sharp. He was analytical, and Midousuji finally realized, at the end of the day, he couldn't argue with Ishigaki's logic; they both wanted the same thing, and they both, disturbingly, had similar versions of the same perspective.
Strangely, it's come to the point where Ishigaki just makes sense. Which is why Midousuji is currently in his fourth week of hissing through his teeth, smacking his head against walls, rubbing his dry palms excessively in speed and force across his face, screaming—whenever his mind works itself up into enough of a frenzy about it. About him. This is compounded by the gradually dawning realization that after all that realization, the occupying of his head...
If Ishigaki doesn't go pro, or if Ishigaki doesn't decide to stay in Kyoto, what reason is Midousuji really going to have to see him again? The real answer is that you can hit people up you like for any reason and hang out with them and that's acceptable and normal, but Midousuji is in such unfamiliar territory around that concept, and also so disgusted by himself for it, that this plain, basic social knowledge is completely out of his reach for consideration.
He's thought about it, of course—but he doesn't know how to broach it, much less what his own feelings around it even are. Even looking at Ishigaki's name in his contact list just sends him into a fit, so there's just simply no progress to be had there.
So... instead, not that Midousuji thinks it's a better idea to just... lurk around Tokyo, like some skittish ghoul deadset on haunting what he doesn't comprehend to be his object of boyish infatuation. Midousuji is clumsy, and more than simply standout—he's aware he has no scope of stealth. He's tall enough to stand out in a crowd, distinctly broad-shouldered, and with a face and expression so uniquely vacant and haunting that there's probably only one other person with the same features, being his genetic contributor who he's never met.
So Midousuji keeps distance, peering from behind walls or things like poles, trying to keep his posture low in a hunch where his height may be too conspicuous...
His intention was to meet up with Ishigaki by chance, having some vague idea of his usual haunts and habits from social media (of which Midousuji has vague, blank accounts, and no activity)... but then, having seen Ishigaki, confirming his brilliant, strategic thinking, Midousuji was immediately so overwhelmed by nerves and disgust that he couldn't just approach Ishigaki. He hadn't thought about how to pull it off as incidental. And honestly, having no idea of how to pull that off, Midousuji had thought he could just assertively approach him without such pretense...
...but all at once, just immediately, so uncharacteristically, every ounce of his nerve had left him.
Midousuji doesn't recognize himself, and it's Ishigaki's fault. Midousuji squints resentfully at the back of Ishigaki's head, tucked behind a phone pole semi-conspicuously, partially obscured with the addition of other visual clutter that can be expected on the busy streets of Tokyo, near Ishigaki's apartment. To which he's never been. But he knows the area, based onstalking observation.
How gross... So gradually, reaching inside of Midousuji, so subtly manipulating his insides that Midousuji didn't even notice, changing him... He feels a little angry about it, but knows he can't be ungrateful; he got what he wanted, which was victory.
So what else is it, then? What is he doing?? What exactly does he want?
Stupid Ishigaki.
"Groossssssss," he exhales slowly in a low, almost inaudible rasp.
Physically, of course, but there were other limits to experiment with. Less comfortable, less familiar. Midousuji Akira has never been against doing whatever he has to to win, including fighting dirty—deploying sabotage, instigating physical harm, forcing himself beyond his own limits to the point of injury time and time again... but included, a stone unturned, was what Midousuji had considered to be unfathomable. The worst thing—the thing he scoffed at and mocked the most. Connections with other people. Deriving strength from them.
Funnily, the person who Midousuji would be, traditionally, most apt to ignore, had instead somehow became the one person he found he'd listen to—quietly, without acknowledgement, but it came to that none-the-less. Someone whose presence he could sense even when he was out cold, and sometimes, someone whose voice would leak around and into the crevices of his mind like sticky, honey-sweet and vile ichor in that same state.
Ishigaki told Midousuji what his weakness was, and initially, Midousuji could barely recall. And once it came around to him, turning in his brain, his blood boiled with anger—because Ishigaki—always there, persistent, whether Midousuji wanted it or liked it or not—not only because he trusted Ishigaki's word, but because his advice and criticism were from such a place of human standard that Midousuji couldn't relate to. Couldn't understand. Who could he rely on? For whom could he possibly find inspiration to pull? How was tying your strengths into the wills of other people, with emptier weight and less stake in the game, supposed to make you stronger?
But Midousuji, nonetheless, toiled towards this goal, and hated every second of it—it was like breaking his every bone by hand himself, and splinting, forcing them to regrow incorrectly. And through the entire process, his thoughts furiously turned, burning around Ishigaki. He hadn't even realized that Ishigaki, at that point, had been his most trusted resource; the source of what would be the deciding factor to his goal.
What he was relying on.
And, in turn, what gave him strength; Midousuji's eyes were wide, almost in disbelief when he'd not only passed the finish line in first on the third day of the 43rd, and, Midousuji's final, Interhigh. By his own merits, to no one's surprise, of course including Midousuji's, he'd taken a victory for Kyofushi in the first day, dominating the sprint course. Midousuji had always placed well. But with that missing piece finally in place, mind and body numb and buzzing, Midousuji had taken the final victory he'd so sought after. The victory that was his make or break—the piece to be taken and settled, to determine if he'd continue as pro, and to in turn, some day, work towards Tour de France.
It was true that Midousuji had struggled, with success, to put more trust in place of his team, still strictly trained and regimented as ever... but primarily, he'd been pulling because of Ishigaki. With his head stuffed to capacity with thoughts of him. Inadvertently, though it nauseated Midousuji to acknowledge it, Ishigaki had been the reason why he pulled, and had been the one who shaped Midousuji to his final form. The victor.
Kyoto Fushimi had talked amongst themselves about their surprise regarding Midousuji's reaction—the look of disbelief. And it did seem strange—Midousuji was confident, and self assured. But they misdiagnosed the nature of his surprise. It wasn't the victory itself, but more its reason.
And that reason was Ishigaki.
Once passed finish, Midousuji's arms fell heavily after his triumphant, ecstatic posing, his elbows bruising against the handlebars of his bike. In disbelief, his head hung, jaw slung slightly open, his lungs burning as he panted heavily through a dry, sore throat, watching as his sweat pelt his shaking arms. He was spent—empty, totally drained, as always, since he always pushed himself to or past his limits... but there was something else present that day.
Midousuji felt he could barely walk, though it was more than exhaustion—he managed to get over his stupified shock with a snap of his teeth (after some time of his team wondering in hushed, worried mumbling if he was okay, having expected he'd be more excited for their win), all grins after that. And to his surprise, though he didn't want to belabor the fact, he was proud of them, too. Also a bit of an unusual feeling—but Midousuji was able to assuage his nerves about it, because evolution was the only way to ensure victory. This just wasn't a form he was used to. They were just feelings he'd never felt, before.
And that numbing, preoccupying buzzing in his head about Ishigaki didn't cease that night. Midousuji barely slept, staring off into the darkness aimlessly for hours, despite his exhaustion. It carried on that way for weeks, actually.
Here and there, days and nights, Midousuji had found himself distantly fussing about it. Ishigaki was in Tokyo, and he'd soon be graduating. He might have returned to Kyoto, at that point, and Midousuji felt queasy at the way the thought made his heart stutter and his stomach lurch, unable to recognize it as a sort of excitement inspired by hope. He just quantified it as what he could understand: a gross distraction. His instinct to things like that, given that they're 1) uncomfortable, and most unforgivably, 2) distracting, had always been to amputate them at their inception. Keep his heart cold and comfortable, but he knew now that wasn't beneficial to his growth.
Yes, evolution had gotten more of his attention and care as a goal than growth, and in this time frame after the 43rd Interhigh, Midousuji realized this. Emptily, distracted, Midousuji went through the motions of his graduation, of exams, and realized without that amputation, to rid himself of the preoccupation... there had to be some kind of action. With Ishigaki. His unexpected trump card, and unexpected resource of strength. The person who'd earned his respect. Midousuji had initially been dismissive of him, since he seemed so standard on the surface—someone beautiful to the point of being unremarkable, someone charming, sensitive, and all the rest of Midousuji that he holds in contempt as the antithesis to his own design.
But gradually, Midousuji realized other things—that no matter what, whether he likes it or not, Ishigaki can, and will, see Midousuji. And since his late mother, no one else ever has. Not only did Ishigaki see Midousuji, but he persisted in pursuit of Midousuji's benefit. Not only all of that nonsense, but Ishigaki was actually sharp. He was analytical, and Midousuji finally realized, at the end of the day, he couldn't argue with Ishigaki's logic; they both wanted the same thing, and they both, disturbingly, had similar versions of the same perspective.
Strangely, it's come to the point where Ishigaki just makes sense. Which is why Midousuji is currently in his fourth week of hissing through his teeth, smacking his head against walls, rubbing his dry palms excessively in speed and force across his face, screaming—whenever his mind works itself up into enough of a frenzy about it. About him. This is compounded by the gradually dawning realization that after all that realization, the occupying of his head...
If Ishigaki doesn't go pro, or if Ishigaki doesn't decide to stay in Kyoto, what reason is Midousuji really going to have to see him again? The real answer is that you can hit people up you like for any reason and hang out with them and that's acceptable and normal, but Midousuji is in such unfamiliar territory around that concept, and also so disgusted by himself for it, that this plain, basic social knowledge is completely out of his reach for consideration.
He's thought about it, of course—but he doesn't know how to broach it, much less what his own feelings around it even are. Even looking at Ishigaki's name in his contact list just sends him into a fit, so there's just simply no progress to be had there.
So... instead, not that Midousuji thinks it's a better idea to just... lurk around Tokyo, like some skittish ghoul deadset on haunting what he doesn't comprehend to be his object of boyish infatuation. Midousuji is clumsy, and more than simply standout—he's aware he has no scope of stealth. He's tall enough to stand out in a crowd, distinctly broad-shouldered, and with a face and expression so uniquely vacant and haunting that there's probably only one other person with the same features, being his genetic contributor who he's never met.
So Midousuji keeps distance, peering from behind walls or things like poles, trying to keep his posture low in a hunch where his height may be too conspicuous...
His intention was to meet up with Ishigaki by chance, having some vague idea of his usual haunts and habits from social media (of which Midousuji has vague, blank accounts, and no activity)... but then, having seen Ishigaki, confirming his brilliant, strategic thinking, Midousuji was immediately so overwhelmed by nerves and disgust that he couldn't just approach Ishigaki. He hadn't thought about how to pull it off as incidental. And honestly, having no idea of how to pull that off, Midousuji had thought he could just assertively approach him without such pretense...
...but all at once, just immediately, so uncharacteristically, every ounce of his nerve had left him.
Midousuji doesn't recognize himself, and it's Ishigaki's fault. Midousuji squints resentfully at the back of Ishigaki's head, tucked behind a phone pole semi-conspicuously, partially obscured with the addition of other visual clutter that can be expected on the busy streets of Tokyo, near Ishigaki's apartment. To which he's never been. But he knows the area, based on
How gross... So gradually, reaching inside of Midousuji, so subtly manipulating his insides that Midousuji didn't even notice, changing him... He feels a little angry about it, but knows he can't be ungrateful; he got what he wanted, which was victory.
So what else is it, then? What is he doing?? What exactly does he want?
Stupid Ishigaki.
"Groossssssss," he exhales slowly in a low, almost inaudible rasp.
THREAD TRACKER
(WIP PLACEHOLDER FOR BODY)
each month will be its own TL. threads will be added per month.
FORMAT:
each month will be its own TL. threads will be added per month.
FORMAT:
[aef au]
[this has been the worst time... perhaps ever. well, almost. nothing tops Midousuji's biggest worst ever, nor shall anything ever top it, but he's experienced some shitty stuff even besides the worst day of his life... and this is pretty close. as far as an enduring, on going experience (again, second only to the numbing grief of surviving the loss of a loved one), this is the worst thing Midousuji has experienced in a long time.
apparently, Midousuji was a Witch in this place. which would be great, if Midousuji had any command over any of what that entailed—were he a competent magician, he'd be delighted at that kind of power. but honestly, Midousuji had predicted at the jump he'd be shit at it—and he's proven that to himself with his every attempt. Midousuji none-the-less had relented, determined to try, and decided, like most things, it was pointless.
until Midousuji had learned of the adverse health effects that comes with neglecting spell work... so Midousuji does practice here and there, just for the sake of expulsion to avoid build-up, but it feels like... well, there's a crude analogy in there or two. magic is not pleasant to Midousuji, but neither is the prospect of potentially exploding.
but then, if he can't be good at something, and he can't properly cycle in a place like this, what was the point of it, anyway? Midousuji had even heard a rumor on the grapevine that when Mirrorbound die, they don't stay dead. so it's his most meaningless existence yet, in a place even more meaningless than Earth.
and speaking of meaningless, of all people, Onoda is in this place. Midousuji is hard pressed to think of a person who tries his nerves more easily than that kid, but most of that is because Onoda makes Midousuji feel a bunch of... other stuff that's... confusing, thus frustrating, scary, and unpleasant.
once again, it's enduring torture. all of it.
all that aside, though, Midousuji's really feeling the effects of his inability to keep up with his needed spell quota—even when properly tried. he feels hot, and cold, like he has the flu, and he's laying on his side, having just finished a good ol' session of dry-heaving and coughing. his body feels tingly and numb, and like there's stabbing, prickly pain through his nerves whenever it's not just a nothing buzz. despite how he sweats, he feels dry—no water is enough. his thin, graceless limbs are weak and shaky.
Midousuji can tell that it's this alleged magic sickness people have been harping on. it's been a slow onset, and now Midousuji's afraid that it's maybe a bit too late. but he's at some conflict, here. why is he afraid to die, if existing is pointless? is he so much of a coward that he fears the pain? and yet here he is, dreading a painful, messy death.
expression stoic, eyes wide and lifeless, teeth grit with his lips parted, Midousuji stares at nothing—until his gaze suddenly snaps, then slowly rolls upwards. he cranes his neck, stretching it grotesquely, and slowly extends a long, sinewy arm in the same direction, releasing the hold it had with its twin around his knees.
Midousuji grabs his watch, dragging it with a clawed, severe hand. once he has it, he shakily texts that pain in the ass Otaku. Midousuji hasn't budged much of an inch in Onoda's deplorably tenacious mission for friendship, but being on what might be your own death bed can make a person act a little out of character.
or, maybe, more in line to their truer, buried selves.]
Hey
Sakamichi
[Midousuji pauses, staring at his screen, and squints his eyes, resentfully snapping his teeth as he thinks of how to follow up. he knows Onoda recently had a bond, so there's no way he's as sick as Midousuji is&madsh;in fact, Onoda won't shut up with his fretting. but Midousuji can't just outright propose a Bond. actually, he's pretty sure Onoda's offered before, which resulted in some predictably, disproportionately violent reaction from Midousuji. now he's kind of regretting not taking Onoda up on it—what's the worth of his pride here? the shame of bonding with a petite, sing-song otaku boy or petulantly dying unbonded? the latter is at least more on brand...
Midousuji's fingers tremble as he types, and he goes slowly, not wanting to tip off with any errors.]
Come feed
You haven't done it yet, have you?
[that's right, even in a situation like this, Midousuji needs to have control of the situation.]
apparently, Midousuji was a Witch in this place. which would be great, if Midousuji had any command over any of what that entailed—were he a competent magician, he'd be delighted at that kind of power. but honestly, Midousuji had predicted at the jump he'd be shit at it—and he's proven that to himself with his every attempt. Midousuji none-the-less had relented, determined to try, and decided, like most things, it was pointless.
until Midousuji had learned of the adverse health effects that comes with neglecting spell work... so Midousuji does practice here and there, just for the sake of expulsion to avoid build-up, but it feels like... well, there's a crude analogy in there or two. magic is not pleasant to Midousuji, but neither is the prospect of potentially exploding.
but then, if he can't be good at something, and he can't properly cycle in a place like this, what was the point of it, anyway? Midousuji had even heard a rumor on the grapevine that when Mirrorbound die, they don't stay dead. so it's his most meaningless existence yet, in a place even more meaningless than Earth.
and speaking of meaningless, of all people, Onoda is in this place. Midousuji is hard pressed to think of a person who tries his nerves more easily than that kid, but most of that is because Onoda makes Midousuji feel a bunch of... other stuff that's... confusing, thus frustrating, scary, and unpleasant.
once again, it's enduring torture. all of it.
all that aside, though, Midousuji's really feeling the effects of his inability to keep up with his needed spell quota—even when properly tried. he feels hot, and cold, like he has the flu, and he's laying on his side, having just finished a good ol' session of dry-heaving and coughing. his body feels tingly and numb, and like there's stabbing, prickly pain through his nerves whenever it's not just a nothing buzz. despite how he sweats, he feels dry—no water is enough. his thin, graceless limbs are weak and shaky.
Midousuji can tell that it's this alleged magic sickness people have been harping on. it's been a slow onset, and now Midousuji's afraid that it's maybe a bit too late. but he's at some conflict, here. why is he afraid to die, if existing is pointless? is he so much of a coward that he fears the pain? and yet here he is, dreading a painful, messy death.
expression stoic, eyes wide and lifeless, teeth grit with his lips parted, Midousuji stares at nothing—until his gaze suddenly snaps, then slowly rolls upwards. he cranes his neck, stretching it grotesquely, and slowly extends a long, sinewy arm in the same direction, releasing the hold it had with its twin around his knees.
Midousuji grabs his watch, dragging it with a clawed, severe hand. once he has it, he shakily texts that pain in the ass Otaku. Midousuji hasn't budged much of an inch in Onoda's deplorably tenacious mission for friendship, but being on what might be your own death bed can make a person act a little out of character.
or, maybe, more in line to their truer, buried selves.]
Hey
Sakamichi
[Midousuji pauses, staring at his screen, and squints his eyes, resentfully snapping his teeth as he thinks of how to follow up. he knows Onoda recently had a bond, so there's no way he's as sick as Midousuji is&madsh;in fact, Onoda won't shut up with his fretting. but Midousuji can't just outright propose a Bond. actually, he's pretty sure Onoda's offered before, which resulted in some predictably, disproportionately violent reaction from Midousuji. now he's kind of regretting not taking Onoda up on it—what's the worth of his pride here? the shame of bonding with a petite, sing-song otaku boy or petulantly dying unbonded? the latter is at least more on brand...
Midousuji's fingers tremble as he types, and he goes slowly, not wanting to tip off with any errors.]
Come feed
You haven't done it yet, have you?
[that's right, even in a situation like this, Midousuji needs to have control of the situation.]
Entry tags:
mdsk romcom
The conclusion of Midousuji’s last Interhigh had been nothing short of bewildering.
A little bit frustrating, perhaps—disappointing, in some ways. But in other ways, awing, like magic.
He’d wanted to win. Of course he’d wanted to win—and he’s always wanted that more than anybody. And while that wasn’t what had happened—not exactly—he hadn’t lost, either.
Midousuji had fought so hard, and, again, yes, he’s always done exactly that. Harder and harder, every time. And this time was particularly brutal; pushing himself so extremely with more tearing of tendons, skinning of flesh, rasping with dehydration so bad it had nearly made him vomit. And there was more aggression, too—sidling up close to his opponents, risking his own balance to offset theirs, smashing shoulders and even snapping his teeth with the intent to maim other riders.
He’d even almost done so to Onoda, but their height difference had saved them. That was on the first day, anyways. The third day, body well and truly pushed to its new limits, shaking like a leaf from its wear, Midousuji had only ogled Onoda in utter bafflement, right after he’d finished doing the very same for Manami. He was too tired—delirious, with his vision even blurring and splitting a little bit—to tell exactly who crossed when. His heart had been beating with furious, desperate fatigue, but also with a sudden swell of nervy panic.
He couldn’t tell who’d passed the line first.
At the finish, Midousuji’s front wheel swerved and wobbled, his arms and wrists shaking as he stared in shockshelled disbelief to the pavement below, heaving through his sore, tired throat. His legs shook as he hoped off his bike, and his head continued to spin with confusion. By then, he’d learned the result. And it was no less bewildering.
Onoda, Manami and himself had all passed the finish at the same time. They’d all won, and so too, none of them had.
Based on the tags taken on previous days, however, Kyoto Fushimi was declared winner. Midousuji had wanted to take the final win for himself, in his name only—but it wasn’t that he was dissatisfied with their post-tie qualified win. It was just…
Unheard of. Shocking. Historic, maybe?
The three of them stood on the podium, and Midousuji gaped in vacant bewilderment. It wasn’t the first time that he, often the tallest racer, got to stand on the tallest pedestal, but it was the first time under these circumstances. In the crowd, Midousuji blinked, straightening his back, lifting his head and relaxing his shoulders—he’d spotted Ishigaki in the crowd, and he wasn’t alone. He was standing with Yuki and his aunt—probably Ishigaki had heard them cheering for him, and so had introduced himself, because he’s annoying and nosy.
But still, seeing the three of them, Midousuji’s heart does a dizzying, thrilled hiccup, and his voice catches in his throat as his eyes subtly widen. Midousuji beams with sudden, energetic and ecstatic glee, and snaps his teeth, yanking his medal up before he throws his head back, tossing up both of his arms with a shrill, excited cry.
After the ceremony, feeling a bit restored by the rush he’d caught so belatedly, Midousuji had—quite literally—bumped into Onoda. Midousuji’s mouth had gently fallen open, blinking at his tiny rival, who beamed with that kind, well meaning warmth, all sparkly and harsh and disgusting and pointy. Midousuji’s upper lip lifted on the left side as he tilted his head away.
“Good job, Midousuji-kun! It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it? I can’t believe we all tied.”
“Pyeh,” Midousuji spits out quietly, having almost said words but simultaneously failing in the task, his hands limply dangling from his wrists by his collar bone as he bodily leans away.
“It makes me excited to see what happens when we compete through college.”
Midousuji then suddenly cranes his neck in a grotesque tilt, leaning forward and over Onoda with owlishly-blinked curiosity. “College? Do you intend to go pro, Sakamichi?”
Onoda’s smile tempers to something a little uncertain, or perhaps a little sad, and he scratches the side of his cheek.
“…To be honest, I don’t really know. But for now, I just think I wanna keep going…”
“What else would you do?” Midousuji tilts his head back again, grinning as he lets his tongue lazily extend from its confines, back bending backwards as his arms dangled in bouncy slack. “Become a business man? Glasses, briefcase, glasses, briefcase…”
“Haha! Maybe.”
“I can’t accept that,” Midousuji suddenly concludes, slapping his hand against his face, fingertips pulling down his lower eyelid as his eyes roll back, teeth clenched and exposed. “You and Manami-kun took my single-crossing finish of the InterHigh. You’re effectively my rival now, you know?”
Midousuji’s posture suddenly snaps threateningly forward, hand still just below his eyelid. Onoda leans back nervously to accommodate Midousuji’s sudden pressure. “I won’t accept such wishy-washyness from someone so passionless.”
“I-I-I’m sorry!” Onoda sputters, then blinks, his hands held up in arrestive acquiescence, palms to his imposer. “But, I’m… not passionless.”
Midousuji tilts his head in a sudden swing, like its on a hinge, eyes widening. “Haaa?”
“I’m passionate about cycling.”
“Where?” Midousuji asks, leaning forward as he frames his eyeball with a press of his forefinger and his thumb against his face, mocking a looking glass. He squints his other eye. “Where??” he repeats.
“I don’t know…” Though Onoda’s question sounds like a dwindling of confidence, his expression firms with resolve when he looks back up to Midousuji. His expression is even; measured. But not stern. Midousuji can’t look away, because he isn’t sure how to place it—he isn’t sure what he’s seeing. “With people. My friends.”
Onoda’s sad smile comes back again, but this time it’s sad for real. Midousuji can feel it. It makes his skin crawl.
“People like you. Or, I guess, I hope. Someday.”
Midousuji leans back again, his spine collapsing at the small of his back like rubber as he makes a loud, derisive hiss. His other hand slaps against his face, and Midousuji shrieks a chorus of ‘Gross! Disgusting! Stop! I’m gonna be sick!,’ and similar things. Onoda’s head falls, and he fidgets his hands in front of his shorts, smile having faded completely.
Once Midousuji’s fit passes, he’s frozen in this backwards-bent, strange posture, elbows akimbo to the sky. Then, unchanging in his pose, Midousuji awkwardly bends his chin towards his neck to peek at Onoda through his hands.
So disheartened. All Midousuji does is break this kid’s heart all day long, huh? It’s not that Midousuji cares, but…
He rolls his eyes away, the corner of his lip twitching as he struggles internally with what to do.
“Sssssss…” Midousuji tilts his head away and to the side, but it does so with what looks like a janky frame-rate, bones giving wet, unpleasant, crunchy pops. “Saka…michiiiiii…”
Probably because Midousuji sounds like he’s literally dying, Onoda glances back up at Midousuji.
“A-ah! Y…yes,” he answers.
“I…” Midousuji scrubs his hands down his face, shrieking, then stills again. Onoda watches with concern. Midousuji’s heart hammers. It’s too difficult. But Onoda, like Ishigaki, has always been there—but less stubbornly, less intrusively. And most troubling of all—more delicately. A gentle extension of a gentle, shaking hand—one Midousuji ripped apart by his teeth every time. It was getting unbearable, again and again.
Onoda…had been worried about Midousuji. Despite how he’d been treating him. And despite all of that, he’d even thought of Midousuji when he saw the Royal Army OVA release last Summer—he’d even mailed him his duplicate no.2 UNIT.
“…kkkept it…”
“Huh?”
Midousuji gives a long, withering, gravely sigh. He flops forward, yanking the corner of his mouth down with his fingers, eyes rolling sideways with an annoyed sneer. He’s quiet in pause again, then finally finds the clarity and the voice to clarify.
“…it’s…iiiiit’s—“ Midousuji’s head tilts painfully, lower eyelids lifting. “…on my…desk.”
“What is?” Onoda balls his fists curiously, lifting them to his collarbones, trying to catch the threads of context where he can—but…sort of to no avail.
“The—! The no.2 UNIT!! That you sent me!! Sakamichi! Idiot! Stupid!” Midousuji shrieks down at Onoda, who gasps and yelps in terror, cringing—then his expression falters in realization, blinking twice. Then, his expression warms on its cheeks, and his eyes practically sparkle.
“Really?” Onoda’s eyes, Midousuji realizes, appear sparkly because they’re…
…teary. What the fuck?!
Panicking, Midousuji cringes away again.
“That makes me so happy!! I thought you still hated me,” Onoda admits quietly, then laughs, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Even if we aren’t friends, that makes me…really happy, Midousuji-kun…”
Midousuji blinks, stupefied, and tilts his head as he leans towards Onoda again. Mouth somewhat adrop, Midousuji says nothing, extending his pinky towards Onoda.
Onoda blinks, looking at Midousuji’s long, spidery pinky, then blinks back up at him. Hesitantly, but with an eager sort of trust, he reciprocates the gesture, seeming cautious, like he’s guessing—and he hooks pinkies with Midousuji. Midousuji wraps his pinky around Onoda’s, who, surprised, does the same, and Midousuji gives Onoda a good, hard shake that way, sort of off-centering his balance with a watery little cry of surprise.
“Yoooou’re just…”
Midousuji grins, then, teeth flashing in a way that uncharacteristically lacks hostility.
“…a tiny little idiot, aren’t you?”
“H-huh?!”
—————————-
As dusk settles in, the darkness soon to follow in full swathe, much less by the time that Midousuji gets home, Midousuji only has the spinning of his spokes and the rush of the wind to keep him company. The day blows off of him with the speed of his pace, feeling cleansing in the way it always does—but it’s also the time that Midousuji usually uses to think. Like when he watches his pendulum, or soaks in the tub, but a little different. The precursor.
And so, and though it’s regrettably not the first time, Midousuji thinks about Onoda. Ponders him, puzzles him; Midousuji finds Onoda just as confusing as Onoda finds Midousuji (undoubtedly, even, as he rides now, Onoda is probably bobbling about in a confused haze about their interaction, but it doesn’t cross Midousuji’s mind). As he veers a sharp turn, low and sideways, Midousuji’s fingers elegantly and gently shift gears in time to his own mind.
Onoda has been so stubborn, insistent and gentle. Insistent on, of all things, to be his friend. And now Midousuji’s accepted that—well, actually, he accepted it before this season. But still, only months ago. Onoda still doesn’t seem to be clear on it, but Midousuji trusts that he will in time, and hopefully, it will be a keep-it-to-yourself-and-don’t-address-it, just-shut-up kind of realization when he comes to it. If he ever does. If he doesn’t, that’s okay too—Midousuji doesn’t have the gumption to admit something so…
Midousuji blinks, the way that the moon has been flashing through the fast-passing filtering of dense, now almost-black foliage above him, coming to a distracting halt, exposing the moon for its bright, full glow. It’s distracting enough that Midousuji looks up to the moon as he rides, knowing by reflex that he’s on a straight path going forward for some time until he gets home.
Does Onoda want to be his friend just because of anime? He’ll have to test that—hold that as a reward. Dangle it like a carrot. Not in a way to motivate Onoda to stick by his side, but to test his character. It’s a normal motivation, he figures, to want to be friends with someone who likes the thing you like so much it makes you a pariah. While Midousuji never had that kind of yearning himself, he can understand the motivation, since he understands an ostracizing interest.
But that alone won’t do. If Onoda’s going to be his first friend (by his own admission), Onoda has to understand Midousuji enough to…well, be his friend? He guesses? Midousuji knows he’s strange, and difficult to deal with—and is increasingly volatile the closer people get, usually because he wants to dissuade that interest. But letting someone in…
…what does that really entail? What’s the formula?
When Midousuji finally pulls into his lot, he quietly shuts off his thoughts to go through the motions of walking his bike inside after carrying it on his shoulder to its resting place, right beside his mother’s. He stands in front of her frame, head tilted, feeling a bit lost as he stares at her smiling, gentle face.
It’s familiar. Similar to something he’d seen earlier just that day.
“Gross,” Midousuji mumbles, crawling his fingers beneath the straps of his mask to peel it off, and he walks away.
Midousuji makes himself some food, watches his pendulum, brain buzzing—he still feels elated about his not-quite-victory, though conflicted and frustrated as well. He checks his phone to see he got a text from Manami, and he quietly turns his phone face down. He isn’t ready for all that. Manami is compelling, and Midousuji wants to examine him further—dissect him. But he’s intense in a different way, from Onoda. Or Ishigaki.
Darker. A little scary. Onoda is scary too, but for the exact opposite reason.
Midousuji then has a wash and a soak, and as he changes into clean clothes for bed, he stares at his desk as he sits on his futon. In the darkness, he sees the little keychain that Onoda had mailed to him, hanging by his work station.
Again, his heart twists a little bit, and he stiffly falls onto his shoulder and side, curling as he pulls down his lower lip to tap his fingernails against his teeth, eyes vacantly staring into the darkness.
“Sakamichi…huh.”
It doesn’t seem wise to be friends with such a (surprisingly) formidable rival, but there’s something about that juxtaposition that’s a little exciting, too. Midousuji wants to know more about that, too—about Onoda. What shape he can take, when pushed. If he can push Midousuji, too, to grow as an athlete. By tayoru, and by rivalry.
Midousuji makes a sharp, one-note laugh, muffled by the tightening of his throat as he grins, snapping his teeth.
Risky gamble. His shoulders shake with a muffled giggle, finding himself amused by his own decisions. He’s usually not one to roll dice like this, and it feels a little naughty. But he has something to prove too, and that’s by virtue of reciprocity to the way he plans to test Onoda. Just like being friends with Midousuji, to Midousuji, means that Onoda can’t only be interested in their common interest of anime, Midousuji can’t only be motivated by the potential to grow as an athlete by being friends with Onoda.
And only now is Midousuji comfortable with admitting that isn’t his sole motivator. So it’s officially fair to put Onoda to the test.
A little bit frustrating, perhaps—disappointing, in some ways. But in other ways, awing, like magic.
He’d wanted to win. Of course he’d wanted to win—and he’s always wanted that more than anybody. And while that wasn’t what had happened—not exactly—he hadn’t lost, either.
Midousuji had fought so hard, and, again, yes, he’s always done exactly that. Harder and harder, every time. And this time was particularly brutal; pushing himself so extremely with more tearing of tendons, skinning of flesh, rasping with dehydration so bad it had nearly made him vomit. And there was more aggression, too—sidling up close to his opponents, risking his own balance to offset theirs, smashing shoulders and even snapping his teeth with the intent to maim other riders.
He’d even almost done so to Onoda, but their height difference had saved them. That was on the first day, anyways. The third day, body well and truly pushed to its new limits, shaking like a leaf from its wear, Midousuji had only ogled Onoda in utter bafflement, right after he’d finished doing the very same for Manami. He was too tired—delirious, with his vision even blurring and splitting a little bit—to tell exactly who crossed when. His heart had been beating with furious, desperate fatigue, but also with a sudden swell of nervy panic.
He couldn’t tell who’d passed the line first.
At the finish, Midousuji’s front wheel swerved and wobbled, his arms and wrists shaking as he stared in shockshelled disbelief to the pavement below, heaving through his sore, tired throat. His legs shook as he hoped off his bike, and his head continued to spin with confusion. By then, he’d learned the result. And it was no less bewildering.
Onoda, Manami and himself had all passed the finish at the same time. They’d all won, and so too, none of them had.
Based on the tags taken on previous days, however, Kyoto Fushimi was declared winner. Midousuji had wanted to take the final win for himself, in his name only—but it wasn’t that he was dissatisfied with their post-tie qualified win. It was just…
Unheard of. Shocking. Historic, maybe?
The three of them stood on the podium, and Midousuji gaped in vacant bewilderment. It wasn’t the first time that he, often the tallest racer, got to stand on the tallest pedestal, but it was the first time under these circumstances. In the crowd, Midousuji blinked, straightening his back, lifting his head and relaxing his shoulders—he’d spotted Ishigaki in the crowd, and he wasn’t alone. He was standing with Yuki and his aunt—probably Ishigaki had heard them cheering for him, and so had introduced himself, because he’s annoying and nosy.
But still, seeing the three of them, Midousuji’s heart does a dizzying, thrilled hiccup, and his voice catches in his throat as his eyes subtly widen. Midousuji beams with sudden, energetic and ecstatic glee, and snaps his teeth, yanking his medal up before he throws his head back, tossing up both of his arms with a shrill, excited cry.
After the ceremony, feeling a bit restored by the rush he’d caught so belatedly, Midousuji had—quite literally—bumped into Onoda. Midousuji’s mouth had gently fallen open, blinking at his tiny rival, who beamed with that kind, well meaning warmth, all sparkly and harsh and disgusting and pointy. Midousuji’s upper lip lifted on the left side as he tilted his head away.
“Good job, Midousuji-kun! It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it? I can’t believe we all tied.”
“Pyeh,” Midousuji spits out quietly, having almost said words but simultaneously failing in the task, his hands limply dangling from his wrists by his collar bone as he bodily leans away.
“It makes me excited to see what happens when we compete through college.”
Midousuji then suddenly cranes his neck in a grotesque tilt, leaning forward and over Onoda with owlishly-blinked curiosity. “College? Do you intend to go pro, Sakamichi?”
Onoda’s smile tempers to something a little uncertain, or perhaps a little sad, and he scratches the side of his cheek.
“…To be honest, I don’t really know. But for now, I just think I wanna keep going…”
“What else would you do?” Midousuji tilts his head back again, grinning as he lets his tongue lazily extend from its confines, back bending backwards as his arms dangled in bouncy slack. “Become a business man? Glasses, briefcase, glasses, briefcase…”
“Haha! Maybe.”
“I can’t accept that,” Midousuji suddenly concludes, slapping his hand against his face, fingertips pulling down his lower eyelid as his eyes roll back, teeth clenched and exposed. “You and Manami-kun took my single-crossing finish of the InterHigh. You’re effectively my rival now, you know?”
Midousuji’s posture suddenly snaps threateningly forward, hand still just below his eyelid. Onoda leans back nervously to accommodate Midousuji’s sudden pressure. “I won’t accept such wishy-washyness from someone so passionless.”
“I-I-I’m sorry!” Onoda sputters, then blinks, his hands held up in arrestive acquiescence, palms to his imposer. “But, I’m… not passionless.”
Midousuji tilts his head in a sudden swing, like its on a hinge, eyes widening. “Haaa?”
“I’m passionate about cycling.”
“Where?” Midousuji asks, leaning forward as he frames his eyeball with a press of his forefinger and his thumb against his face, mocking a looking glass. He squints his other eye. “Where??” he repeats.
“I don’t know…” Though Onoda’s question sounds like a dwindling of confidence, his expression firms with resolve when he looks back up to Midousuji. His expression is even; measured. But not stern. Midousuji can’t look away, because he isn’t sure how to place it—he isn’t sure what he’s seeing. “With people. My friends.”
Onoda’s sad smile comes back again, but this time it’s sad for real. Midousuji can feel it. It makes his skin crawl.
“People like you. Or, I guess, I hope. Someday.”
Midousuji leans back again, his spine collapsing at the small of his back like rubber as he makes a loud, derisive hiss. His other hand slaps against his face, and Midousuji shrieks a chorus of ‘Gross! Disgusting! Stop! I’m gonna be sick!,’ and similar things. Onoda’s head falls, and he fidgets his hands in front of his shorts, smile having faded completely.
Once Midousuji’s fit passes, he’s frozen in this backwards-bent, strange posture, elbows akimbo to the sky. Then, unchanging in his pose, Midousuji awkwardly bends his chin towards his neck to peek at Onoda through his hands.
So disheartened. All Midousuji does is break this kid’s heart all day long, huh? It’s not that Midousuji cares, but…
He rolls his eyes away, the corner of his lip twitching as he struggles internally with what to do.
“Sssssss…” Midousuji tilts his head away and to the side, but it does so with what looks like a janky frame-rate, bones giving wet, unpleasant, crunchy pops. “Saka…michiiiiii…”
Probably because Midousuji sounds like he’s literally dying, Onoda glances back up at Midousuji.
“A-ah! Y…yes,” he answers.
“I…” Midousuji scrubs his hands down his face, shrieking, then stills again. Onoda watches with concern. Midousuji’s heart hammers. It’s too difficult. But Onoda, like Ishigaki, has always been there—but less stubbornly, less intrusively. And most troubling of all—more delicately. A gentle extension of a gentle, shaking hand—one Midousuji ripped apart by his teeth every time. It was getting unbearable, again and again.
Onoda…had been worried about Midousuji. Despite how he’d been treating him. And despite all of that, he’d even thought of Midousuji when he saw the Royal Army OVA release last Summer—he’d even mailed him his duplicate no.2 UNIT.
“…kkkept it…”
“Huh?”
Midousuji gives a long, withering, gravely sigh. He flops forward, yanking the corner of his mouth down with his fingers, eyes rolling sideways with an annoyed sneer. He’s quiet in pause again, then finally finds the clarity and the voice to clarify.
“…it’s…iiiiit’s—“ Midousuji’s head tilts painfully, lower eyelids lifting. “…on my…desk.”
“What is?” Onoda balls his fists curiously, lifting them to his collarbones, trying to catch the threads of context where he can—but…sort of to no avail.
“The—! The no.2 UNIT!! That you sent me!! Sakamichi! Idiot! Stupid!” Midousuji shrieks down at Onoda, who gasps and yelps in terror, cringing—then his expression falters in realization, blinking twice. Then, his expression warms on its cheeks, and his eyes practically sparkle.
“Really?” Onoda’s eyes, Midousuji realizes, appear sparkly because they’re…
…teary. What the fuck?!
Panicking, Midousuji cringes away again.
“That makes me so happy!! I thought you still hated me,” Onoda admits quietly, then laughs, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Even if we aren’t friends, that makes me…really happy, Midousuji-kun…”
Midousuji blinks, stupefied, and tilts his head as he leans towards Onoda again. Mouth somewhat adrop, Midousuji says nothing, extending his pinky towards Onoda.
Onoda blinks, looking at Midousuji’s long, spidery pinky, then blinks back up at him. Hesitantly, but with an eager sort of trust, he reciprocates the gesture, seeming cautious, like he’s guessing—and he hooks pinkies with Midousuji. Midousuji wraps his pinky around Onoda’s, who, surprised, does the same, and Midousuji gives Onoda a good, hard shake that way, sort of off-centering his balance with a watery little cry of surprise.
“Yoooou’re just…”
Midousuji grins, then, teeth flashing in a way that uncharacteristically lacks hostility.
“…a tiny little idiot, aren’t you?”
“H-huh?!”
—————————-
As dusk settles in, the darkness soon to follow in full swathe, much less by the time that Midousuji gets home, Midousuji only has the spinning of his spokes and the rush of the wind to keep him company. The day blows off of him with the speed of his pace, feeling cleansing in the way it always does—but it’s also the time that Midousuji usually uses to think. Like when he watches his pendulum, or soaks in the tub, but a little different. The precursor.
And so, and though it’s regrettably not the first time, Midousuji thinks about Onoda. Ponders him, puzzles him; Midousuji finds Onoda just as confusing as Onoda finds Midousuji (undoubtedly, even, as he rides now, Onoda is probably bobbling about in a confused haze about their interaction, but it doesn’t cross Midousuji’s mind). As he veers a sharp turn, low and sideways, Midousuji’s fingers elegantly and gently shift gears in time to his own mind.
Onoda has been so stubborn, insistent and gentle. Insistent on, of all things, to be his friend. And now Midousuji’s accepted that—well, actually, he accepted it before this season. But still, only months ago. Onoda still doesn’t seem to be clear on it, but Midousuji trusts that he will in time, and hopefully, it will be a keep-it-to-yourself-and-don’t-address-it, just-shut-up kind of realization when he comes to it. If he ever does. If he doesn’t, that’s okay too—Midousuji doesn’t have the gumption to admit something so…
Midousuji blinks, the way that the moon has been flashing through the fast-passing filtering of dense, now almost-black foliage above him, coming to a distracting halt, exposing the moon for its bright, full glow. It’s distracting enough that Midousuji looks up to the moon as he rides, knowing by reflex that he’s on a straight path going forward for some time until he gets home.
Does Onoda want to be his friend just because of anime? He’ll have to test that—hold that as a reward. Dangle it like a carrot. Not in a way to motivate Onoda to stick by his side, but to test his character. It’s a normal motivation, he figures, to want to be friends with someone who likes the thing you like so much it makes you a pariah. While Midousuji never had that kind of yearning himself, he can understand the motivation, since he understands an ostracizing interest.
But that alone won’t do. If Onoda’s going to be his first friend (by his own admission), Onoda has to understand Midousuji enough to…well, be his friend? He guesses? Midousuji knows he’s strange, and difficult to deal with—and is increasingly volatile the closer people get, usually because he wants to dissuade that interest. But letting someone in…
…what does that really entail? What’s the formula?
When Midousuji finally pulls into his lot, he quietly shuts off his thoughts to go through the motions of walking his bike inside after carrying it on his shoulder to its resting place, right beside his mother’s. He stands in front of her frame, head tilted, feeling a bit lost as he stares at her smiling, gentle face.
It’s familiar. Similar to something he’d seen earlier just that day.
“Gross,” Midousuji mumbles, crawling his fingers beneath the straps of his mask to peel it off, and he walks away.
Midousuji makes himself some food, watches his pendulum, brain buzzing—he still feels elated about his not-quite-victory, though conflicted and frustrated as well. He checks his phone to see he got a text from Manami, and he quietly turns his phone face down. He isn’t ready for all that. Manami is compelling, and Midousuji wants to examine him further—dissect him. But he’s intense in a different way, from Onoda. Or Ishigaki.
Darker. A little scary. Onoda is scary too, but for the exact opposite reason.
Midousuji then has a wash and a soak, and as he changes into clean clothes for bed, he stares at his desk as he sits on his futon. In the darkness, he sees the little keychain that Onoda had mailed to him, hanging by his work station.
Again, his heart twists a little bit, and he stiffly falls onto his shoulder and side, curling as he pulls down his lower lip to tap his fingernails against his teeth, eyes vacantly staring into the darkness.
“Sakamichi…huh.”
It doesn’t seem wise to be friends with such a (surprisingly) formidable rival, but there’s something about that juxtaposition that’s a little exciting, too. Midousuji wants to know more about that, too—about Onoda. What shape he can take, when pushed. If he can push Midousuji, too, to grow as an athlete. By tayoru, and by rivalry.
Midousuji makes a sharp, one-note laugh, muffled by the tightening of his throat as he grins, snapping his teeth.
Risky gamble. His shoulders shake with a muffled giggle, finding himself amused by his own decisions. He’s usually not one to roll dice like this, and it feels a little naughty. But he has something to prove too, and that’s by virtue of reciprocity to the way he plans to test Onoda. Just like being friends with Midousuji, to Midousuji, means that Onoda can’t only be interested in their common interest of anime, Midousuji can’t only be motivated by the potential to grow as an athlete by being friends with Onoda.
And only now is Midousuji comfortable with admitting that isn’t his sole motivator. So it’s officially fair to put Onoda to the test.
Entry tags:
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march catch-all
Who: Midousuji Akira
When: all of March!
Where: Aefenglom various. atm Midousuji is too weak + meek to venture
What: slice of life with a weird + huge/man-shaped toddler, and also, Midousuji tries magic
Warnings: none!
( OH. BOY. it’s a lot. idk what’s wrong with me )
When: all of March!
Where: Aefenglom various. atm Midousuji is too weak + meek to venture
What: slice of life with a weird + huge/man-shaped toddler, and also, Midousuji tries magic
Warnings: none!
( OH. BOY. it’s a lot. idk what’s wrong with me )
WIP } STATS, INFO ON AUs
Basics
Name: Midousuji Akira
Age(s): 16
Sign: Aquarius
Date of Birth: 1/31
Gender: Male
Canonpoint: End of IH42 D2
Height: 6'1
Blood Type: (secret)
Bonds: 1
Magic Specialty: Sample
UN: HOTARU☆KUN
Time in game: 4 months
Player: jaz
Timezone: EST
Contact: poisonparfait
Appearance
Midousuji is currently at between 6’1” and 6’2”, with large shoulders and a large rib-cage to match, very much touting the silhouette of a haunted, inverted triangle. His limbs are long, slim, and a little knobby, even when he’s packed with dense muscle, which will surely atrophy away in his time in Aefenglom, as Midousuji is woefully incompetent at any form of exercise besides cycling. He has an impressively small waist, and narrow hips framed below. He tends to appear more slim when dressed casually, and his posture and demeanor are so withdrawn when not competing or being actively agitated, it may compound his “smallness”—but even so, Midousuji always emanates an unsettling aura. Finally, for his size and voice, Midousuji may accidentally give folks the impression he’s older than he is. One could argue his behavior would give him away, but it’s so off-beat that it could just be chalked up to eccentricity. ymmv
Midousuji tends to have a surprisingly stylish look, cohesive and simple, though you wouldn’t suspect him to have such inclinations; he typically prefers basic, well made articles of clothing, but has been known to sport a a morbid motif or two. He’s also worn light health goth. this kid has a reddit account i know it
Midousuji’s eyes are usually unreasonably wide, and they almost never blink. They appear dead like a fish’s baking in the sun; they’re matte and usually unfocused, mysteriously carrying very little light. Suffice to say, even if Midousuji isn’t being over the top with his grotesque contortions (and the weird, gross sounds that accompany them), even his mild modes carry an air of being strangely haunted; to those supernaturally attuned, he may initially seem cursed, or inhuman, but it would be probably quickly realized he’s a normal (“normal”) human. He almost never makes eye contact, unless he’s acting on defense or offense, and he’s often doing strange things like pulling on his eyelids, snapping his teeth, or vigorously rubbing his hands up and down his face when stressed.
When Midousuji is acting on the offensive, he tends to lean into being repulsive as possible—the traits that got him teased or bullied in childhood are now weaponized against his perceived dissenters. He knows what people find unpleasant about him, and he’ll exaggerate those qualities as much as he can to intimidate and to repel.Personality
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Abilities
Magic
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Plans
Tentatively set and kind of ever changing! But for now, the following:
↝ Midousuji, while preferring to master one skill instead of waste time on achieving (dismal) partial mastery of many skills, will initially be practicing all types of magic with delirious fervor. He had to find out cycling was his thing before pursuing it, so he has to figure out what kind of magic feels right to him.
↝ Midousuji, understanding that he needs income outside of food and rent (he won’t want to stay at the Coven for long; he hates the communal vibe, and prefers to have his own little bubble), will seek employment at the Coven. He doesn’t trust the Coven (because he trusts... no one), but he’ll see it as an advantage; he can study, and being competent as a library servant means that he’ll have boot-camped understanding of where to find all sorts of information. It’ll excelerate his studying. He wants to be ahead of the curve so no one can have one over on him.
↝ More tentatively, Midousuji, despite taking up magic pretty immediately, will likely neglect getting a bond as long as possible—even knowing that more practice with magic in hand leads to more build-up, thus endangering the witch. So uh. We’ll. We’ll see how that goes.
↝ Midousuji will also be studying whatever forbidden magics he can, though not in practice. Too risky for a novice. How long can one mathematically be a novice, with such a late start?
↝ Eventually, Midousuji will probably settle on being an illusionist. While, you know, probably also actively, actually losing his mind. Fun for all!
In-Game History
Fill this out with Midousuji's history in Aefenglom as it develops. Here's some placeholdery text until then.
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Bonds
If one is bonded to Midousuji, they can expect long spells of no emotional feedback through their bond. Occasionally, there will disturbingly high spikes of stress or mania, depending on what Midousuji's current situation is. Depending on whether or not Midousuji really pours into magic, a Bondmate may expect to feel a constant, but distant, low sense of stress (though Midousuji's stress will of course be quite high), like an oncoming pressure headache that won't go away.
A Bondmate can also expect echoes of Midousuji's dreams, which he himself does not remember, and are always nightmares; subjects can vary from nightmares about hearing his mother's last heartbeat, or abstract dreams around failure.
1;
Soren - dragon; a cordial business arrangement. Midousuji likes the vibe of it, because Soren is cold, and aloof—icier than even Midousuji! They linked up after Midousuji propositioned the network for a NSA Bond, citing he wanted someone who wouldn't care about him, wouldn't care if Midousuji didn't care about them, and would politely mind their business about any dream/emotion feedback looping.
2;
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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
thread tracking
MEMES ETC
please consider any meme posts I do as open posts. feel free to tag anything you see!
▶ IC anon questions meme
▶ snowfall meme
▶ this or that
please consider any meme posts I do as open posts. feel free to tag anything you see!
▶ IC anon questions meme
▶ snowfall meme
▶ this or that
OPT OUT POST
so, midousuji is extreme, unsightly, terribly unpleasant, and used to be one of those characters who got tagged as a tw back in the day (you can probably guess where). that said: some people just really don't like midousuji, and i while i obviously don't relate, i also honestly can't blame them!
SO, if you're one of those people, please let me know. i will avoid tagging you! comments are screened! no harm done, no offense taken at all!
SO, if you're one of those people, please let me know. i will avoid tagging you! comments are screened! no harm done, no offense taken at all!