[Midousuji wouldn’t have bothered responding to this post were it not for a few things. generally, even if he doesn’t respond to a network post, he’s read it; he’s in the habit of compiling dossiers in case a situation should arrive where certain intel noted from the network could be useful in the future, because Midousuji clearly has too much unspent mental energy…
but there’s a few things. the mention of being a cyclist; being from Japan. that’s enough to make Midousuji’s eyes widen as he reels back from where he sits on his cottage floor, awkwardly pretzel-legged with his watch cradled in the hollow space between his knees, leaning far too forward for anything that could be described visually as comfortable. there’s other people in Aefenglom from Japan, and surely there’d be other cyclists—the venn-diagram overlap feels like it’d be a bit rare, but it’s not inadmissible as coincidence, for sure.
but Midousuji double-checks the username, and he drops his watch in a noisy clatter. his heart immediately races, and he’s not sure if it’s panic or not—he scrambles clumsily to snatch the device back up, dropping it once or twice in those scattered, disorganized attempts, spitting hoarse expressions of irritation through his teeth. his fingers tremble as he awkwardly types through his tremors. he could just audio record, but Midousuji isn’t trusting his ability to be verbally coherent on a dime here.]
text | UN: HOTARU☆KUN
but there’s a few things. the mention of being a cyclist; being from Japan. that’s enough to make Midousuji’s eyes widen as he reels back from where he sits on his cottage floor, awkwardly pretzel-legged with his watch cradled in the hollow space between his knees, leaning far too forward for anything that could be described visually as comfortable. there’s other people in Aefenglom from Japan, and surely there’d be other cyclists—the venn-diagram overlap feels like it’d be a bit rare, but it’s not inadmissible as coincidence, for sure.
but Midousuji double-checks the username, and he drops his watch in a noisy clatter. his heart immediately races, and he’s not sure if it’s panic or not—he scrambles clumsily to snatch the device back up, dropping it once or twice in those scattered, disorganized attempts, spitting hoarse expressions of irritation through his teeth. his fingers tremble as he awkwardly types through his tremors. he could just audio record, but Midousuji isn’t trusting his ability to be verbally coherent on a dime here.]
”ISHIYAN”????? [a familiar, disgusting nickname.]
Japan. Kyoto? Kyoto Fushimi????? Kyoto Fushimi cycling club???
Ishigaki Kotaroooouuuuuuu?????!!!!!!!