[Midousuji reels back at the narrow small of his back, squinting in a manner absolutely affronted by the implication he cares. his thin, bony fingers, clad beneath the dark of his gloves, fan out across his collar bones, eyebrows raised as he gives Ishigaki a low, sour scowl.]
Watch it, [is all he rumbles out. he straightens (by his own standard of posture, anyway), then looks away, large shoulders caging forward as he looks exasperated and weary, glancing away from Ishigaki.
it’s less about caring, and more about lassoing and correcting the people on your team so that the unit doesn’t collapse. not that Midousuji is reliant on Ishigaki in such a manner, nor are they any longer part of the same unit—team, whatever. it hasn’t been that way for nearly a year.
but all the same—Ishigaki is an assist almost by his design to whomever. Midousuji maybe just wants to keep that for himself—for Ishigaki’s sake primarily, but it’s utilitarian for Midousuji as well. Ishigaki knows how to be useful to him. Ishigaki knows him; knows how to serve him.
right?
that’s all it is.
to Ishigaki’s question, Midousuji blinks, then squints at him again.]
I would, [he answers plainly, in a way that’s accusatory enough to maybe belay his confusion somewhat. all he’s ever done is drag Kyoto Fushimi around by his own design so that they’d be less incompetent, after all. the parameters were different, but it was the same offer. or, again, so he tells himself, anyway.
Ishigaki’s follow up question makes Midousuji’s eyes open back to their standard too-wideness, and to anyone but Ishigaki, it’d be hard to read; but Midousuji is curious, and he tilts his head in accordance to it. he follows Ishigaki’s gesture, and begins to walk his bike.]
Of course.
Familiar is one thing—sure, the culture shock is terrible, [Midousuji explains, eyes rolling away from Ishigaki.] What’s worse is the survival. And the ejection from purpose. No matter where you come from, I feel this place most certainly removes you from your goals; it’s a different world, after all.
[no national road racing to champion. no Tour de France finish line to carry grief over. no family shrine, unpopulated in its lonely surname, to meditate and calibrate over. the same droning comfortable drone of cicadas and crickets in the Summer, the same nothing else. even the bike that rattles over the cobble stones, rumbling Midousuji’s clenched hands over its handles, is an approximation of his own world. off brand. mocking him.]
Nothing really means anything, in this place. Who you were, what your goals were, what you carry—it dissolves.
The Bonding is the worst.
And there’s no escape, either; people come as randomly as they leave. Death isn’t even an option.
no subject
Watch it, [is all he rumbles out. he straightens (by his own standard of posture, anyway), then looks away, large shoulders caging forward as he looks exasperated and weary, glancing away from Ishigaki.
it’s less about caring, and more about lassoing and correcting the people on your team so that the unit doesn’t collapse. not that Midousuji is reliant on Ishigaki in such a manner, nor are they any longer part of the same unit—team, whatever. it hasn’t been that way for nearly a year.
but all the same—Ishigaki is an assist almost by his design to whomever. Midousuji maybe just wants to keep that for himself—for Ishigaki’s sake primarily, but it’s utilitarian for Midousuji as well. Ishigaki knows how to be useful to him. Ishigaki knows him; knows how to serve him.
right?
that’s all it is.
to Ishigaki’s question, Midousuji blinks, then squints at him again.]
I would, [he answers plainly, in a way that’s accusatory enough to maybe belay his confusion somewhat. all he’s ever done is drag Kyoto Fushimi around by his own design so that they’d be less incompetent, after all. the parameters were different, but it was the same offer. or, again, so he tells himself, anyway.
Ishigaki’s follow up question makes Midousuji’s eyes open back to their standard too-wideness, and to anyone but Ishigaki, it’d be hard to read; but Midousuji is curious, and he tilts his head in accordance to it. he follows Ishigaki’s gesture, and begins to walk his bike.]
Of course.
Familiar is one thing—sure, the culture shock is terrible, [Midousuji explains, eyes rolling away from Ishigaki.] What’s worse is the survival. And the ejection from purpose. No matter where you come from, I feel this place most certainly removes you from your goals; it’s a different world, after all.
[no national road racing to champion. no Tour de France finish line to carry grief over. no family shrine, unpopulated in its lonely surname, to meditate and calibrate over. the same droning comfortable drone of cicadas and crickets in the Summer, the same nothing else. even the bike that rattles over the cobble stones, rumbling Midousuji’s clenched hands over its handles, is an approximation of his own world. off brand. mocking him.]
Nothing really means anything, in this place. Who you were, what your goals were, what you carry—it dissolves.
The Bonding is the worst.
And there’s no escape, either; people come as randomly as they leave. Death isn’t even an option.