#midoukishi

The thought that Midousuji sees something wrong with the way he naturally is is maddening to say the least, especially given everything he went through as a child (Komari still wants those names, and those addresses, to rend meat from bone to repay them for what they did to the man he loves wholly and completely, to lay down physical scars to mirror the mental and emotional ones they dealt a child who just wanted to make his mother proud). If Ishigaki is seeing it, though, then Komari is most definitely not imagining it like he desperately hoped.

Komari drops his knife, not caring about the way it clatters against the plate, and slips his hand under the table to find one of Midousuji’s. Long, familiar callused fingers twine with his and Midousuji meets his eyes clearly confused; Komari mouths are you okay and Ishigaki’s mother continues on speaking, apparently not even noticing what’s going on at her kitchen table.

Midousuji manages the smallest of smiles and a quick nod, but that isn’t him at all. There’s no grin, no teeth, not flicker in his eyes and Komari doesn’t like the looks of this.

This time, he finds Mizuta’s eyes across the table and Mizuta’s confused and pained expression tells Komari all he needs to know. Then all three of them have noticed something is wrong.

“I’m sorry, Ishigaki-san, but we have to excuse ourselves from dinner,” Komari says, pushing himself up from the table abruptly, rattling the dishes and cutlery in the process and again not giving a damn about it. “Midousuji-san is tired from the long drive already and he’s our ace, and as his assistant it’s my duty to make sure he goes to bed. We’ll see you in the morning.”

If all four of them leave at once, Ishigaki’s mother is bound to notice something is wrong, but she doesn’t seem much surprised that Komari pulls Midousuji up from his seat to lead him upstairs to Ishigaki’s bedroom where all four of them are staying. There is a guest bedroom, of course, but none of them are going to use it and Komari thinks the woman might know why even if he’s sure that Ishigaki has never broached the topic with his parents. Oh well, none of that matters right now and he needs to stop spending useless time thinking about it when he has a very real issue on his hands, one that makes his stomach turn and his skin itch all over.

As soon as he has the door closed, he turns around to find where Midousuji has gone. “I thought something was up before now but what I just saw at the table—”

“I know.” Midousuji is suddenly in his personal space, wrapping his arms around Komari’s neck so hard it almost chokes him, squeezing desperately. “I know, I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

The panic in his voice ratchets Komari’s concern up from a solid 25 to a 150 and he hugs Midousuji back automatically, smoothing his hands up and down that long lean back as he presses his face against Midousuji’s neck. “Take deep breaths for me. In and out. I know you can do it for me, Akira. Slow breaths because I need you to relax and talk to me.”

He never uses Midousuji’s first name unless the situation calls for it, but within minutes Midousuji is calmer and it feels less like Komari is about to be strangled to death. He counts it as a win and pushes Midousuji back so he sits on the edge of the futon, looking small and lost.

“You weren’t acting like yourself at dinner. You were reining yourself in. I thought you’d been doing it before now, but I wasn’t sure. I am now.” Komari kneels in front of him, taking Midousuji’s face in his hands, smoothing his bangs back off of his forehead so he can feel the skin there. “Are you not feeling well? Or did someone say something to you? Tell me.”

Midousuji is quiet for a moment, which is also unlike him, and it takes him a great effort to meet Komari’s eyes. “Am I really that strange and gross?” he asks, and Komari’s heart somersaults violently at the words. “People talk about me like I’m some kind of monster.”

“Oh…” Komari needs a minute to stabilize himself from the sudden onrush of anger. “You aren’t strange or gross. Not to me, obviously not to Ishigaki or Mizuta. You know that, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I used to ignore it, back in high school, because I didn’t care. I just wanted to win. But then we did win, and…” Midousuji trails off, but Komari remembers that fondly, the Inter-High during Midousuji’s third and final year where Kyoto Fushimi had finally dominated just as much as they had been desperate to do. Komari had been the one who propelled Midousuji to the finish line on all three days, determined to make sure he won. That he became national champion. “But now I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t want everyone to call me a freak.”

Komari had not known Midousuji when they were in elementary school together, but he had heard stories from Midousuji and he almost feels like he must be looking at that small, scared, bullied boy who could never tell his mother what he went through. “You don’t deserve to have to put up with that. No one should call you names. Those motherfuckers. Who’s said what?”

He’s getting angry and can’t help it, his hands— normally so careful, so delicate, perfect for masseuse work— balling up into fists because he’s so tired of this, so tired of people picking at Midousuji’s weakest defenses and wanting to hurt him more than he’s already been hurt.

“Komari.” He didn’t hear the door open, nor Ishigaki enter. “Calm down. Midousuji, what’s up?”

Mizuta sits on the ground behind Komari, something he only finds out when a pair of arms snake around his waist and pull him back against Mizuta’s chest while Ishigaki sits on the futon next to Midousuji and wraps his arms around him without hesitation. There’s still anger at the forefront of Komari’s mind but it softens and quiets in the arms of one of his boys and he’s able to breathe easy when he sees how Ishigaki holds Midousuji, how gently he touches him.

“People are calling him awful names and it’s making him not want to be himself,” Komari manages, because he knows it was already a titan effort for Midousuji to open up to him.

Ishigaki sighs softly, presses his face into Midousuji’s hair. “Is that true? You can just nod.”

Midousuji nods and curls himself into Ishigaki’s chest— he’s tall even now, and none of them had ever gotten closer to matching his height— but he only makes himself small when he feels vulnerable and scared. It makes Komari feel sick and Mizuta hums softly in his ear, rubbing soothing circles into his stomach, willing him to relax. Komari feels everything too much, too hard.

“You know, if we didn’t love you just the way you are, we wouldn’t be here with you. You should hear that, first and foremost I think.” Ishigaki brushes Midousuji’s hair off of his forehead, presses a kiss to the skin there, warm and soft. “We love you more than I could ever explain.”

“I always thought you were kind of cool, the way you just… The way you were always yourself no matter what. I thought it was amazing.” Mizuta sounds less certain of himself, or like he doesn’t have the words he feels like he needs right now. Komari grabs his wrist and squeezes. “I never thought anything was wrong with you. Everyone else is just a fucking loser.”

Midousuji sighs softly and combs shaking fingers through his hair, and Komari’s heart flips in his chest again, banging against his ribs in the process. “Is it hard when I’m this way in public? When other people see me being… Being weird? Being a freak? Isn’t that hard on you three?”

“No.” Ishigaki grips Midousuji’s chin, tilts his head so that those dark gray-violet eyes are level with his own rich velvety brown ones. “I personally love to see you be yourself. All the time.”

“Agreed,” Mizuta says. “It’s the only way I want to see you. I don’t like seeing you beaten down.”

Komari rolls his lower lip between his teeth until it hurts before he can speak. “I like seeing you being yourself because it makes you happy,” he says. “I can’t stand the thought of you hiding yourself and being so upset.”

Ishigaki beams, then turns Midousuji’s head back to him and pecks him on the lips, then goes in for a slower, deeper kiss that makes Midousuji’s face pink just slightly. “We love you just the way you are. You aren’t gross, or nasty, or a monster. You’re our boy, and we want you to be you, and to be happy. Be you, Akira. No one else can.”

Midousuji bites down on his lower lip and Komari might be imagining the slight sheen of tears in his eyes, but he blinks quickly a couple of times and it vanishes. Slowly, so slowly it feels like the seconds dragging by are hours instead, Midousuji manages a small smile, then a larger one, then one of his blindingly perfect and slightly frightening smiles, the one Komari had fallen head over heels for back when he was uncertain if he could even fall in love. A grateful sob leaves his throat and all three of his boyfriends jump, Mizuta’s arms vice-like around his middle.

“I just hate seeing you upset,” he says, scrubbing furiously at his eyes, not allowing the tears to fall, not now, not when their Midousuji has his own smile on his face once more. “I don’t ever want you to be sad again. I just want nothing more than for you to be happy.”

Ishigaki smiles softly and extends a hand. “Come here, Komari. Come hold him now, it’s okay.”

Mizuta puts a hand on his back and helps launch him forward, and he half-tackles Midousuji onto the futon, pressing his face against Midousuji’s neck before trailing fervent kisses over Midousuji’s face. When he snickers, the familiar sound soothes something in Komari’s chest.

“Not that we don’t care about Midousuji’s happiness,” Ishigaki says, “but we care about yours, too.”

Mizuta finally crawls onto the futon with the rest of them, and he gives Komari’s hair a playful tug, flashing him a half-smile. “I get worried about you, too, y’know. When you get upset like that.”

Komari ducks his head, not sure what to say to that, but Midousuji butts their foreheads together gently and he kisses Midousuji instead, deciding he doesn’t have to say anything at all.