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He wasn't sure why Midousuji chose him, of all people, to go with him into town to pick up supplies. It had only been a couple weeks since he upstaged Ishigaki and took control of the club, and this was the first time he’d been singled out like this. He’d been hoping to remain invisible to the younger boy for the foreseeable future—invisibility seemed more beneficial than the alternative, which often involved verbal beat downs and extra laps around the course.
It wasn't like he was afraid of him. No, it wasn't that, even though the others on the team seemed to feel that way. It wasn't fear—it was more like anger, if he had to put a label on it. He was angry that this stranger had come in and shattered the balance of their club, had taken everything they shared and shattered it into a million pieces. It felt like a hostile wartime takeover, a slash and burn blitzkrieg destroying everything they’d built.
He’d seen how much it upset Ishigaki, being forced into the backseat of his own club like that by a first year with an attitude. He never wanted to talk about it, but Mizuta just had to look at his face to see the devastating effect it’d had on him. So no, he didn't fear Midousuji…if anything, he hated him.
“Too slow.” Midousuji quipped in exasperation, stopping a few steps ahead to glare back at Mizuta. “Is it too hard to figure out how to put one foot in front of the other? Being that stupid must be painful.”
“Sorry,” Mizuta muttered under his breath, picking up his pace a bit. From everything he’d learned so far about the peculiar boy, apologizing was always the best option.
He caught up with him, but Midousuji didn't move. Instead he fixed his unnervingly intense gaze on him and leaned down low enough to meet his eye level, his body contorting awkwardly like a mannequin on strings.
“No you’re not.” He said, his voice dripping with accusation. Mizuta swore he could hear his muscles creaking like trees in the wind as he moved.
Mizuta grimaced a bit, trying to hold back whatever insults he wanted to let forth. “Look, I said I was sorry.”
“But you’re not sorry!” Midousuji snapped, a few stray bits of saliva pelting Mizuta’s face. “Did you think that would make it easier? Is that all part of your pathetic little survival plan?”
“I don’t have a plan or whatever—”
“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.” He cut him off mid sentence, bending back into a proper walking position again with more of that unnatural creaking. “It’s as simple as that—is that simple enough for you?”
Mizuta nodded grudgingly and they continued on their way to the train station, a bitter feeling settling in his stomach. Any illusions of this trip being relatively painless were now all but gone. Maybe he’d singled him out solely to harass him—he wouldn't put it past the other boy, considering his usual behavior. Maybe his invisibility over the past few weeks hasn't been very invisible at all.
They boarded the train towards the center of the city, and Mizuta was disappointed to realize Midousuji expected him to stick close by during the ride too. He ushered him to the set of seats that faced each other in the center of the car and gestured to the one across from him, clearly intent on making this entire ordeal as uncomfortable as possible for him.
“So…where are we going?” He asked, glancing out the window as the station disappeared from view.
Midousuji was staring at him with that dead-eyed gaze of his, but he didn't seem interested in answering what he’d just said. He clamped a hand over his mouth and let out an ugly laugh, pointing at Mizuta like a petulant child on the playground.
“Gross!” He crowed, laughing like a hyena. “I never noticed it before now, but your teeth are reaallly jacked up! That’s just too gross—how do you even look at yourself?”
Mizuta frowned, a sudden rush of self-consciousness gripping him. He reached up and covered his mouth in shame, only to realize that made it somewhat difficult to talk. “It’s not a big deal—who cares what my mouth looks like?”
“You should care, Mizuta-kun.” Midousuji said pointedly, leaning back in his seat. “No one will ever take you seriously if you don’t. That’s some free advice right there—you should take it.”
“No one’s ever bugged me about it except you,” He replied, still a bit put off.
Midousuji grinned. “But they thought about it!” He insisted loudly. “Every time you open your mouth people probably think, ‘Wow, what a train wreck!’ but they're too nice to say anything. You’re angry I pointed it out, but shouldn't you be thankful? Everyone else in your pathetic life just stared at you thinking awful things without saying a word for all these years. You should thank me for telling you the truth—no one else cared enough to do it.”
Mizuta opened his mouth to protest, but he was struck with the frustrating sense that perhaps Midousuji was at least partially right.
“You’re thinking about it, aren't you? Wondering if everyone in your life always thought about how gross you were and never said anything about it.” Midousuji peered at him through his long fingers like a giddy child ready to pull the wings off a butterfly. “Feeling betrayed?”
He shook his head, even though the other boy had guessed spot on. “No…well…” He could sense the way the other boy was staring at him, like he could hear his very thoughts before they could leave his mouth. “I don’t know, maybe a little bit.”
“Good,” Midousuji praised him, sounding almost proud. “That’s good, Mizuta-kun.” His wide smile seemed less threatening somehow this time.
When they got off the train in the center of town, he made sure to keep up with the younger boy this time—he was a fast learner, if anything. The little conversations they had while walking weren’t bad—a little weird, perhaps, but not bad—and he was beginning to feel like perhaps this trip wasn't going to be as terrible as he had imagined at first. They stopped in a bicycle shop and Midousuji began shopping around, placing bottles of lubricant and training jerseys unceremoniously in Mizuta’s arms like he was some kind of cart. The fact he never considered dropping them once was a testament to his annoyingly strong desire to please anyone above him, even if the other boy was an underclassmen.
Midousuji paused and pulled a jersey off one of the numerous clothing racks, holding it up to Mizuta like he was trying to size him up before placing it on top of the pile.
“Umm…Midousuji-kun?” Mizuta asked, noticing how much smaller it was than the others he’d picked up. “Isn't that one too small?”
Midousuji squinted his eyes and raised an eyebrow at him like he’d asked a particularly stupid question. “It’s buy two get one free, idiot.” He said flatly, pointing at the sale sign in the window. “The tiny one is yours.”
“Huh?” Mizuta could feel his cheeks heating up. “You don’t have to—”
“I only need two,” He interrupted him. “And you’re always wearing a t-shirt.”
Mizuta bit his lip—that much was true. “Well, the team jerseys haven't come in yet, so—”
“Wear this to practice from now on so you can’t use your clothes as an excuse for your shitty performance anymore.” Midousuji ordered, turning away from him like a boss dismissing an employee. “Useless tools can always be replaced.”
Mizuta didn't doubt him, either. He wasn't under any illusions that he was at all unique or special—he was probably the least remarkable member of the team, so he felt perhaps even more replaceable than the rest of them.
Unsurprisingly, Midousuji paid for the bounty of supplies with a check from the club’s meager yearly budget. Mizuta knew he probably should have said something, but at the same time it wasn't really his business. He’d been bought something with the money, after all—making him a complicit accomplice in the misappropriation of funds. Maybe that was why Midousuji did it in the first place…he really did think of every eventuality, didn't he? Mizuta couldn't help but be impressed.
They grabbed some food outside the station, taking a seat on one of the many benches that lined the tracks as they waited for the next train back to Fushimi. It was still a little cold for late April, and Mizuta felt himself shiver a bit as a chilly wind blew through down the narrow passageway.
“I’ve been thinking…” Midousuji began, pausing to take a large bite of his smoked eel. “You’re not good at anything, are you Mizuta-kun?”
He’d gone a record ten minutes without insulting him; Mizuta was almost impressed. “I dunno, I’m pretty okay at gym class.”
“I meant at cycling, stupid.” Midousuji clarified, reaching out to knock Mizuta’s drink cup onto the ground. The lid popped off and the soda seeped out on the pavement, lapping at the bottom of his pant leg. “Bad reaction time, too.”
Mizuta wanted to retaliate—he wanted to reach out and grab Midousuji’s food and throw it on the ground, stomp on it until it was too dirty for even a disgusting person like him to eat. He was sick of the younger boy’s treatment of the rest of the team, of Ishigaki, of how he stepped all over all of them without a thought. He’d had enough—he should have beat the crap out of Midousuji when he had the chance instead of stopping when Ishigaki held him back.
He grabbed Midousuji roughly by the collar of his shirt and pulled him close, fully ready to punch him in that smug face of his. His fist hovered only inches away, shaking with rage and anticipation of what he so desperately wanted to come next.
“Do it,” Midousuji taunted him, his grin a narrow mirthless slit that split his face in two. “You’ve always wanted to—just do it.”
Mizuta didn’t get it—he’d been in a lot of fights, but this was completely new. Somehow, being told to do it made him hesitate even more.
“Why?” He demanded, tired of all the mind games that the younger boy loved to play so much. “What the hell is your twisted plan this time?”
“Hit me.” He hissed, spitting in Mizuta’s face. “Let it all out. Beat me up. You’re not gonna wuss out now, are you?”
“What do you get out of it?” Mizuta could feel his whole body shaking in anger, an anger that had been building up to critical levels over the past couple weeks.
Midousuji let out a manic laugh. “Isn’t it obvious?” He asked him, eyes narrowed. “Your hate is a distraction—you don’t pull your weight in practice because you hate me, you don’t listen because you hate me. I’m honestly impressed with you, Mizuta-kun—you’re the only one with enough balls to be angry at me after all the shit I’ve dragged your pathetic group of failures through.”
“Who wouldn't hate you?” Mizuta yelled, his temper at a breaking point. “You're—you’re ruining everything! You treat us like garbage, you look at us like we’re less than nothing! The others won’t do anything about it—even Ishiyan looks the other way, but I can’t fucking stand it anymore!”
“Then do it.” Midousuji challenged, leering at him like a monster in the fading light. “Show me you’re not as pathetic as the rest of your spineless little friends.” He spat out the word friends like it was the vilest insult known to man.
His fist impacted square with Midousuji’s jaw, a good clean hit that sent the younger boy slumping against the back of the bench. Mizuta knew he should stop there—he’d proved his point, but he was still furious. All of the repressed anger of the past couple of weeks came rushing back to him, every single tolerated insult and grueling practice session popping to the forefront of his mind. Every single time Midousuji had made him feel like nothing more than the dirt underneath his feet, every time he’s made Ishigaki’s smile fade into a frown—he couldn't forgive that, and he found himself throwing the younger boy to the ground to drive home every feeling he’d subjected them to since he crashed into their lives.
The feelings of inadequacy and self-hatred overwhelmed him each time he slammed his foot into Midousuji’s body, the hurtful words he sent forth in the past spurring Mizuta on in the present. He wanted blood—he wanted him to feel every bit as bad as he’d made them all feel. This is what you deserve, his mind echoed as he jammed his foot straight into Midousuji’s face. This is for the others. This is for Ishigaki. He knew his senpai would never approve of this kind of violence, but he couldn't even care anymore. This was justice. The sound of the train rushing past muffled the taller boy’s gasps of pain.
He stood above him when it was all over, his sanity returning to him as he drew in each deep breath in succession. Midousuji lay below him, curled up in on himself and twitching like a bug in its death throes. With the blind rage subsided, Mizuta stared down at what he’d done and felt just the smallest bit of regret.
Midousuji pulled himself to his feet with a marked amount of difficulty, leaning against the stone bench for a moment before standing on his own. A dark halo had blossomed around his right eye, a bright red bloody circle at the corner of his lips. He opened his mouth and let a long string of bloody drool fall to the sidewalk, sticky and thick and crimson.
“You didn't hold back.” He praised, his voice noticeably labored but not lacking a single ounce of its usual pride. “That’s good.”
They boarded the next train without a word between them, the bright fluorescent light of the train car casting a clinical kind of scrutiny across Midousuji’s bruised face. As the minutes dragged on the bruises grew, new reds and grays and purples rising from under the skin like a white rag being pressed into a colorful array of paint. Mizuta stared down at the shopping bags clutched in his hands, at the little drops of blood that streaked the clean plastic. Midousuji’s blood. He would have to wash it off his tennis shoes before he went to school again on Monday.
“We’re even now.” Midousuji told him, some unknown minutes later as they rushed through the darkened countryside.
Mizuta blinked, the words pulling him from his own swirl of heavy thoughts. “What?”
“I trust you.” He said simply. “I need someone I can trust.”
Mizuta didn't understand. “I beat you up.” He reminded him, as if he’d somehow managed to forget that convenient and painful little fact.
“And you’re the only one.” Midousuji replied. “You’re not like the others—that’s valuable to me.”
“Why would I want to help you?” Mizuta challenged him, trying to probe his motives. “I still don’t like how you run things—nothing’s changed.”
“You’ll be my personal assistant.” Midousuji explained, and the sound of prestige in that title piqued Mizuta’s attention. “My number two. Above all the others.”
That had a nice ring to it, the promise of power more alluring than his better moral inclinations. He wasn't used to being thought of as special, as being someone useful. It was an almost intoxicating proposition…Midousuji needed him.
“If you cooperate with me, I’ll take you across the finish line by my side. You’ve seen the grand tour races on TV, right? When the winner stands on the podium and thanks their assistant for all their work…you understand what I’m saying, right?”
Mizuta did understand. He suddenly saw himself crossing the finish line in Paris, the flash of the cameras and the reporters clambering for an interview. He saw Midousuji up on the podium in the yellow jersey saying his name and the crowd cheering, the headlines in the newspaper singing his praises—Midousuji couldn't have done it without him.
“Do we have an understanding?” Midousuji asked, leaning over him like a great shadow consuming the horizon.
He hesitated, thinking of the overwhelming mess of events that had transpired over the course of the afternoon. He didn't like him any better than he had a few hours ago, but the allure of being relevant pulled at his darker inclinations. Being on top…even if it was on the second step of the pedestal, that was far above the dirt that he was standing on now. The promising shine of moving up the ladder called to him in such a way that he found it hard to shut out the thoughts of grandeur that were multiplying in his head.
“I’ll think about it…” He told him, doing his best not to appear too eager—he wasn't the only one who knew how to play his cards close to his chest.
The train plunged into the tunnel to the station and the car went dark, lit by nothing but the flickering lights embedded in the cement walls as the engine powered down. In the darkness something wet touched his lips, and his whole body shuddered. Skinny fingers pushed at the corners of his jaw and coaxed it open, allowing Midousuji to slip his obscenely long tongue inside. He tasted the blood from the fight, felt the open wounds as he explored his mouth so freely.
He let the younger boy have his way almost helplessly, so easily surrendering control of himself to a higher power. Midousuji tasted like carnage and steel, like a snarling beast trapped in a narrow cage. Mizuta was at the same time afraid and excited, and for a moment he swore he could practically taste the other boy’s vision of victory.
The lights came back on and it was over. He scarcely wondered if it had happened at all—he looked to Midousuji and back at himself, trying to decide if he’d really just imagined something so vividly intense. The exit bell sounded and the doors slid open, leaving him completely at a loss.
“Be at practice an hour early on Monday.” Midousuji said casually, grabbing his bag from Mizuta’s limp arms. “I want to go over some plans with you.”
“…Alright.” Mizuta nodded, still partially dumbstruck. He stared at the bright electronic screens that flashed advertisements on the station walls, the lights mesmerizing him in his lingering confusion.
Midousuji stopped a few steps away from him, turning his head back at an alarmingly sharp angle like something straight out of a horror film. “Consider it a blood pact.” He said with a grin, spinning around to wipe a drop of bloody saliva away from the corner of Mizuta’s mouth with his thumb.
Mizuta blinked at him, the confirmation that he hadn't simply hallucinated the whole ordeal making him feel both hot and cold at the same time.
“The look on your face right now—it’s so completely gross.” Midousuji giggled, licking the saliva off with his tongue. “You opened your mouth for it…you really are the worst.”
He disappeared into the evening crowd without another word, leaving Mizuta alone with his confusion and conflicted feelings. He wandered home in a trance, the shopping bag with his new jersey clutched in one hand like an ill-won prize. There was still blood on his shoes. He wondered if it tasted the same as the blood that lingered in his mouth.
He hoped so.
When he arrived at school a week later with braces, the rest of his teammates gathered around to stare at them before practice.
“Wow, about time you did something about those nasty teeth of yours.” Yamaguchi said as he inspected the new hardware.
“Yeah, seriously.” Ihara chimed in from behind him. “Only about five years too late though.”
Ishigaki let out a sigh and pushed them away, giving him one of those apologetic smiles of his. “Better late than never, right?”
Mizuta stared at them in disbelief, a small feeling of betrayal taking root inside him. They’d thought those things about him the whole time, hadn't they? Constantly staring at him and judging him, never saying a word about it. Midousuji had been right.
“You thought my teeth were nasty the whole time?” He demanded, looking to each of them like there had to be some kind of mistake.
“It’s nothing personal, man.” Yamaguchi assured him. “It was just kind of how you were, you know?”
“Good for you though.” Ishigaki praised, giving him a thumbs-up. “I think people will take you a lot more seriously now.”
Ihara let out a laugh. “Though now he looks kinda like Midousuji…creepy, right?”
Mizuta looked at them in a different light, the shadow of the ugly truth of Midousuji’s words tainting his once sunnier outlook. They’d never said anything before—they were supposed to be his friends, right? The fact he’d had to wait until someone he hardly knew pointed out…it only further proved the validity of the younger boy’s philosophy.
“That’s Midousuji-kun.” Mizuta snapped, turning his back on them as he saw the new object of his admiration approaching from behind the school. “Don’t forget again.”
Midousuji stopped when he approached the group, his eyes eventually falling on Mizuta and his new equipment.
“You’re less disgusting than before.” Midousuji told him, his version of extolling praise. “Good for you.” He said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Mizuta beamed up at him, glad to be acknowledged for his step forward at the other boy’s advice. “It’s because you mentioned it the other day, so I knew it’d be a good idea.”
“So, I take it we have an understanding then?” Midousuji asked, his eyes wide. It was almost beautiful the way he blocked out the sun.
“Of course.” Mizuta grinned, showing off all his hard work. “You can count on me.”
Midousuji’s smile parted his narrow face like a gleaming wall of white. “You’re mine now.”
Mizuta nodded his head excitedly—he had found his place. “All yours.”