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Kyoto Fushimi's interhigh ends with Mizuta heaving himself across the finish line thirty seven minutes after Onoda takes the summit. Tsuji and Yamaguchi are there to collect him before he collapses, lifting him up by his shoulders and supporting him around the waist. His bicycle clatters to the ground, but Mizuta is too spent to care.
"How did – how did Ishiyan do?" he pants, lifting his head to look at Tsuji. "And Midousuji-kun?"
Tsuji and Yamaguchi exchange a look over the top of his head, and Yamaguchi bites his lip. "Ishigaki-senpai... He and Midousuji-kun..."
"Don't worry about that, Mizuta. You did well, it's time to rest," Tsuji interrupts.
Mizuta grabs Tsuji's shoulder with all the strength he can muster. "Tsuji-senpai - how did we do? We're on the podium, right?" Mizuta's grip tightens. "Tell me," he says, voice rising desperately. "We finished well – Midousuji won like he said he would, right?"
Tsuji doesn't look at him, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "He didn't, Mizuta. They didn't finish. You're the only one who did."
Mizuta wilts between them, knees sagging to the ground.
*
It's dark when Ishigaki wakes up in the sick bay, hours later. He finds Ihara sitting by his bedside, and manages a tired smile.
"You're awake! How are you feeling?"
"How long was I out?" He's looking around for a clock when he spots a brown head of hair under the covers on the next bed. "Is that Mizuta?" Ishigaki tries to sit up until a sharp ache in his side reminds him why that isn't the best idea. "Why is he here? Is he alright?"
"He'll be fine, it’s exhaustion. They're letting him stay here rather than making him travel back to the hotel for the night."
"But there was someone crying just now - it was him, wasn't it?"
"It's nothing. He's a bit disappointed, that's all. You should be taking care of yourself, you should have seen yourself when the medics first picked you up."
Ihara continues talking, but Ishigaki finds his attention drifting as he leans back into the mattress and closes his eyes. Mizuta is disappointed – of course. And it's all his fault. Ishigaki Koutarou: the captain who couldn't lead his team to victory, the assist who couldn't bring his ace to the finish.
"Ishiyan. Are you listening to me?"
His name and a firm grip around his shoulders makes Ishigaki open his eyes.
"Ihara?"
"Stop blaming yourself. You're so transparent, we can all see it-" Ihara says, voice choking mid-sentence.
"Ihara – don't cry, Ihara–"
"Speak for yourself, you're the one who started it."
Ishigaki laughs, genuine this time, with tears welling at the corners of his eyes even as the effort makes his throat burn and his ribs ache. "I need to speak to everyone, as captain. I need to let them know that it's my responsibility. I'm the one who couldn't–"
"Are you blaming yourself? Don't be ridiculous." Ihara still looks overwhelmingly concerned, but a frown is starting to tug on the corners of his lips. "What kind of ace pushes his assist that hard anyway? We know all of the phases he planned, there was nothing about making you pull him up that mountain. The doctors were all so worried when they saw you."
Ishigaki closes his eyes again. He doesn't interrupt Ihara to correct him, that he'd been the one who wanted to go on that final climb. He doesn't stop Ihara to explain that the bare minimum for any assist is a willingness to give everything - everything and more - in order to make sure their ace finishes well. Ihara wouldn't understand.
There are limits Ihara is familiar with, practical and rational limitations to what he believes his body can achieve. Ihara can pedal up to that point, and stop there knowing he's already pushed himself to his limit.
But with Midousuji, Ishigaki had seen how a person can go up what seemed like an immovable wall, and just push - or in Midousuji's case hack away at it with the equivalent of a jackhammer – until he forces his way through. Eventually, of course, even that iron will would fail, but Ishigaki knows that faced with a vertical cliff Midousuji would still try to claw his way up until his body fell apart.
This was the least Ishigaki could do.
*
The team takes a rented bus all the way back to Kyoto. Midousuji is in a corner at the back with his eyes closed and body turned away, very pointedly not listening to Ishigaki speaking from where he’s seated upfront.
Someone – Ihara? – knocks him on the shoulder to pay attention.
“Don’t touch me, zaku,” Midousuji hisses, and not just because of the ache that flares down his back from the touch. But he's oddly irritated when Ishigaki simply waves Ihara off.
"It’s alright. Let him rest."
Midousuji stops his mouth from curling. He hadn't expected the zaku to just leave him alone, even though there was no way he was going to listen to another of Ishigaki's useless speeches about the value of perseverance. Ishigaki could go endure all he wanted every day of his life, until he ground himself to pieces and he would still amount to nothing, he would still never even come close to winning anything.
When Midousuji opens his eyes again the bus is coasting past flat cropland, stretching out on either side of the road. There are farmhouses every few hundred meters, standing alone in the middle of the crops planted in neat rows all around them. Ishigaki is still talking. It bothers him, that someone had spent their life planting all these things, these never ending lines of golden rice and corn and wheat; their roots growing deeper every season, making it harder and harder to pull free -
Suddenly there is silence. Ishigaki is gesturing towards him, with that shine in his eyes Midousuji cannot stand.
Midousuji doesn't look at him. He shuts his eyes and pretends to sleep, not moving even when he hears a scattering of muffled applause ring throughout the vehicle.
It’s a five hour journey to Kyoto by bus, Midousuji remembers. He’d rather have cycled back alone.