Kinjou Shingo/Makishima Yuusuke (Yowamushi Pedal) Tags: implied body horror, based on this folk tale Word Count: 482
Kinjou ran a hand over the crisp, green ribbon around Makishima’s neck. For as long as Kinjou had known Makishima, he’d never seen Makishima without it wrapped tightly around his neck. Kinjou had asked him about it, but Makishima had always been cagey when the subject came up, deflecting and changing the subject to something else.
Kinjou’s father had always told him that there was no mystery that a significantly large enough dataset couldn’t solve, so Kinjou had done what seemed to be the most logical thing: He began collecting all the data he could.
Currently, Makishima was asleep. He wore the ribbon to bed, and still had it on when he woke up. As far as Kinjou could tell, he even wore it when he showered; Kinjou had once seen him coming out of the bathroom after a long, steamy shower, wearing nothing but a towel and the ribbon.
Kinjou brushed his fingertips over the ribbon. It was soft, like a well-worn favorite shirt, but Kinjou couldn’t quite identify the fabric; the way it felt and the way it looked seemed at odds with one another somehow. When he pressed his fingers against it, he could almost feel a dip running under it, like some long trench circling Makishima’s neck. He couldn’t be sure if it was part of the topography of Makishima’s neck, or if it was something about the ribbon itself that made it feel that way.
He wondered briefly if it was some kind of scar that Makishima was self-conscious about. That thought alone gave him pause. The truth was, Kinjou knew there was only one way to answer his questions.
He stared at the knotted bow, tied neatly to one side of Makishima’s neck. It would be so easy to just reach out, and…
Whenever Kinjou managed to corner Makishima, make him give an answer, Makishima proved to be the master of deflection. “Ask me tomorrow/next week/next year.” Makishima always had another arbitrary date that would come and go with no answer in sight.
Kinjou couldn’t wait for later anymore.
He looked at Makishima’s face — peaceful when pulled deeply into sleep — and silently apologized.
He tugged the bow, unravelling it.
Kinjou stared out into the grey light of the morning. The sun was slowly rising behind a haze of clouds, and everything felt a bit muted, stagnant. Kinjou sat out on the stoop and stared at nothing while time seemed to drag, then freeze altogether.
He was vaguely aware of a form looming behind him, not balanced as it should be; Makishima was bare above the shoulders now, a void where there shouldn’t’ve been one.
“I told you,” Makishima said, his voice not coming from the vantage point it should, instead swinging lower in his hands. “You weren’t ready to know.”
Kinjou cursed his father’s advice. Some data was best left uncollected.
FILL: TEAM MIYUKI KAZUYA/MIYUKI KAZUYA, T
Tags: implied body horror, based on this folk tale
Word Count: 482
Kinjou ran a hand over the crisp, green ribbon around Makishima’s neck. For as long as Kinjou had known Makishima, he’d never seen Makishima without it wrapped tightly around his neck. Kinjou had asked him about it, but Makishima had always been cagey when the subject came up, deflecting and changing the subject to something else.
Kinjou’s father had always told him that there was no mystery that a significantly large enough dataset couldn’t solve, so Kinjou had done what seemed to be the most logical thing: He began collecting all the data he could.
Currently, Makishima was asleep. He wore the ribbon to bed, and still had it on when he woke up. As far as Kinjou could tell, he even wore it when he showered; Kinjou had once seen him coming out of the bathroom after a long, steamy shower, wearing nothing but a towel and the ribbon.
Kinjou brushed his fingertips over the ribbon. It was soft, like a well-worn favorite shirt, but Kinjou couldn’t quite identify the fabric; the way it felt and the way it looked seemed at odds with one another somehow. When he pressed his fingers against it, he could almost feel a dip running under it, like some long trench circling Makishima’s neck. He couldn’t be sure if it was part of the topography of Makishima’s neck, or if it was something about the ribbon itself that made it feel that way.
He wondered briefly if it was some kind of scar that Makishima was self-conscious about. That thought alone gave him pause. The truth was, Kinjou knew there was only one way to answer his questions.
He stared at the knotted bow, tied neatly to one side of Makishima’s neck. It would be so easy to just reach out, and…
Whenever Kinjou managed to corner Makishima, make him give an answer, Makishima proved to be the master of deflection. “Ask me tomorrow/next week/next year.” Makishima always had another arbitrary date that would come and go with no answer in sight.
Kinjou couldn’t wait for later anymore.
He looked at Makishima’s face — peaceful when pulled deeply into sleep — and silently apologized.
He tugged the bow, unravelling it.
Kinjou stared out into the grey light of the morning. The sun was slowly rising behind a haze of clouds, and everything felt a bit muted, stagnant. Kinjou sat out on the stoop and stared at nothing while time seemed to drag, then freeze altogether.
He was vaguely aware of a form looming behind him, not balanced as it should be; Makishima was bare above the shoulders now, a void where there shouldn’t’ve been one.
“I told you,” Makishima said, his voice not coming from the vantage point it should, instead swinging lower in his hands. “You weren’t ready to know.”
Kinjou cursed his father’s advice. Some data was best left uncollected.