“Inflexible?” Coming from someone like Akira, that might be a valid statement. To make comparison, the new ace was very much like a bag of squishy raw meat with a thick sausage casting and limb. It wouldn’t be very shocking if he replaced his spine with a plastic slinky. By the looks of it, this pale ghoulish boy wanted to joined him, which wasn’t exactly unwelcome. Ishigaki’s brow screwed together in a knot; he cringed at the sounds coming from Midousuji’s bones.
He kept his eye on his underclassman and attempted to imitate him. His thigh muscles tugged the underside of his kneecaps.
“Is that better?”
"Pffft!" Seeing his upperclassman’s performance, Midousuji clicked his tongue in disapproval. Bringing his head to his kneecaps, he gripped his feet easily, turning to meet Ishigaki with a wide, foreboding grin stretched much too far over his face.
There were plenty of nice ways to respond to Ishigaki’s question. Midousuji would choose none of them.
"You’re too funny, Ishigaki-kun. Is that as far as you can go?" It was farther than he was able to get Mizuta to go, admittedly— but he didn’t need to know that. Clearly, from Akira’s perspective, Kyoto Fushimi had a long way to go in terms of flexibility.
"If you go into a race with hamstrings that tight, they’ll s-n-a-p!"
