Chapter Text
Takao starts his first round of chemotherapy within a week of diagnosis. It's a preparative regimen, but it's still fairly high-dosage, given thrice weekly, which he makes sure to complain unduly about.
“I don't know when you guys think I'm supposed to get work done,” he grumbles as Midorima injects the drugs into his IV. “No one told me cancer would be this inconvenient.”
“I'm certain we have pamphlets on the subject I could locate,” Midorima says dryly, adjusting the drip carefully. He doesn't mention the fact that Takao will soon have to stop working altogether, that he'll have to transfer to inpatient once he has the operation, if not before.
Takao shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and turns on his tablet. “Whatever,” he says. “At least I can catch up on my idol shows, since someone always refuses to watch them with me.”
“Your personal life sounds very trying,” Midorima says. He pushes some of Takao's hair back out of his face, a familiar gesture that makes something in his stomach turn over. “I'm glad you've found an upside to being here, at any rate.”
Takao raises his eyebrows. “Are we role-playing? Talk about upsides.”
There are other patients around, not to mention doctors, nurses, social workers, and it's hardly professional to indulge Takao, but Midorima's never really known how to resist. “Do you need anything else?” he asks in a low voice.
“You sound like a porn, I hope you realize that,” Takao says faintly. “Jesus. Quit coming onto me, Hot Doctor, I'll have you know I'm a happily married man.”
“Are you,” Midorima says, glancing down at the chart in his hands and trying not to smile. “What a shame.”
“But like I said, he won't even watch my idol shows with me, so what he doesn't know won't hurt him,” Takao smirks. “You free for lunch?”
Midorima looks at him in surprise. “You have an appetite?”
“Eh,” Takao shrugs. “I should probably eat, though. That tea you gave me did help with the nausea, thanks.” He wrinkles his nose. “That got unsexy.”
“This situation isn't exactly conducive to that sort of thing,” Midorima admits. “Though, I have to say, you're the first patient I've had brazenly hit on me while actively undergoing chemotherapy.”
“No way.” Takao narrows his eyes. “Wait, so patients have brazenly hit on you, just not when they're in this chair, am I hearing that right?”
“I only take my ring off for surgery,” Midorima mutters, embarrassed. “It's happened a few times. I handled it terribly, you would've been proud.”
“Unbelievable,” Takao says. “Look at you, you're bright red just talking about it. Men? Women?”
Midorima chooses to make an indistinct noise and move things right along. “You said your nausea has improved, how about the dry mouth?”
“It's not terrible,” Takao says. “I could use some water.”
“I'll fetch you some,” Midorima nods. “You seem to be tolerating the dosage well, so far. After this, you'll have the week off, and then we'll start the next round.”
“And that one's four times a week,” Takao sighs. “You said the dosage is higher?”
“Significantly,” Midorima says. It makes him ache to think of how sick Takao is going to be, no matter how well he's tolerating the preparative regimen.
“You think I'll have to take work off that week?”
“I wish you would,” Midorima says honestly. He can hardly fault Takao for wanting to keep working; the money isn't an issue, certainly, but he can't imagine that he himself would be any more amenable to the idea of handing his caseload over to another oncologist, no matter the circumstances.
“I'll see how it goes, I guess,” Takao says glumly. “Good thing we hired Nikaitani. At least I know I'm leaving my clients in good hands.”
“It's only temporary, Kazu,” Midorima reminds him.
Takao looks out the window. “You don't know that.”
I do, Midorima doesn't, cannot say. He's heard it from so many patients before, he's never argued. There's no certainty in medicine, he'd never give false hope to a patient. It tears at him, but it would be crueler to lie, and he never could make himself be cruel to Takao.
It's much easier, though, to be cruel to himself.
Takao will recover.
He has to.
“Tanaka will be back to review your progress at the start of next month,” Midorima says, clearing his throat. “I'll be keeping him updated in the meantime.”
Takao makes a face. “Guy's got kind of shitty bedside manner,” he says. “I'd rather have you, to be honest. Are you sure he's that good?”
Midorima can't admit to being overly impressed with Dr. Tanaka's social skills either; he'd thought the man's scientific enthusiasm would've been more reined in outside a conference setting, and it's been somewhat perturbing to find that's not the case. More than once he's had to remind Tanaka that Takao is his husband, not a research subject, nor a specimen for him to bring graduate students over to poke and prod at.
“He is that good,” he admits. “He's...very dedicated to his work. I know he's not all that personable, but he's done more research on this type of sarcoma than any other physician I know of.”
“Mm,” Takao says. “One of those types of specialists, I guess.”
“He's not married,” Midorima says. “No children. There's no reason, really, for him not to devote himself to his career.”
Takao looks up at him in surprise, and Midorima immediately regrets saying anything. He doesn't know why he's feeling the need to defend Tanaka when he is objectively no less sorry to see the back of him than Takao is, but. He can't help but see a shadow of himself in Tanaka, someone he might've become, had his life gone in a different direction.
“You know,” Takao says after a moment. “I was gonna say I feel sorry for him. But he seems happy enough, doesn't he?”
Midorima frowns. “If you're suggesting that I – ”
“No,” Takao shakes his head. “No, I don't think you would've been, Shintarou. That's what I'm suggesting.”
Takao is too perceptive, as always. And right. Tanaka does seem perfectly happy as he is, as fulfilled by his work as Midorima is by his family. He may represent something Midorima was always afraid he'd become, but they don't actually have that much in common at all.
“Takes all kinds,” Takao says, offering him a lopsided smile. “I'm just glad you're the kind I get to see every day, and not him.”
“I've been told my bedside manner has improved,” Midorima admits. “Though it's far from polished.”
“Eh,” Takao waves a hand, carelessly. “Tsundere charm points make for excellent bedside manner, you ask me. Not your fault some people have bad taste.”
“That's one way of putting it, I suppose,” Midorima says. He looks at his watch. “I'd prefer to stay here with you, but I should probably go and check on my other patients.”
“Yeah, right. I bet you say that to all the girls,” Takao grins. “Go on, break hearts, save lives. I've got my game show all loaded here, I'm good.”
“Page me if you need anything,” Midorima replies, feeling his face heat up. He should really be used to Takao by now, he thinks as he adjusts his glasses. There are times when he thinks he finally has a handle on their relationship, that he's experienced the full extent of every feeling Takao is capable of inspiring in him, but all it takes is one word, one look, and he's sixteen again. It's a phenomenon he'd feel compelled to submit a study for, if it wasn't so precious to him.
It's another reason that he cannot, under any circumstances, lose Takao.
*
“Is Dad eating with us?” Naoko asks, in the middle of serving herself a heaping portion of rice.
Midorima shakes his head. “Your father started his second round of chemotherapy today,” he tells her. “He's resting.”
Naoko stares at her plate. “Is it that bad?”
“It's a great deal of stress to be putting on his body,” Midorima says, uncertain how much he should tell her, how much she'll understand. “The cancer is still affecting him, and the chemotherapy and radiation therapy kills it, but it also kills his healthy cells. It's going to make him very sick.”
“Healthy cells,” Naoko says, slowly. “Like hair, right? That's what makes people's hair fall out when they have cancer.”
“That's correct,” Midorima nods. “The cancer treatment is what causes hair loss, most of the time.”
She says, “But he needs it.”
“His hair will grow back,” Midorima says.
“If he doesn't get the chemotherapy, he'll die.”
“Naoko,” Midorima says severely. “Your father is not going to die. Don't say such things.”
She doesn't say another word throughout the rest of dinner, and Midorima gets a strong feeling he may have made a misstep. Normally, he'd ask Takao – normally, he wouldn't have to, because Takao would be there to mediate, to point him in the right direction – but Takao is asleep, and Midorima can't bear to wake him. It'd been harder than he'd imagined, watching the full dosage of the treatment take effect, watching Takao slowly hunch over in the high-backed hospital chair, the color draining out of his face, chills and sweats wracking his body in the aftermath.
After cleaning up the kitchen, at a loss of what to do with himself, he knocks outside her room.
“May I come in?”
She slides open the door and looks up at him, solemn-faced. Midorima's heart thuds in his chest as he remembers another time, with another door sliding open to a room lined with bunk beds, a small round face and dark, serious eyes that regarded him curiously, that gaze up at him now with the same veiled apprehension. He wants to reach out to her now as much as he did then, and for a moment, he forgets that any time has passed at all, and freezes.
Naoko frowns. “Papa? What's wrong?”
It's like a bell ringing in his head, crystal clear. The first time she'd said it: Papa, I dropped my owl. They'd been on the train, there was no retrieving the forsaken stuffed animal, and Midorima'd been so shocked and pleased that he'd bought her a new one straight away, and forgotten to scold her at all.
That's all right, Takao'd laughed, when he learned how easily Midorima had been manipulated. You're a dad now, Shintarou. You're supposed to spoil her a little.
He hadn't felt like a father, seeing her for the first time in that oversized dress with her thumb in her mouth. It hadn't hit him even when the paperwork finally went through, even when he strapped her into the carseat for the first time. Midorima isn't sure when the change took place, it's not like the other roles in his life, there's no ring or exchanging of vows, no graduation ceremony, no training to complete or approval from a Board of Directors. But at some point during the past eight years, he did become a father. Perhaps even a good one.
“I'm sorry I was harsh with you at dinner,” he says. “Please forgive me. What you said, it – it frightened me, and I reacted badly.”
Naoko accepts with a small bow, and crosses her arms across her chest. “I don't want Dad to be sick,” she says quietly. “When can you take the tumor out?”
“I don’t want him to be sick either,” Midorima says. “We'll take it out soon. Right now it's too big, so we have to see how it responds to the treatment.”
She makes eye contact with him again, piercing, trapping him where he stands easily, more like Takao than he would've believed possible. “You'll fix him,” she says. It's not a question. “Promise.”
It's another request he's heard before, countless times, as a plea, as a threat, as a command. As a doctor, Midorima can't make promises, can't offer guarantees.
As a father, as a husband, he has no choice.
“I promise,” he says fiercely. “We're all going to be fine.”
He still wants to reach out to her, so he does, and she throws her arms around him and allows him to stroke her hair. Takao showed him that, too, on the very first night they'd brought her home, after she'd wet the bed and woken up crying out of fear and distress. It sends a chill through him that he does it now without any prompting, that parenting instincts have taken over where there was once only Takao, patient and reassuring. He doesn't want to be able to do this without Takao.
“It's cold in here,” he says. “Why don't you bring your schoolwork into the living room, and I'll make us some hot drinks.”
Takao wakes up and joins them with his own stack of paperwork, eventually. It's the quietest weeknight they've ever spent like this. Midorima's never been more unproductive.
“I'm gonna go into work tomorrow,” Takao says when they get into bed. “Just a half day. I think I can swing it.”
“Don't push yourself,” Midorima says, knowing it's somewhat useless. “Naoko's worried about you, you know.”
He doesn't say, I'm worried about you, but he knows Takao hears it.
“Naoko believes in her Papa,” Takao says, snuggling into his side. “And so do I.”
He's not talking about the cancer, though, and Midorima knows it.
I can take care of her on my own, he thinks. Don't make me.
Don't leave me.
Promise.
*
When he comes home from work the following day, Takao is throwing up in the bathroom. The bed is turned down and there are papers laid out on the covers and the nightstand, the screen of his work tablet is illuminated with an unfinished message to Momoi at her work address, signified by the law firm's logo emblazoned in the header of the message. There's only half a sentence written, and Midorima doesn't want to snoop and look at the previous messages, so instead he examines the papers.
They're all from the legal files that they keep in the bottom drawer in the office; Takao's business license, their tax returns, the deed for their rental property in Kobe. Life insurance policies, Naoko's adoption papers, and – Midorima's stomach drops – Takao's will.
“I needed to update it,” Takao says from the doorway. His voice is a thin rasp. “Sorry. I was gonna tell you.”
Midorima swallows. “Presumptuous, don't you think?”
Takao manages a dull laugh. “That's what I said when you wanted me to draw one up in the first place. Never did look at the thing.” He shakes his head. “We didn't have the Kobe house in there. And my net worth's gone up a lot, and we have that trust from my grandparents. Momoi's going to update everything, I just have to get her all the information.”
Momoi had been their lawyer throughout the adoption process as well, they'd drawn up the wills and taken out life insurance policies at her suggestion. At the time, Midorima had thought it made good sense, that it was all part of providing for a child, the mark of responsibility. Now, reading it, he wants to rip the document up, as if destroying it will eliminate the possibility of it ever being necessary.
“If there's anything you want changed, you should tell me,” Takao says. “We've still got it so that she'd go to my parents – if anything happened to both of us – then Kanako, then Hisako and Wataru. Then Kuroko. Then your parents.”
It's all precautions, nothing more. It doesn't mean anything, Midorima tells himself, it's not an omen or a jinx to put it on paper.
“Why did you need Naoko's adoption papers?” he asks, finding his voice.
“Ah.” Takao looks a little green again. “Momoi's going over them again, I was just doing my own read-through. Making absolutely certain her placement won't be jeopardized if – if something happens to me. The agency was really shitty about single parents, you remember.”
“I remember,” Midorima says. “And about same-sex parents, I suppose it wouldn't be terribly surprising if there was...some sort of stipulation, in the fine print.” His words are unsteady, the thought of losing Takao is bad enough, to lose Naoko –
“Hey,” Takao says. “I'm not making funeral arrangements, okay? This is just in case, this is worst case scenario. We probably should've updated all this stuff anyways, it's been eight years now.”
“I,” Midorima pauses, waits for the edge of panic to subside. Takao is patient, as always, soft and expectant even as sick as he is, slumped in the bathroom doorway and gazing at Midorima in that way he has, like he sees everything. Past, present, future, every incarnation of uncertainty Midorima has shaped himself into, prepared himself for. There was a time when it irritated Midorima to no end, when he thought himself advancing and Takao dawdling, settling for less than the top.
There was a time when Midorima realized – Takao was progressing, Takao was fluid, Takao believed in change, it was Midorima who was stagnant, trapped. And it was Takao who pulled him forward.
He says, “You're right, I should update mine as well. It was an oversight to put it off for this long.”
“We can do it together,” Takao says. “Like the boring old couple we were always meant to be.”
We're not old, Midorima wants to say. This wasn't supposed to happen to us. Not yet.
“Yeah,” Takao shrugs. “I don't know. I hate paperwork, even when I'm getting paid to do it. This sucks.”
“Yes,” Midorima says, his eyes falling back to the will in his hands. “Yes, it does.”
Takao retches. “Fuck,” he mutters, rushing back into the bathroom.
Midorima makes to follow him, but the door slides shut, and he falters. Takao almost never shuts their bathroom door, not even when he's relieving himself, which Midorima has somehow learned to endure. Midorima likes privacy sometimes, and they have an unofficial policy of letting the other be if the door is closed, but – it feels wrong, letting Takao be alone right now.
He feels uncertain, a familiar loss of footing that is no less frightening than it used to be. He wants to act, he wants to do a hundred things, rush to Takao's side, crush the updated will into a ball in his hands, cry, scream, take Takao to bed and hold him there closely until the cancer is forced out of him by the sheer, unbreakable force of Midorima's willpower.
He looks at the will again, and sets it down.
Naoko will be home from soccer soon.
She walks home now, with her friend Kawahara Akiko. Takao used to pick her up after practice, and Midorima would meet them at home. Midorima isn't sure what exactly precipitated the change. He supposes it's only natural that she be afforded more independence around this time; her last year of primary school. Akiko comes home with her at least once a week, and sometimes with others as well – they do homework, watch television. Takao demonstrates the height of his cooking ability by heating up horrifying Western-style frozen snacks in the oven. It's not much of a routine, admittedly, but it's theirs.
It's an interesting dichotomy, being a parent. Midorima's always made it his business to strive for certainty, for stability, its a near-constant state of vigilant dissatisfaction, and it's what makes him such a effective physician. Being a parent is quite unlike being a physician, the only certainty he's found in fatherhood is that it's hopelessly unstable, his role is forever changing, shrinking, expanding, it's terrifying in so many ways, and it's the most exhilarating and satisfying thing he's ever done.
He remembers filing these adoption papers, signing them, and thinking he knew what he was getting into. Moving, setting up Naoko's room, installing the carseat, that ridiculous shower Kise insisted on throwing them. Reading the books, attending the seminars with Takao, so many long evenings and late nights that they'd talked it over, how they were going to manage. Raising a child amidst shifting cultural paradigms had been an intimidating prospect, but it hadn't taken long for Midorima to realize he didn't want to follow in the footsteps of his parents all that much anyways.
If it weren't for Takao, Midorima knows, he might not be a father at all.
“Do you remember?” he says to the stillness of the room. Takao can't hear him, but Midorima knows what his response would be anyways. Takao may not always be one for nostalgia, but he remembers everything, because everything is continuous to him.
Do you remember, Midorima would say, how young we used to be?
And Takao would smile and say, We're still young.
Do you remember, Midorima would ask, how foolish we were?
Takao would laugh at him. He'd say, We're still fools, Shintarou.
I know, Midorima thinks. I know it's foolish. I don't care.
They'll beat this. Naoko will not lose another father, not like this. Midorima won't let it happen.