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They meet on a warm Friday in September.
He moves into Midorima’s huge apartment, with French doors and a shiny black piano, after an advertisement in the student paper. Pre-med student looking for another student to live with. Must be male, no exceptions. No pets allowed. He’d seen Midorima in his Biology 107 class and found him amusing.
Now, he feels out of place, with his rugged boxes of books and few sports bags with clothes. Especially when Midorima hovers on the doorstep of his room.
“Yo, is there a problem?” he asks, up to his elbows in Norse mythology. Midorima looks away like he’s been caught doing something shameful. Takao waits.
“What is your sign?”
Takao kicks himself for answering the advertisement. God, why does he always get the weirdos?
“Scorpio,” he says. “Why do you ask?”
Midorima pushes his glasses further up his nose. His fingers are long, pale and his left hand is covered in sports tape. Takao wonders how he got an injury. Maybe he squeezed a chess piece too hard or something. He seems like the right kind of pompous smartass.
“Compatibility,” Midorima says and walks away. Takao spends the rest of the day unpacking and wondering why the fuck he ended up with an astrology nerd as a roommate, of all things.
The next morning, Midorima is sipping tea and watches a woman chirp about horoscopes on the TV. Takao pours cereal in a bowl and goes to sit next to him.
They watch the pretty lady on the screen announce some sort of ranking system. Takao swears he sees Midorima’s eyes twitch when Cancer isn’t announced for a while. Rank 10. Lucky item; spork. Lucky colour; green.
Midorima stands up, ruffles through the drawers in the kitchen and comes back with a green spork. Takao chews on his cereal. Watches him slide it in his pocket, pat it exactly seven times (which doesn’t look like it was a spontaneous move) and nod. Satisfied.
Midorima seems calmer, somehow. From that day on, Takao makes sure to check out the Oha Asa ratings, every morning.
***
Eleven months later
So Takao might've known he shouldn’t have accepted the invitation Kise threw at him. No sane person wants to be at the same party as Kise Ryouta. Yet here they are. Well, at least there’s a lot of booze. Everything for his favourite senpai.
Shin-chan is glaring at him from where he’s trapped in a conversation with their host. Takao grins and swaggers over to Kasamatsu, who’s sulking in front of the drinks.
“So, senpai, nice birthday party or not?”
Kasamatsu chokes on his beer and flushes to the tip of his ears. From the corner of his eyes, Takao sees Shin-chan getting more and more worked up by Kise. He’ll have to interfere soon.
“Uh-” Kasamatsu starts.
Takao throws him a smirk, a peace sign and then goes to protect Kise from what looks like a murder-suicide waiting to happen. He slings an arm over Shin’s shoulder and smiles at green eyes looking down at him.
“Having fun, Shin-chan?”
Midorima’s eyes smile back, but his lips are a straight line and he scowls. “Can we go home?”
Takao looks around for their entourage. "After we've said goodbye."
Miyaji is talking to a tall guy with a sleek fringe. Otsubo has an arm wrapped around his waist and is writing down formulae on a piece of paper. Another tall boy, with brown hair, points out something and steals the pen from his hand. Takao snorts. Otsubo is such a nerd. He locks a hand around Shin-chan’s elbow and drags him towards their seniors.
“Takao, Midorima.” Otsubo nods and puts his hand in his pocket. “Caramel?”
By now it’s almost instinct to take it. Takao chews on the candy and listens to Miyaji and the guy -who appears to be Moriyama, judging by the “you don’t know shit, Moriyama, Plato was an asshole”- argue about philosophy. Otsubo’s arm tightens around him when he gets too worked up.
A few couples run through Takao’s head, Jane Eyre and Rochester, Will and Elizabeth. One calm and the other short-fused. They remind him of a line in a Steinbeck, something about how nothing good gets away.
Wow, he must have been drinking more than he thought.
He looks at Midorima, who has joined in on the discussion on physics and thinks. Midorima shakes his head next to him and looks like he's preparing to preach something about Einstein and Hawking or whatever. Takao decides to act. He can almost spot the growing vein pounding in Otsubo’s forehead.
“Well, that was fun, but Shin-chan and I have to be on our way,” he says and almost falls over.
A hand steadies him, green eyes fond where they’re locked on his face. Takao wants to slide a hand over the sharp line of that sharp jaw. Wants to stroke a wondering finger over pale cheekbones and maybe, maybe he wants to kiss Shin-chan’s lashes. Huh.
Midorima drives them home, Debussy in the background. The same composer that once said music is the silence between the notes. Takao looks up at Midorima’s profile, illuminated by the orange lights of the streets and thinks he might understand what he means.
It always surprised him that Midorima was a fan of such an unruly composer as Debussy, an Impressionist who twisted keys and laid out pages upon pages of glittering passages. Webs of figurations, notes upon notes upon notes without much regularity and efficiency.
Shin told him that he’d played enough Mozart and Beethoven for the rest of his life. Also, in Debussy, there was a mathematical structure that relaxed him. Something about a golden ratio and the Fibonacci sequence. He only plays the classics when he’s upset or stressed. Takao watches the hands on the steering wheel and visualizes them on that black piano. The last time he’d played one of those composers, he had a nightmare about Teiko.
That was nearly a year ago.
You can cut out all the flowers, but you can’t stop spring from coming, Takao thinks, a smile playing around his lips. God, he’s drunk.
They pull up in front of their building and Takao stumbles out of the car. Midorima’s hand is on his lower back like it belongs there. When they step in the elevator Takao turns around. Looks at him.
They step inside their apartment. He plucks the hand off his back and holds it between his own. “Shin-chan’s hands are so pretty,” he mumbles and presses the hand to his face. Midorima chokes. “Takao!”
He’s being ridiculous. Takao cuddles him after nightmares. What’s a bit of aesthetic appreciation between friends? “They move fast,” he says and peeks from under pale fingers. Shin stares down at him, all quiet wonder, and a feeling wells up inside Takao.
He removes his face from Shin-chan’s hand and hangs the arm back. “I’m going to bed,” he announces.
Midorima hums an agreement and goes to sit behind the piano. Takao watches him for a bit. The way he stretches his fingers and opens the book of Debussy sheet music Takao bought him for his birthday. The way his shoulders are loose, a calm line aimed vaguely downwards and the way his body looks, clad in a dark button-up and light blue slacks.
He showers and brushes his teeth to Debussy, but then the piece changes, something with more notes and more steps. He sticks his head around the door.
“Who’s that?”
Midorima looks up. “What?”
“Who are you playing?” Takao asks, yawning. Midorima smiles. It’s a small, private smile, aimed at the piano keys beneath his fingers. “Chopin,” he says.
“How romantic,” Takao grins and doesn’t tell him how glad he is it isn’t another of those straight-lined Beethoven pieces. When he gets into bed, Midorima has switched back to Debussy.
His dreams are filled with rippling waters and pale fingers tangled with his own.
***
There’s been someone walking around Kick lately. Takao is there often enough to notice he’s only there when the former Teiko students gather.
He shares a look with Izuki when he spots him again. Kiyoshi gets up in the middle of their conversation about placebos in fiction.
“I’ll be right back,” he says and leaves with his black apron still tied around his waist. They all watch him duck into an alley.
“Well, that’s not weird at all,” Takao says and Izuki snorts.
Five minutes later Kiyoshi pushes a huge guy into the café. He has dark blue hair and his skin is the same colour as the caramels Otsubo keeps pressing into their hands. He’s also scowling magnificently.
Behind him, three people lose their breath at the same time.
“Aomine?” Shin-chan is the first one to find his words, no surprise there, but the tone of his voice shocks Takao. It’s rough and almost vulnerable, there in the sun-lit coffee shop in August.
He’s reminded of cool hands on his face, strong fingers wrapped around his jaw. His own mind buzzing with mixer drinks and how beautiful Midorima was. Now they’re here and all three Teiko alumni look like the ground broke open before them.
The big guy, Aomine, rubs a hand over his nape in a nervous gesture that reminds Takao of Kagami.
“Hey guys,” he says and Kuroko pushes his chair back. He's the first. The rest of them watch the three boys leave the room in silence.
Takao watches Aomine’s face crumple like a balled-up paper. He pushes against Kiyoshi’s arm. “
I told you it wouldn’t work, idiot,” he mumbles and Takao feels sorry for him. Pities him to such an extent it even surprises himself.
“What happened between you?” he asks and Aomine turns around to look at him, shock evident in his eyes. “I’m Shin-chan’s roommate,” he clarifies.
Aomine gapes. “Shin-chan? You mean Midorima?”
Takao snickers a little bit at his face. “Yes.”
Aomine’s face darkens. “Look like he found himself new friends pretty fast." Takao nods.
“They all did?” Aomine asks and Kiyoshi puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t do this to yourself. C’mon, let’s go.”
Kiyoshi drags Aomine out of the café. All in all, he stayed for what, ten minutes? Takao shakes his head and leaves in search of a certain green-haired giant.
He finds all three of them at Maji Burger, sipping milkshakes. It looks like it used to be a habit, the three boys fitting next to each other, straws in their mouths so no-one has to talk. He smiles. It’s a good thing they made up, those months ago. But he’s not an idiot. Even though he doesn’t know their history, he can spot the cracks in their fragile companionship. He can see where the appearance of Aomine broke the silent balance they had established.
He looks at Shin-chan’s twitching fingers around the white Styrofoam cup.
Tonight will be a Beethoven night.
He wakes to Shin-chan banging seven fingers on the keys at the same time. The notes are dark and Takao almost falls out of bed with how fast he scrambles to the living room. He leans against the doorpost and watches the notes get lighter, only to be joined (evened out? Takao doesn’t want to ask) by heavier notes that wrangle in a spiral upwards. The tone of the piece is so painful, heartbreak and loneliness and pale fingers that soar over the keys. Midorima switches pieces and this is something Takao knows, the dancing tones of Beethoven’s fifth symphony. Shin-chan plays it with such a closed-off expression on his face that he can’t appreciate the music.
Those nimble hands press the keys, flicker over the piano and for a moment Takao doubts whether they’re real or not. There’s desperation from the way Shin-chan’s shoulders are set in a hard line and the way he flicks his wrists. The piece is complicated, lots of short notes that teleport between fingers, but it’s excellent for hitting out frustrations. Midorima bangs his fingers on the keys with force, that has to hurt, but then the piece dies out to some soft solo notes. Takao wants to be relieved, but the madness hasn’t stopped. The short, dark notes come out and melt together until you hear the sound of pain and practices forced by strict parents.
The lighter notes start to get a desperate undertone like they’re stuck inside a fairy circle, doomed to dance until their feet fall off. The piano vibrates with how hard Shin-chan is gripping it. Finally, the music stops and Midorima looks up to him with tears in his eyes. He swallows and cracks his fingers.
The next piece is terrible, sorrowful, gorgeous. The notes are long and aching, speaking of nights curled up under covers. About crumbling under pressure. They speak of hours and hours of grinding natural talent into unfazing skill. The music is longing and he can see warm tears dripping on the keys. Midorima’s fingers squeak around and it gives the music another skin-crawling undertone. Notes descend into darker territory, into the shadowy corners of Shin-chan’s mind-and then it stops.
Midorima stares down at his hands.
Takao walks up to the piano and places his hands on broad shoulders. Shin makes a sound at that and his fingers twitch. Takao slides an arm under his armpits and hoists him up. They walk to their small kitchen, the apartment calm and dark in the warm summer night.
Takao starts humming the Grease song, hopes the upbeat melody will cheer Midorima up a little bit. He turns on the tap and gently moves those big hands under the spray. There’s a small sound somewhere above him, a pained sigh floating around and Takao grimaces. He ducks in the cabinet and rummages around until he finds the bar of rosemary soap his sister gave him as a housewarming present.
He folds Shin-chan’s hands around it, parks him at the kitchen table and goes to make tea. Small ah’s fill the silence, overworked muscles slowly relaxing. Takao chooses a lemon balm tea and adds a few drops of valerian root. Shin-chan is very anxious right now.
In a flash he sees the Midorima of almost a year ago, cleaning the spotless kitchen with sharp, jerky movements. For a moment he feels a hatred for that fucking high school so all-consuming it shocks even himself. How dare Teiko ruin a such an efficient, competent, kind person.
(He says kind because he’s seen Shin-chan with his little sister. Has seen him taking screenshots of beautiful pictures for Kise. Knows he mails Kuroko studies on child psychology. Shin-chan is a lot more considerate than people know, a lot more observant and sensitive than people realize.)
Takao doesn’t know why, but he has the unconscious urge to protect that boy from the world. There, in a quiet kitchen in August, he promises that, with hands clasped around the counter. He will be Shintaro’s pillar, the rock he needs. It’s a vow that moves around something in his chest, a vulnerability that colours red in a dark blue world.
He turns back and puts the tea in front of Shin-chan. Green eyes look upwards and a small smile appears on that pale face. They don’t need to talk about it. Takao understands.
Midorima falls asleep under him on their small couch. Takao studies the shadows in the valleys of his face and strokes his hair. He knows this is not what normal friends do, the closeness, the cuddling and the hand-holding, the silent communication, but it’s what Shin-chan needs. Takao doesn’t care about society and expectations, he only cares about what Shintaro needs.
God knows someone has to.
***
It’s been two weeks and Takao is worried.
He’s working with Otsubo on the Romance section and watches the head of green hair on the floor under him, stoically stacking science books. Otsubo follows the line of his vision and pats him on the shoulder.
“Yeah, I was going to ask you about him,” he says and rubs a hand through his short hair. “He seems off, these days. Did something happen?”
Takao places his elbows on a stack of Nora Jones and leans forward without taking his eyes off Shin-chan. “Another one of those Teiko friends of his came by two weeks ago. He hasn’t spoken to Kuroko or Kise since.”
Otsubo hums. “Have you had contact with the others?”
Takao grins. “We have a group chat.” His grin slips off his face. “They all worry.”
That evening, he hovers his thumb over Kasamatsu-senpai’s number. Fuck it, he thinks, and dials.
“Kasamatsu.”
“It’s Takao,” he hesitates. “How is Kise?”
There’s the sound of footsteps and a slamming door. “Uh, he’s reading BL manga. It’s been six days since I haven’t received a slobbering 5 AM call.”
Takao winces in sympathy.
“How’s yours?” Kasamatsu asks and Takao almost smiles.
“He’s been playing the piano. There are a lot of cramped hands involved and I am now able to hear the difference between Litz, Mozart and Beethoven.” His eyes fly to Midorima behind his black piano, still clad in a white lab coat, crouched over the keys. Probably Bach, today. “I’m calling Kagami after this,” he says. “To see how Kuroko’s holding up. We have to do something.”
Kasamatsu snorts something affirmative. “I don’t know about this Aomine, but he’s done some shit.”
Inside, Shin-chan switches to something soft and poignant. Takao watches him from behind the glass doors. Lemon tea, he thinks. Before he turns into Esther Greenwood.
Kasamatsu hangs up and Takao switches to watch the city under him, all the yellow lights and busy minds of millions of people. It takes a little while for the second call to pick up. He wishes Midorima would play Debussy again.
“He’s been distant,” Kagami says. “I mean, it’s Kuroko, so it’s a little hard to notice shifts in his mood, but he’s more quiet and distant. Than usual.” The redhaired giant sighs. “Been eating less, too. He looks like a spring breeze could sweep him off his feet.”
Takao exhales and wonders how he got here, with this grumpy medical student living in the confines of his heart. He turns back to watch Shin behind that fucking piano and thinks of sitting in the crotch of fig trees. He wonders how far from that point he might be.
“How’s Midorima?” Kagami asks and Takao watches a broad back, rigid and tired, from behind the glass. He swallows.
“Shin-chan is not doing so well,” he says and almost doesn’t notice how his voice curls around his name. “He’s playing Mozart right now.”
Kagami winces. “That’s rough.”
Someone on the other side of the line yells something and Kagami curses under his breath. “Sorry man, I gotta go. Text us your plan.”
Your plan. Takao eyes the white lab coat from the corner of his vision and grimaces.
***
Sometimes it’s as simple as that. Sometimes, the only thing he has to do is take Shin-chan’s wrist and drag him to Kick with nothing but a “this has to stop”.
Kasamatsu is already waiting for him with a smirk on his face that suggests Kise is wailing in his sunshine yellow armchair right now. Takao waves and uses his elbow to pry the door open. When they step inside, Kiyoshi laughs at them from behind the espresso machine.
Kise is, as predicted, in his signature chair. Takao looks at the way his hair is a little bit duller, the way his skin is pale and how he looks at Kasamatsu like he’s the only thing in the world that grounds him right now. He can see two weeks of bullshit spelt out in that sea-green hoodie. Fuck, who would even think Kise owned hoodies?
Behind him, Shin-chan clears his throat. “Takao, I-”
Before he can finish that sentence, Takao pushes him into the bistro chair next to Kise, winks and walks towards the counter.
Izuki greets him with a tall latte pushed in his direction. “Don’t worry,” he says as an answer to Takao’s expression. “They’ll make it.”
The door swings open and Aomine stands in the doorway, clad in a jeans jacket and an uncertain frown. There’s a girl with bright pink hair behind him who puts her hands on his broad back and shoves him into the chair next to Kise. It suddenly occurs to Takao that Kuroko has been sitting opposite of Shin-chan the whole time.
Nobody is running.
Takao sips his coffee and thinks that this just might’ve been their best plan yet.
***
Midorima and Takao, their relationship is something liquid. It swims around inside Takao’s chest and changes with the minute.
They both have days in which they need time alone, barely speak to each other and then the next morning he feels like there’s no waking up until he’s seen the shadows Shin-chan’s lashes cast over his cheeks.
They're usually close, too. In the beginning it was helping a friend, comforting Shin after one of his Teiko nightmares, but lately, Takao finds himself glancing at Shin-chan’s form a lot more than is probably normal.
There’s no way his eyes can ignore someone as imposing and striking as Midorima Shintaro; from the high, green top all the way down to his Italian leather loafers. It doesn’t help that Takao is the one that sees Shin-chan at his most vulnerable: when he’s making tea in the morning, fresh with sleep. Late at night, wrists curled over that black piano. Around finals, when they’re both cranky and stress, highlighter on his fingertips and running on too-much-coffee-not-enough-rest. Asleep.
It might be strange, Takao realizes, that his favourite Shin-chan is when he’s sleeping. His expression calm, open. The way his eyelashes cast shadows over his cheekbones. His breathing, even and sure. Sometimes he’s curled around Takao, surrounding him with warmth and the smell of rosemary soap.
Moments like that raise something fierce inside Takao. They make him want to hide Shin away, shield him from sharp edges and the loudness of life because there’s so much softness inside Midorima that it scares Takao, sometimes.
He keeps wanting to be as close as possible. During work, class, when they’re walking around the house (Takao still in a lab coat, looking for a pen, Shin-chan with a can red bean soup and a stack of notes), he feels an inexplicable urge to touch Shin all over. Ghost a hand over his shoulder. Ruffle his hair. Lean against him when he’s cooking. He doesn’t know what to do with all these feelings.
He doesn’t know what to do, so he decides on the one thing that makes sense: he starts avoiding Shin-chan. He's has never given off any signs of returning anything anyways.
The hard thing about avoiding your best friend is that you do fucking everything together. He knows he’s making things awkward, but he needs some space.
(Green eyes that frown in his direction. An expression usually reserved for microscopes and particularly difficult chemistry formulae. It all adds to the guilt in his chest)
A couple of days after this decision, Izuki puts down a latte in front of his face, where he’s resting it on the counter. “Takao, we need to talk.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Scorpio’s tenth today and Takao has never considered Oha Asa to be true, but today he needs something to blame this shitty day on. The universe it is. (Cancer is fifth. Lucky item: red watch. Takao almost put one on the kitchen table before he remembered he was supposed to avoid Shin-chan. It’s still in his pocket.)
“You’ve been weird, lately,” Kasamatsu says, too-strong americano in one hand, Kise’s hand in the other. Ever since his birthday party, the two of them started dating.
Kise looks better. Kasamatsu looks less like murdering an entire country when the blond talks too long with Kuroko. (Who is practically married to his firefighter-in-training Kagami, so he has no reason to be jealous at all. Takao has said this, repeatedly, but Kasamatsu is very stubborn when he wants to be, and also decidedly thick)
Izuki clacks with his tongue. “What is this crap between you and Midorima?”
Takao takes a sip of his coffee. “Nothing,” he says, too fast.
Two pair of sharp grey eyes stare him down. For a moment, he wishes he was still dissecting the pig heart from two hours ago. Everything better than this. He puts on his most trustworthy face. “Really!”
“Takao, it’s been three days since you’ve last talked to him. He’s worried. We are, uh, creeped out,” Izuki says while hanging over the counter. “Now tell us. Did you two break up?”
“Break what up?” Takao says. They’re not implying what he thinks they’re implying. He hasn’t been that obvious. Tell him he hasn’t been that obvious.
Some deity far, far above him apparently thinks his karma is disgusting because Kasamatsu and Izuki start laughing. Kise, bless him, has the most adorable confused expression on his face.
“You mean you weren’t going out?” he asks and yes, that hurts.
“No,” he mumbles and stares at his latte. There’s a stain on the rim of the cup, something that looks like chocolate syrup. September colours gold outside. It’s been almost a year since he’s met Shin-chan.
Izuki puts a warm hand on his shoulder. “Would you like to?” he asks and Takao takes a deep breath.
“Well, duh. Shin-chan’s so precious. Who wouldn’t?” he says but the smirk feels bitter on his face.
Kasamatsu frowns. He slams his americano back with the same determination that saved his university paper from extinction. Squints his eyes. “Then go ask him. Fucking hell, the guy looks at you like the fucking sun shines out of your ass, Takao. You both want this.”
That. That was exactly what Takao needed to hear. He stands up, his limbs numb and heavy, and grabs his jacket. Kise’s cheers follow him on his way out of the café and he hesitates a while outside before heading home. When he steps into the apartment, Shin-chan is playing the piano. The afternoon sun creates an outline of quiet skill and focus. It takes Takao’s breath away.
He’s been running too long from this. It’s been eating away at him for such a long time and he needs to tell Shin-chan before he ruins their friendship with feelings and too much meaning between the lines.
Takao walks up to Shin and stands next to his shoulder, just watching him press and release keys. “Hey.”
“Hello,” Shin-chan mumbles, mind tangled in musical notation and whirling tones.
Takao spots the book with Debussy sheet music. Something inside him cracks, wide open. His chest is gaping and Shin-chan turns around to look at him with those dark green eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks and Takao bows down to kiss him.
Books always have a build-up. A dramatic confession, some yelling and then the hero embraces his helpless love interest. He’s always been a sucker for those type of stories, somewhere deep inside. Swooning is not limited to soccer moms with a Harlequin novel, you know. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking of this while he winds his arms around Shin-chan’s neck, mouths mashed against each other. This was the least romantic move ever, but all that matters is the fact that Shintaro is kissing him back.
Takao pulls back to breathe and stares at a blushing Midorima. A big hand comes up and curls around his jaw. He feels impossible sheltered. Shin-chan does the thing where he smiles a little bit with his mouth and a lot with his eyes and rubs a thumb over his cheekbone.
“So this is the reason for your strange behaviour the past days. Honestly, Takao, I’m a little bit disappointed. You could’ve just told me.”
Takao’s mouth falls open. “What?”
Midorima turns away. “Well, let’s say- I mean to-” he takes a deep breath. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”
For once, there’s no music in the apartment, no words in Takao’s head. The only thing that comes up in his mind is a quote from the book Shin-chan gave him. Love is the longing for the half of ourselves we have lost, he thinks while bringing up his hands to stroke green hair out of Midorima’s face.
He’s never been one for superstition, Oha Asa is still hocus-pocus to him, but he can’t shake the feeling that the two of them are completing some grand plan of the universe.
“What a coincidence, Shin-chan,” he smiles. “I love you, too.”
With his lips against Shin-chan’s, he laughs. He’s not saying they were always leading up to this, but he can’t ignore the idea that perhaps, they were.