Chapter Text
It starts when Takao wakes up early one morning and notices that his knee, the one he blew out in college, has swollen to the size of a large grapefruit.
“Huh,” he says. “That's not good.”
“Mm,” Midorima says, stirring and rolling over in bed. “What is it?”
“Just my knee,” Takao sighs. “Don't get up; I'll get an ice pack.”
Midorima lifts his head off the pillow and frowns sleepily. “Your knee again,” he says. “That's odd.”
It is a little weird, considering it's given him hardly any trouble for nearly a decade, but Takao shrugs. Sports injuries can be finicky that way, as a physical therapist he knows that better than anyone.
“I'm sure it's nothing,” he says, stretching his leg out and wincing as it throbs in protest. “Just some fluid buildup. It'll work itself out.”
“Take a prescription dose of Advil,” Midorima suggests, reaching for his glasses. “Shall I get you the ice pack?”
“Hey, hey, go back to bed,” Takao scolds him, pulling his hand away from where it's fumbling at the nightstand. “You promised you'd sleep in today. I'm fine, I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” He leans over and steals a quick kiss, smiling at Midorima's disgruntled noise. “I'm the one who does this for a living, remember?”
Midorima grumbles, but eventually settles down again and closes his eyes.
Takao massages his knee in the shower, loosens it up until it feels a bit better. He's good at identifying types of pain, and it doesn't really feel like his ACL, but that could just be the number of years its been. Probably he just slept on it funny, or maybe overextended himself with Midorima last night. It wouldn't be the first time, he thinks with a wry smile. At thirty-four, he's not decrepit or dependent upon Viagra, God forbid, but he's definitely not twenty anymore.
Twenty, he recalls, was a very good year.
“Where's Papa?” Naoko asks, sliding into the kitchen in her stockings.
“In bed, hopefully until midday,” Takao tells her. “He's pulled four eighteen hour shifts in the past two weeks, I've ordered a long weekend off for him.”
Naoko snorts. “Good luck with that. I don't suppose there's breakfast, then.”
“I could try to make something,” Takao offers, which has them both wrinkling their noses. “Hey, weren't you going to take cooking classes? Maybe I should go with you.”
“They're classes for kids, Dad. I think you're a lost cause at this point,” she laughs. “Didn't Grandma teach you anything?”
Takao shakes his head. “Trust me, my cooking's an improvement compared to hers. There's a reason we always ordered out.” He drums his fingers on the counter. “Care to make it a tradition? I'll walk you to school, we can pick something up along the way.”
“You'll be late,” she points out, which isn't a “no”. Takao grins.
“Technically I can set my own schedule, and my first appointment isn't for an hour,” Takao says. “C'mon, let me buy you breakfast. I have to take advantage of these moments while you'll still deign to be seen with me in public.”
“Yes, I think those days will be coming to an end quite soon,” Naoko says dryly. “All right. Let me just get my school bag.”
Takao pops four Advil with the last sip from his water glass, feeling significantly more springy already.
*
A few days later, his knee is swollen again, and this time, it really aches, radiating muscle pain all the way up to the middle of his thigh. “What the hell,” he demands, frowning down at it.
“Perhaps if you'd stayed off of it this weekend, as I suggested you should,” Midorima says, seated on the bed next to him and pulling on his socks.
“I did! Mostly,” Takao protests.
“Kazu, you were running soccer drills with Naoko yesterday for over an hour.”
“Sometimes movement can be beneficial, though,” Takao argues. “It was worth a try.”
Midorima gives him a dispassionate look. “An hour.”
Well, he may have a point. “Maybe not my best idea,” Takao admits. “Fine. I really will stay off it today.”
“Do,” Midorima says. “I dislike seeing you in pain, even pain of your own making.”
“Such romance,” Takao sighs, leaning over to butt his forehead against Midorima's shoulder. “Hey, Naoko's dribbling is getting way better, though. She got past me half a dozen times, and I wasn't holding back at all at that point.”
“Good for her,” Midorima smiles, only slightly stiff about it.
Takao tugs on his sleeve. “Shintarou. It's good, I promise. She likes it. She's happy.”
“I know,” Midorima says. “I know you're right. I can't help but worry.”
“She's got great coaches,” Takao says, the words rolling off his tongue with easy familiarity as he rubs soothing circles into Midorima's wrist with his thumb. “She's got us. The hawk-eye and the helicopter parent extraordinaire. She knows we're proud of her no matter what.”
Midorima doesn't reply, but Takao feels a little of the tension bleed out of his shoulders all the same.
“I think she's got a pretty good shot of getting play time this weekend,” he continues. “Did you get Nakatani's email? He said he'd try to come out for her game.”
“I did,” Midorima says. “I told him we'd save him a seat. That should please Naoko, at any rate.” He shifts, and looks at his watch. “I'd better go, I'm leading the morning rounds today.”
“Mm. Try not to make any interns cry,” Takao says, gently tugging his face around for a kiss. “You still want to meet my sister for dinner tonight?”
“Yes, let's do that,” Midorima nods, leaning back in to give Takao another quick kiss next to his eye. “Stay off your knee.”
“I will, I will,” Takao says, rubbing it out of instinct. Stupid knee. Hopefully a couple days of actually resting it will fix things, or at least send his old injury back into dormancy for another decade.
*
“Sorry I'm a little late,” Nakatani says, climbing onto the bleachers to sit next to Takao. “Winter Cup's coming up, you know how it goes.”
“No big,” Takao grins, thumping him on the back. “Naoko hasn't been put in yet. Shintarou thinks the coach is saving her for the second half.”
“It's what I would do,” Nakatani nods. “They'll need a fresh, strong forward to lead the offensive strike. You can see now the coach is focusing on keeping a tight defense.”
“Naoko's defense is very good as well,” Midorima says, eyes trained on the field. “She seems to prefer offense, though.”
“A young athlete who enjoys scoring points,” Nakatani says. “What are the odds.”
“How's Shuutoku doing?” Takao asks. “Think you'll get the trophy this year?”
Nakatani shrugs. “Anything's possible. Between us, I doubt it. Half of my players are mid-growth spurt, which is inconvenient, but with enough double practices they should be up to par in time for next Interhigh.”
“Ah, the memories,” Takao sighs. He glances up at Midorima. “I'm glad you'd stopped growing by then, Shintarou. Any taller and you wouldn't fit in the car.”
Midorima doesn't appear to hear him, too busy glaring daggers at the referee who has just called a foul on Akiko, one of the the girls on Naoko's team.
“There was no way to tell if that kick was deliberate,” he mutters, perhaps to himself, Takao's never sure. “Preposterous. Where do they find these people, honestly.”
“Soccer-mom-mode activate,” Takao whispers to Nakatani. Ah, leaning over like that was a bad idea. He grips at his knee, wincing.
Nakatani raises an eyebrow at him. “You okay?”
“Oh, yeah, just my knee's been bugging me the past couple weeks,” Takao says.
“That's the one you blew out, isn't it?”
Takao nods. “Dunno why it's acting up now. Freaking annoying.”
“Mine started giving me trouble some years ago, but that's just arthritis,” Nakatani says thoughtfully. “Anything else hurting?”
“No,” Takao says, horrified. “I'm only thirty-four, there's no way it's arthritis.” He shudders. That actually is one possible explanation, but – no. Just no. “I'm gonna put a brace on it next week, see if that helps.”
“It might,” Nakatani says. “I've known pro players who got injured and never really recovered all the way. Kagetora still has to wear wrist guards from time to time. ”
“I've noticed that resting it does help, which is a good sign,” Takao says. “Shintarou thinks I ought to see a doctor, but he thinks that about everything. They can't tell me anything I don't already know.”
“You should at least get an x-ray,” Midorima says evenly. “To see if there are any new developments.”
Takao shrugs. “If it keeps up, I probably will. If anything was seriously wrong with the ligament, I'd know it.”
The referee's whistle blows again.
“That one did look rather intentional,” Midorima says. “Excellent aim, though.”
*
By the end of the next week, Takao admits to himself that the brace hasn't done any good. His knee is seriously hurting now, the swelling is hard to keep down and it's starting to keep him up at night. Midorima writes him a prescription for heavy-duty painkillers that at least allow him to sleep without being awoken every hour, but they don't stop him from feeling like he's been run over by a truck every time he does finally wake up.
To make matters worse, Midorima's crabbiness about the entire ordeal has reached unprecedented levels. Takao doesn't know that he's seen him this grouchy since medical school.
“Go. To. The. Doctor,” he snaps, when Takao has to call in sick to work one morning. “For heaven's sake, you're barely able to move.”
“I can move,” Takao argues, irritated. Mostly tired. “I just...ugh, I feel like crap, please don't nag me right now. Think I might have the flu.”
“You've lost weight,” Midorima says. “Something is wrong, Kazu.”
“I haven't had any appetite, maybe it's the painkillers,” Takao says. “But yeah, I know, I'm gonna make an appointment with the orthopedist today.”
“You should've made one two weeks ago.”
“You know what, Shintarou?” Takao sits up in bed, angry. “My job is to manage injuries like this. It's a fucking ten-year-old torn ACL, not usually something you call in the big guns for, okay? I'm good at this, I know what I'm doing. This is the exact same thing I'd recommend any patient do, and I don't really fucking appreciate you insinuating that I'm a negligent caregiver.”
“You're putting words in my mouth,” Midorima says. “And you're wrong, I've seen you send patients to the hospital for far less than this. It's been getting worse for weeks now, and you've got a whole host of other symptoms to – ”
“Sports injuries don't cause the flu, Shintarou. Come on.” Takao collapses back down onto the bed, too tired to stay angry. “I'll be fine, just...what?”
Midorima's face has gone very pale.
Takao frowns. “Shintarou?” He looks frightened, an expression Takao's seen on his face only a handful of times. “Babe? Are you okay?”
A tense moment passes, and then Midorima seems to come back to himself.
“I'm sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “That was...something occurred to me, but. It's very unlikely, I don't want to trouble you with it.” He hesitates, reaching for the door. “Kazu, please go in today, if you can, and get an x-ray.”
“Okay,” Takao says, taken aback. “I will. I promise.”
“You'll be seeing Dr. Sekijima?”
“Probably, if she can fit me in,” Takao says.
“Have her call me after she interprets the x-ray,” Midorima says. “If it's all right. For my own peace of mind.”
“Uh, sure.” Takao scowls, irritated again. “For the record, you know I could interpret my own x-rays if I wanted to.”
“I'm aware,” Midorima says, voice thin. “This isn't about my job or your job, I simply want to hear your results from an unbiased third party. You always underplay things when they're serious and exaggerate them when they're superficial, it's a very aggravating habit.”
“Right,” Takao says. “Well, she's a real M.D., so she'll obviously be much more professional.” He doesn't even know why he's picking a fight, this is so stupid, he just feels awful and this entire ordeal has made him feel miserably inadequate. This is the kind of thing he should be able to fix, for once.
“Wait,” he says, before Midorima can muster up an angry retort. “That was shitty, I shouldn't've...ugh, it's just how I feel.” He shakes his head. “I don't know. You should go to work.”
“I should,” Midorima agrees, looking at his watch. “Before either of us says anything regrettable.” Slightly softer, he adds, “Go to the doctor, Kazu, or I'll drag you myself.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Takao says. “I'll see you later.”
Midorima looks like he wants to say something else for a moment, but ultimately decides against it, closing his mouth and walking briskly out the door without so much as a backwards glance.
*
Upon arriving at work, Midorima goes straight to his research computer and roots through the backlogs until he finds what he's looking for. He cancels his first two appointments – something he's never done before – and calls Osaka Medical Center, as a matter of urgency.
“This is Dr. Tanaka.”
“Dr. Tanaka, this is Dr. Midorima Shintarou calling. We've met twice at the Tokyo Oncology Conference,” Midorima says, more rushed than he intends to be.
“Dr. Midorima, of course I remember you,” Tanaka says, sounding surprised. “I read your latest paper on marrow grafting with great interest.”
“Thank you,” Midorima remembers to say. He clears his throat. “As I recall, your speciality is in soft tissue sarcomas.”
“That's correct. Do you need a referral? My caseload is quite full, but I'm hardly the only expert in – ”
“You are the foremost expert,” Midorima interrupts. “I simply wanted to ask you a few questions about fibrosarcoma in joint tissue, if you have a moment.”
“In joint tissue?” Tanaka pauses. “That's extremely rare, you know. I've only seen a handful of true cases in my career.”
“Yes, you mention it briefly in your paper on fibrosarcomas of the bone,” Midorima says, trying not to be irritated. Of course he knows, honestly. “I just want to know how it presents, what the prognosis is. I've never seen a case myself.”
(He hasn't, because Takao doesn't have this, Takao cannot have this, Takao is simply downtrodden with a virus and an old injury and a proclivity towards self-neglect, all things which Midorima will fix, particularly that last one, so that he never has to deal with this kind of stress ever again.)
“Well, the cases I've seen have all been fairly advanced, preventing recurrence gets tricky with soft tissue, as you know,” Tanaka says. “Is this for a patient?”
“No,” Midorima says. He doesn't elaborate.
“I see,” Tanaka says, after a moment. “As I said, I've only seen a few true cases, but like all sarcomas, it's best to catch it as early as possible. The truth is, fibrosarcoma is rare enough that it's quite easy to miss. It's often mistaken for arthritis, or a strained muscle. If the tumor is benign, it could be months before it's discovered.”
Midorima swallows. “And if the tumor is malignant?”
“Well, you know how that goes. Once the cancer starts to spread, the immunology will become a factor. These things metastasize quickly, obviously the prognosis is worst when the tumor is located in the hip or shoulder.”
Midorima glances over his notes. “The literature seems to suggest that the most common points of origin are the elbow and the knee.”
“That's true,” Tanaka says. “Whether those statistical figures are accurate, given the infrequency of diagnosis, I couldn't tell you.” Another pause. “I'm sure you understand, I can't formally give any recommendations without a proper referral, and I'd really have to see the patient if you wanted greater specificity here.”
“That won't be necessary,” Midorima tells him. “He doesn't – he's not a patient. I simply wished to satisfy my curiosity on a few points.”
“Of course,” Tanaka says. “I know we specialists live in defiance of Occam's Razor. Sometimes I think I ought to have been a pathologist.”
“Is that so,” Midorima says, not knowing particularly why he should care. “Well, thank you for your time. I'll let you get back to work.”
Tanaka bids him farewell, and Midorima is left feeling no less uneasy than he had upon arriving at work with a clear task set before him.
It's an odd thing, being married. Having a family. Objectively, Midorima knows the likelihood of Takao having this obscure variant of sarcoma is slim to none, just like he knew the likelihood of Naoko's stomach virus being non-Hodgkin lymphoma when she was eight was negligible at best. That knowledge hadn't stopped him from doing a full blood-workup on her at the time, something he'd further justified by saying that they didn't have her family's full health history in their records. Because Midorima isn't one to leave things to chance, even if that chance is infinitesimal. Tanaka was right about that, at least - it's why he became a specialist in the first place.
“Send message to Kazunari,” he tells his phone, rubbing at his temples. “'Have Dr. Sekijima order a blood test as well', period. 'I know you think I'm being ridiculous', comma, 'but if she doesn't do it', comma, 'I'll bring a kit home and do it myself', period. Send.”
The phone chirps, indicating a successful delivery, and Midorima eyes another notification in his menu, a tiny sun icon indicating he hasn't checked Oha Asa in three days.
It's not as if he needs to, he's not dependent on horoscopes like he used to be, the absence of a lucky item among his office's various knickknacks isn't enough to send him into a panic anymore. There's a photo next to his desktop of Takao at the beach, some five or six years ago, dripping wet with a beaming Naoko perched atop his shoulders. It stays in its frame, but Midorima knows the message scrawled on the back of the picture by heart: With love, your two luckiest items (expiration: never). Midorima consults this picture whenever he needs a boost; if it's a particularly rough day, there's the other one he keeps hidden in his desk drawer, the one of Takao lounged out across their bed, half-covered by a sheet, Midorima's glasses sliding down his nose and a mischievous expression on his face. Oha Asa never gave Midorima the security his family does, it all seems rather embarrassing and frivolous now, but. He can't deny there is some comfort in the routine of it, a sense of order he feels upon viewing the rankings, even without the meaning he saw in them before.
His stylus hovers over the icon, he hesitates. Truthfully, it might make him feel a bit better if Scorpio has a high ranking, if something in the horoscope suggests favorable health outcomes for those born in the late autumn.
On the other hand...
Shintarou. Takao's voice fills his head, gentle, reproving. Stop watching that nonsense. They're not going to decide whether or not to approve us based on a television program. He's twenty-six, there's a four-year-old girl in an overcrowded foster home whose face is already stamped on his heart like a brand.
It's okay to use this for fun stuff, Takao continues. I don't mind, you're not as bad as you used to be. But not for big life stuff, okay? That's too stressful. We're the ones making this happen, you and me. Not the stars. Not some amateur writers moonlighting as astrologers.
He's right, of course. Nothing good can come out of the creeping dread Midorima feels looking at that icon, that tiny, cheerful reminder that all of his worst fears could unravel before him at any moment. It's like manifest destiny, or whatever, Takao used to say. We don't need it. We're making our own.
Midorima closes the notification. He's a renowned oncologist at Tokyo's top research hospital, for heaven's sake. He's watched countless patients overcome terminal illnesses, turn three-month prognoses into twenty years, all without the input of Oha Asa. He's never allowed fate to interfere with the lives of his patients, and he'll certainly never allow it to dictate the future of his family.
“Send message to Kazunari,” he says again, letting out a long, steadying breath. “'I love you'. Period.” It's ridiculous to be embarrassed, he thinks, sitting here alone in his office, speaking to a phone.
A moment later, his phone beeps twice. Once to let him know his third patient of the morning has arrived, five minutes early, and once more to deliver a reply from Takao.
You better, for all the trouble I'm going to for you today. I'm at the hospital now so you can quit your worrying. Love you too, don't be home too late or we'll all starve.
Midorima allows himself a small smile, replaces the phone back in his desk drawer, touches the picture frame next to his desktop, and walks out into the lobby to meet his patient.