Chapter Text
It is spring again; the season of new beginnings.
It is his thirty third spring; the life as he has always known had just ended.
But even though he currently feels that way, Midorima Shintaro has a job to do and a conference to attend. He boards a bullet train to Osaka and finds his reserved seat in the first class car—his face set in an impassive expression that betrays none of his inner turmoil.
He takes off his glasses and massages his nose bridge. He is exhausted. Sometimes he wishes that he could go back to his school days—running around during regular team practice only to continue practicing three point shots until his arms screamed for mercy. Yes, those days were tiring too, but the satisfaction of doing his best helped him to drift into a peaceful sleep each night. He longs for that simplicity, for his days were filled with nothing but his studies and basketball, peppered with occasional hunting for lucky items and the sound of laughter.
There hasn’t been much laughter in his life recently, he has to admit.
He puts his glasses back on and sighs quietly, the sky outside his window begins to darken—he should arrive at Shin-Osaka station around 8 PM, that should be enough time to eat dinner and get a drink.
Yes, he definitely needs the drink—not too much though; going to work with a hangover would be unbecoming after all.
Dinner was a quick ramen affair. He has more than enough money to afford a much more luxurious dinner but he really can’t be bothered tonight. Sometimes cheap noodles is what is needed to hit the spot—not the healthiest option surely, but even doctors are allowed to have cheat days, right?
Spring nights are much warmer than winter ones, but even so the air is still rather cold. Midorima fixes his woolen scarf as he exits the busy restaurant and braves the chilly breeze. The streets of Osaka are bustling on a Sunday night and his height attracts unwarranted attention when he least wants it, but the sake bar his colleague recommended is not far from the chain ramen shop and his long legs would take him there quickly enough.
It is located in a two-story building—the bottom floor is an izakaya packed full with happy customers, but the bar on the upper floor is the one he is looking for. The quiet murmurs of slow jazz and whispered conversations are a stark contrast to the noise downstairs. The atmosphere is almost reverent, the patrons worshiping alcoholic beverages but not for the drunkenness it could bring. Midorima has always preferred places like this, he has never been a heavy drinker really—a glass of wine or champagne during formal dinners and celebrations, a pint of craft beer during social gatherings, a cocktail or two during networking events—and a few cups of sake to nurse when he needs to indulge, needs the buzz to escape.
He takes the stool on the far left side on the bar, seven seats in a neat row and they are empty aside from the one on the furthest right—occupied by a man hunching over his drink, longish dark hair shielding his face. Most other patrons seem to prefer the tables littered around the space, conversing quietly as they drink. He pays them no mind and greets the bartender, asking for recommendation.
“Perhaps a tasting of few different ones,” he says in a low voice. The bartender only nods and turns around to pick some variety from his considerable selection. Midorima sits ramrod straight and watches the master at work—only to feel like there is someone else watching at him in turn.
He has never been comfortable with attention. He knows he attracts it regardless, with his height and hair and his penchant for carrying distracting lucky items—honestly, he never means to, he just does. He really doesn’t want to attract attention—not tonight when he is in no mood for small talks.
Then again, he is never in the mood for small talks.
He stares resolutely at the sake master’s back, knowing that eye contact only encourages confrontation and he truly, really, does not want to converse with anyone.
But the piercing feeling doesn’t stop and he begins to wonder if there is anything strange about him. He doesn’t think so—he is pretty sure nothing is stuck on his face and the days of lugging cumbersome lucky items around have passed behind him. He couldn’t get them into clinical setting where hygiene and efficiency are a much bigger priority than his selfishness, and he had begrudgingly understood that he shouldn’t anyway. He still checks Oha-asa every morning and still carries small lucky items in his pocket and his bag because old habits are difficult to break, but they are never intrusive and he is no longer as obsessive.
A minute passed and he still can’t shake the feeling of being watched.
He steals a glance at the right and finds that he recognizes the man who is currently staring at him, slate blue eyes wide open.
“Takao.”
The name falls from Midorima’s lips easily, as if he says it every day—and he did for several years, but it had been years and years ago and no longer.
“Shi—Midorima.”
To his ears, his own last name feels foreign and unfamiliar in Takao’s voice—to his eyes, so does the hesitant smile on Takao’s face.
Moments pass as they stare at each other, unmoving, comparing the man in front of them to the one in their memories.
Takao looks well, Midorima decides. His hair is slightly longer than it was the last time he saw him and he looks healthy.
“What are you doing here?” Midorima asks.
Takao chuckles; the timbre of it deeper than the laugh Midorima’s hearing was used to.
“I could ask you the same. You don’t even live in this city,” Takao has now fully turned his body towards Midorima, elbow supporting him on the bar as he lazily rests his cheek on his hand.
“As a matter of fact I have a conference to attend here,” answers the taller man primly, “…How are you?” he continues, more hesitantly.
“Well enough,” the dark haired man smiles, “It’s been a while since we last met… Mind if I join you?” he gestures to the empty seat next to Midorima.
Midorima nods, watching in silence as Takao moves towards the seat next to him and orders another cup of sake, the master only responds with a grunt and a thumbs up.
“He’s not much of a conversationalist,” Takao whispers conspiratorially, gesturing at the barkeep and grinning ear-to-ear, “Knows his stuff really well though.”
Midorima doesn’t quite know what to answer, so he keeps his silence and nods yet again.
“How long ago was it the last time we saw each other? Hm… Was it around 3 years ago? At Otsubo-san’s wedding?” Takao continues, paying no mind to his old friend’s lack of response.
“Sounds about right,” the bespectacled man nods curtly at the barkeep as thanks when he serves him a flight of sake. He takes a sip, the taste a welcome distraction.
“Ha. It’s really been that long…?” Takao mumbles, a small smile gracing his lips—it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Midorima can’t decipher the pensive look in the other’s eyes so he goes for bluntness.
“Well, we have our own lives to lead and you have moved here by then.”
Takao’s laugh is dark when he replies, “Of course. You are right, Midorima.”
Midorima. They weren’t even friends back then—they barely knew each other when Takao stopped calling him by his last name and wouldn’t stop calling him with that ridiculous, overtly familiar nickname. But now that he calls him how he was supposed to call him in the first place it feels...
Weird.
Strange.
Wrong.
“You are not a great conversationalist yourself tonight.”
“I did not come here to talk.”
“Sorry to disturb you then,” a sarcastic smile painted Takao’s lips.
This conversation is not going well at all—Midorima isn’t sure what he is supposed to do to salvage it.
“How is your job Takao?” he asks awkwardly. A safe topic. A neutral topic.
Takao raises his eyebrow, “It’s going fine. I don’t think you would be interested in hearing about it.”
“As a fellow healthcare professional of course I—“
“Unlike you Sensei, I’m just a nurse,” Takao cuts his sentence midway, emphasizing his title with a wry smile.
“Nurses are the backbone, heart and soul of the healthcare system. I do not think of your profession as less important than mine,” Midorima blurts out bluntly, frowning.
Takao’s laugh sounds more genuine this time, Midorima’s heart beats in approval, but his tongue—
“I do not understand what is funny.”
Takao takes a sip of his sake, but when he speaks again his smile is a little warmer, a little friendlier, a little more familiar.
“You never change. Never mind. So… a conference eh? Is it the pediatric cardiology one?”
“Yes.”
‘How do you know about it?’ is implied in the slight furrow of Midorima’s brows and never said, but Takao was good at deciphering what Midorima didn’t say—and apparently he still is quite good at it.
“A couple doctors from the hospital I work at will be going too,” the dark haired man explains, taking another sip from his cup before continuing, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the polished wooden bar.
“I work at the pediatric ward mainly.”
“You have always been good with children,” the taller man replies matter of factly, because it wasn't a compliment but rather the plain truth.
The look on Takao’s almond-shaped eyes softens, “I guess... I mean, I would hope so. I am a pediatric nurse after all, would be bad if I can’t handle children right,” he chuckled.
Midorima nods—again, not quite sure of what to say. Years have passed since the last time they conversed properly and he is starting to feel like he doesn’t know this Takao. This Takao who calls him Midorima, whose smile is guarded and whose eyes are clouded—there is a icy feeling that courses through his veins at the thought.
“…Speaking of children… How’s your son?” Takao asks suddenly, breezily, his expression betrays nothing but a perfectly polite curiosity
And even though Midorima is slightly taken aback at the change of topic, he quickly schools his face into a stoic politeness.
“Ryohei is fine. Thank you.”
“How old is he now?”
“He turned two a couple months ago.”
“Ah… The terrible two,” Takao laughs softly, “Children grow up so quickly, I hope you cherish your time with him,” his smile is sincere and tone wistful.
Once again, Midorima does not quite know what to say to that.
“I do—I try to,” he mumbles.
“Of course you do,” Takao’s smile is gentle, “I know you always do your best,” he pats the taller man’s shoulder comfortingly and it burns—what used to be a familiar gesture has now been rendered alien.
Midorima doesn’t notice that Takao has stolen glance at his left hand—at the gold band on his ring finger, before asking lightly “…And how about your wife?”
Midorima thinks back to the events of this morning and wishes that the ground would open and just swallow him whole.
“Shintaro-san, we should get a divorce.”
It was said so nonchalantly Shintaro first thought he heard it wrongly. Had he been a lesser man, he would have choked over his food—but he properly chewed and swallowed his breakfast before speaking.
“Excuse me?”
She sighed, wiping their son’s mouth tenderly. The little boy was making a mess with his carrot puree.
“You heard me. We should get divorced,” she repeated patiently, her smile was gentle when she rubbed the toddler’s cheek.
“Why?” he asked, taking a sip from his coffee, “What did I do?”
“You did nothing,” she coaxed Ryouhei into taking another bite of his food, “Nothing wrong at all.”
“Then why…?” he dipped a spoon into his oshiruko, staring at his wife who was busy with their son. His son giggled as she kissed his chubby cheeks and Shintaro couldn’t help but to smile at him even in the midst of his own confusion.
“Shintaro-san, tell me honestly…” she looked at him in the eyes levelly, calm and unwavering, “Do you love me?”
She told him not to lie, so he didn’t.
“I could learn to.”
She shook her head and smiled sadly at him.
“Remind me, how long have we been married?”
“It would be 5 years in June.”
They had gotten married in early summer, on a perfectly sunny and lucky day for both Cancer and Pisces. He could recall the early blooming hydrangea, clear blue sky with wisps of white cloud and cold determination.
His wife smiled wider, seemingly pleased that he remembered.
“That’s correct,” she carried Ryouhei and took a seat at the chair across her husband. The baby wiggled happily on her lap, trying to catch his father’s attention.
“If after nearly 5 years of marriage you still have yet to fall in love with me, when do you think would it happen? If it would happen at all?”
He couldn’t answer.
“Shintaro-san,” her tone was resigned, “Please answer me. Truthfully.”
He couldn’t, didn't want to answer—so he asked her a question of his own.
“Are you unhappy with me?”
She chuckled without humor. Ryouhei grinned at the sound and reached up to hug her.
“Shintaro-san, you are a good husband,” she answered airily, “You strive to do everything a good husband would do, all to the best of your ability. Even though you are busy at work but you always make time for Ryouhei and I. I wouldn’t say that I’m unhappy witnessing all of your effort. I would say that I’m quite content, actually.”
“Then why—“
“I don’t want content. I don’t want to just continue going through the motion like this. I could—but I don’t want to.”
Shintaro sat perfectly still, stunned by her answer.
“You are a good person, a good husband. You have treated me well, diligently catering to what I need—what we need,” she glanced at her son fondly; he started playing with her fingers.
“But I don’t want to keep becoming your second full-time job.”
“What do you mean?”
She took a deep breath, running her hand on Ryouhei’s soft dark hair gently—the action calming her as much as it calmed the baby.
“You can’t be yourself with me. You can’t let go of that perfect control over yourself when you are with me.“
He couldn't deny it.
“But haven't I done everything correctly?”
She nodded, long black hair gently falling, following the motion—steely brown eyes looking straight at his when she answered:
“You have done what you needed to do, Shintaro-san. Perfectly. Meticulously. Dutifully. You have done nothing wrong at all, you have been ticking all the boxes with perfect checkmarks... But maybe that is the problem."
She took a long, deep breath.
"Tell me, Shintaro-san, is this what you really want to do for the rest of your life?”
“She is well,” Midorima answers, face tight in polite smile.
Takao stares and wonders when and why Midorima learnt to fake a smile.