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"where are you going?"
it's already five in the evening, but it's still far too bright. the sun is streaming through his closed window, the gold type of the topmost book on his desk illuminated under the light. it burns midorima's eyes when he looks, the same way the question feels like a branding iron on his skin.
he shuts the curtains, and doesn't meet takao's eyes. "i have somewhere to be," he says.
four associate professors share this office space, too cramped for anything, especially if midorima has to bring things like huge oblong antique vases to work. he's got a phd in the medical sciences, but he's never quite been able to bring himself to shake off oha-asa's predictions; it's always better to be safe than sorry, he tells himself.
he rarely ever sees the other two, can't remember their names even if he tried. takao's sound engineering classes usually last all the way through to the evening, just like midorima's own lectures, and they almost always end up packing up together before heading their separate ways. years and years ago, when they were both still in shuutoku, midorima would've laughed at the idea of anyone suggesting he enter academia, much less takao.
but then again, years and years ago, things were very different.
takao blinks strangely at him, but knows not to press on. it's a strange understanding that's always existed, and has somehow carried into their adulthood as well.
"so long as you don't go around getting wasted, shin-chan," takao replies airily, waving a hand behind him in lieu of a goodbye.
midorima would've laughed, if he'd had the heart to. he slips his netbook into his briefcase, makes sure all his papers for tomorrow's lecture are in place, and leaves the room in silence. wasted? ah, if only he could tell takao he'd been there - he'd been drunk on a lofty dream he'd carelessly let himself harbour.
✧
the park between the fourth and fifth stations from the university is always crowded with students in the morning and afternoon; the cafes in the vicinity are partly to blame for this. but come sundown, it's as if the navy blue creeping into the pastels of the sky slowly wipe them away. by seven, it's usually deserted.
it's not like the park feels ominous or anything at night; on the contrary, it's quite beautiful. but at seven, people are usually home for dinner. with friends, family, maybe a loved one.
midorima pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and tightens his grip on the handle of his briefcase.
he doesn't even really need to look anymore. he's twenty-nine and it's been years; the path feels almost engraved in his heart. step by effortless step, he makes his way to one of the peach blossom trees - their tree. it's not really any different from any of the other trees - it's not particularly smaller or bigger - but midorima knows. year after year, he knows for certain that this is the tree.
placing his briefcase gently on the ground, midorima takes a breath of air. it's spring air and he's surrounded by peach blossoms; by all means, it should be fresh, but all he feels is an iron fist wrenching his heart from his chest. it still hurts as much as it did when he was eighteen. it's just that he's gotten a bit better at hiding it.
he runs his fingers over the contours of the wood. if he closes his eyes, he knows the images will flash by him again.
images of when he was young and foolish and a little bit of a daredevil who let himself hope. images of the first kiss they shared, sweet, prying mouths and awkward hands and soft gasps. images of akashi seijuurou, the boy who loved books and ambition, who borrowed midorima's heart and has quite forgotten to give it back.
midorima reaches into the inside of his blazer pocket and finds the single stalk that's been sitting there since lunchtime. it's an adonis, slightly pressed, but otherwise in pristine condition. he places it on the ground by the tree, and tries not to notice how much his hands are trembling.
"the adonis," comes a soft voice, worn by time and burdens too heavy for his little shoulders to carry. "sorrowful remembrance of an affair long past."
ten years ago, when akashi had pulled him close by the tie and kissed him hard and whispered goodbye into his ear, akashi had made him promise. they'd never see each other anymore, they'd stop this, stop killing themselves with a love that would never fester, not if they wanted to find their rightful, respectable places in society.
midorima would go on to graduate with honours and be the youngest associate professor at the university of tokyo, and akashi would inherit his father's entire estate to be one of asia's youngest, most promising millionaires.
but every year, on the fourth of june, they'd leave a flower for each other by the tree they had their first and last kiss. it felt only fitting, to pay tribute to their love long lost.
for ten years, midorima made good on that promise - left a flower, had dinner at the nearby ramen shop, go home, shower, curl up in bed and refuse to do anything else till the morning comes and duty calls. he'd walk to the university the next day, if only to take and keep the flower akashi had left.
for ten years, midorima hadn't met akashi on the day they'd promised on.
"akashi." the name sounds like a ghost on his lips. it kind of is, if he wants to be honest with himself.
akashi seijuurou walks past him in a crisp suit, a flash of red light in the darkness midorima's gotten so accustomed to. he watches - hardly daring to breathe, as if the smallest sound could break this illusion, this moment - as akashi places an asphodel next to the adonis.
he turns then, and the whole world seems to have stopped for them. all midorima can hear is his laboured breathing, the rustle of grass under his feet, and the sad, haunting melody of their story.
akashi is the first one to break the silence. "i didn't think i'd see you," he says softly. "i usually come later, but i have a function after this."
"seijuurou, please," comes spilling out of midorima's lips. it sounds alien, too young to be midorima shintarou, associate professor. it reminds him strangely of midorima shintarou, third-year teikou student. "stay."
the crestfallen look on akashi's face could've been the shadows at play. it's getting progressively darker now; night is almost upon them. he closes the distance between them in careful, measured steps - it's very much like the way he used to play shogi.
akashi's hand against his cheek feels like a knife to the heart. he's grown slightly taller, midorima notices, more tired, more beautiful. don't, yells a voice in his head. don't do this to yourself, don't waste the ten years you spent trying to---
their lips meet briefly, as smooth as two panels of ice sliding against each other, but as stinging as a whip of fire. it's just a kiss, nothing he hasn't done before, but he feels his entire being torn asunder. perhaps this is what ten years can do to you. akashi deepens the kiss, then pulls away just as quickly, whispering against midorima's lips. "i left my answer for you by the tree."
it's a long while after akashi leaves before midorima picks up the flower he'd left. he turns the asphodel this way and that, then pockets it, straightens his jacket, and leaves for dinner.
my regrets follow you to the grave.
✧
(in retrospect, midorima reflects, perhaps he's been wrong all these years. they haven't been leaving flowers in memory of the death of their love. it never died.
hope did.)