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“Shiiin-chan.” Takao’s singsong voice called out the moment the doctor walked in the door. When Midorima only grunted in reply, Takao poked his head out of the kitchen; he was used to his Shin-chan being somewhat terse, but he usually at least received a word in greeting. He took one look at Midorima and winced. “Rough day at work?” he asked.
“I spent all day doing almost nothing but sutures. I swear there must have been a competition for who could end up with a laceration in the most inconvenient place for the poor doctor in charge of suturing it. There was the usual share of idiots not paying attention in the kitchen,” he grumbled, and Takao flushed, looking down at the still-healing scar on his hand from a recent kitchen mishap that had ended with him surprising Midorima at work, “and the alarmingly common gardening accidents involving saws, pruning shears, and the like. Why such a dangerous hobby remains so popular is beyond me. And of course there was the requisite case of running with scissors, the fool. But to top it all off, there was one patient who cut his hand on a book. A book, Takao! And badly enough to require suturing! How one even manages that is beyond me, and if that weren’t bad enough, he was more upset at having nearly bled on this book than he was at actually bleeding all over the floor of my ER!”
Takao waited patiently for his boyfriend to finish his outburst, having grown used to them long ago. They always made Midorima feel better, though the most recent one seemed to have done no favors to the headache he was clearly nursing. “Shin-chan, go clean yourself up and take something for that headache,” Takao said gently. “I’m making soup for dinner, but it needs to simmer for another half hour. Come back out here once you’ve changed, okay?”
“Can’t I just-”
“Please, Shin-chan,” Takao asked, making the pleading face he knew Midorima couldn’t resist.
“Fine,” Midorima groused, looking none too pleased as he walked stiffly towards the bathroom.
While he was gone, Takao moved the coffee table out of the center of their living room and spread out the spare guest futon in its place. Then he closed the curtains, dimmed the lights, and waited for his boyfriend to return.
“Takao?” Midorima asked uncertainly when he walked back into the dimly lit room.
Takao stood up on tiptoe and plucked the glasses off of Midorima’s face, replacing them with a quick kiss to the tip of Midorima’s nose. “Shirt off and lie down, Shin-chan.”
“What?”
“Your shoulders currently look like someone tried to suture them to your ears, which can’t be helping that headache of yours. Dinner won’t be ready for another half hour, and I plan to use that time to work out some of those knots,” Takao said, holding up the bottle of massage oil he had grabbed from the box of assorted tapes, wraps, sprays and the like they kept in the closet – it had originally lived in the bathroom, but years of competitive and recreational sports meant it had outgrown that space long ago.
Midorima muttered something about irritating, overly helpful boyfriends, but he removed his shirt, folding it neatly and setting it on the sofa before lying down on the futon and burying his face in the pillows Takao had set out for him.
The gentle scent of chamomile and the richer scent of jasmine spread through the room as Takao warmed some of the massage oil in his hands. The current variety was the result of more failed attempts than he really liked to think about. A couple of years ago, when he had first been considering buying dedicated massage oil, he had seen some in the hundred yen discount bins by the checkout in the drugstore. He had taken it as a sign and bought one without much thought. When he convinced Midorima to let him try it that night though, they were both horrified to discover that it was pineapple scented, and their ingrained fear of the spiky projectiles left them more tense than when they had started. To make matters worse, the cloying, artificial scent was so overpowering that it had lingered in their apartment for a week.
His next attempt had been a bottle of vanilla-scented oil, but he had forgotten that Teiko’s Phantom Sixth Man had an inordinate fondness for vanilla milkshakes. After the fifth time Midorima had interrupted the massage to make his Hawk Eye confirm Kuroko wasn’t in their apartment with them, Takao had discarded the vanilla as well.
His third attempt had been lavender, which he hoped would relax his high-strung former teammate. Unfortunately, that too had failed, and he had been subjected to a long lecture on astrological compatibilities. Because everyone knew that lavender was the flower for Gemini. Just like everyone knew Gemini and Cancer were incompatible. The lavender had joined the vanilla and the pineapple in the discards.
Before his next attempt, Takao had delved deeply into the often arcane world of astrology, but he emerged triumphant and set off in search of chamomile-scented oil. Unfortunately, when he opened the bottle in the store, he quickly discovered that he found the scent of chamomile to be sickly-sweet, musty, and generally unpleasant. Luckily, a kind, elderly saleswoman had noticed his distress, and after listening to his whole story, had suggested one of their new scents, which was a blend of jasmine and chamomile.
That night he had revealed his newest purchase, and to his great relief, Midorima had approved. Takao hoped the scent would never be discontinued; he had no real desire to repeat that adventure.
Once he deemed the oil warm enough, he began running his hands lightly over Midorima’s back, feeling the areas where the tension was the worst. “What did you do today, Shin-chan?” he asked, “I swear the knots in your shoulders have spawned knots of their own.”
“I’d like to see you suture the inside of someone’s knee without getting a crick in your neck,” Midorima grumbled.
“Fair,” Takao chuckled as he finished the first pass of his hands. “How do you want this tonight, Shin-chan?” he asked. Midorima’s preferences for massage changed with his mood, so it was always better to ask.
“I want my shoulders detached from my ears, and I want the knots gone,” Midorima said, sounding irritated that the knots even dared to exist in the first place.
“Rough it is then,” Takao said, putting more force behind his strokes. “Let me know if it’s too much.”
While he worked, Takao thought about how far the two of them had come. The first time he had given a massage to Midorima had been during the Winter Cup their freshman year when Ōtsubo had tasked him with making sure their ace was in top condition for each game. Those early massages had taken place with Midorima sitting fully clothed on the futon in their shared hotel room, and Takao would not have been at all surprised if the shooting guard had ended just as tense as he had started. Midorima had never been comfortable with a lot of physical contact, and massages were no exception. They had built up contact slowly, until they had finally reached their current point a couple of years ago.
Takao worked quietly; he always let Midorima take the lead on conversations during massage. Some nights, Midorima would want to decompress about his day and share everything, or would want the distraction of hearing Takao talk, but other nights, he preferred to think through things silently or to half fall asleep under Takao’s sure hands. Tonight was clearly one of the latter category, so Takao remained quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional grunt from Midorima when Takao dug a little too deeply into an especially sensitive spot.
Even though Midorima never hesitated to say if something was too heavy or too light, Takao still checked in from time to time. As he started working out the knots under the edges of his boyfriend’s shoulderblades, he paused. “Shin-chan, is this okay?” he asked.
“Kazunari,” breathed Midorima, “don’t stop.”
Takao nearly did stop at that, but he caught himself and continued the motion as if nothing had happened. Even after all these years, Midorima was still uncomfortable with public displays of intimacy, and that extended to often feeling uncomfortable calling people by their given name. Takao didn’t mind at all, but that didn’t stop him from remembering and treasuring every time Shin-chan called him “Kazunari.”
“I won’t, Shin-chan,” he replied quietly. He heard the timer for the soup sound in the kitchen, but he ignored it. A bit longer on the stove wouldn’t hurt it, and he didn’t want to stop what he was doing, not when Midorima was finally starting to relax.
He wasn’t sure how long he spent working, but when he felt the last of the tension melt out of Midorima’s shoulders, he made a few final light passes before sitting back and stretching out his own hands. “Shin-chan, I’m done. Are you ready for dinner now?”
“Can’t I just stay here?” Midorima mumbled.
“Not forever. You need to eat, Shin-chan, and you’ll feel better if you sleep in a real bed,” Takao said, prodding Midorima’s shoulder lightly.
Midorima grumbled and turned his head to the side to glare sleepily at Takao but made no effort to move.
“Fine, fine,” Takao laughed. “You can have half an hour, but then I’m making you get up and eat dinner.”
Instead of replying, Midorima buried his face back in the pillows. Takao quietly rose and turned down the heat on the stove until it was just enough to keep the soup warm. Then he returned to the living room, dragged a spare blanket over Midorima, and curled up on the couch to read, smiling every time he looked up from the pages to see his boyfriend asleep on the floor in front of him.