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The things that crush you always happen faster than they have any right to. Midorima knows this in an academic sense: he’s read about things like this, and he’s seen it on the ridiculous evening dramas that Takao insists on watching. But it’s always been something far removed, something that won’t happen to him or anyone close to him. Something that belongs in books and movies and not in his life.
Shuutoku is playing Seirin today, in the prelims of the Inter-High, and Midorima is on top of his game. It’s been threes and more threes, although none from full-court yet. Kagami goes for a two-handed dunk in the third quarter just because he can (he’s having fun, the idiot). Miyaji shouts something at him from across the court, but he doesn’t have to; Midorima’s already jumping to intercept. Cancer was at a respectable third place in this morning’s rankings— Leo was eighth. He’s confident he can block it.
And then, somehow, he doesn’t— Kagami slams the ball into the hoop with triumph on his face— and he falls, and it’s sudden enough that on instinct he throws a hand out to catch himself and he will never forget the sharp crack and the pain and Kagami’s confusion that quickly morphs into horror when Midorima doesn’t get up, and most of all the buzzer ringing in his ears that feels like it goes on forever.
*
Don’t worry, the doctor says to him. He’ll be able to play normally in no time at all. It’s not a severe fracture. He only has to keep the splint on and take time off practice for about four weeks and then his finger will be right as rain.
Midorima sits on the stool in silence as Takao makes a spirited attempt to break the fingers of his other hand. He lets the doctor’s speech about caring for his fingers wash over him, squeezes Takao’s hand back when she mentions the need for physiotherapy and the possibility of lasting stiffness.
He can’t afford that.
“Shin-chan,” Takao whispers. Midorima looks down at his taped fingers. There’s only tape on two of them now, the middle and the pointer, bandaged together and held arrow-straight with a wooden splint.
“Thank you,” he says to the doctor, who smiles at him sympathetically. He hasn’t actually thought of being anything other than a neurosurgeon, but now he is grimly certain that he will never be a sports doctor.
“I’ll see you in a week for a follow-up, Midorima-kun,” she says, turning her gaze to the computer screen next to her. “Don’t push yourself too hard, okay?” She doesn’t understand, Midorima thinks vaguely. No one could. Not even Takao, who seems to think that he can cancel out whatever Midorima is feeling just by smothering him with worry. The pain hasn’t gone away; it’s still there, reminding him with every burning stab that this is reality and this is the end of his basketball. He doesn’t say anything in response to her advice. The silence stretches into awkwardness.
“Thanks,” Takao answers for him after a while, and he twines his fingers with Midorima’s unhurt ones and pulls him hurriedly out of the room.
*
In the days that pass he keeps reaching to pick things up with his left hand and remembering at the last second that he can’t. When he wakes up in the morning and goes to shower, he tries to remove the taping on his fingers before he flinches back from the sight of his own hand, naked and vulnerable. Writing with his non-dominant hand is difficult. Everything is difficult.
Takao doesn’t insist on playing rock-paper-scissors before letting him sit in the cart. They go around in silence, and when Midorima refuses to even look in on practice Takao brings him to his house and they watch television with their minds elsewhere.
One day Takao is in the kitchen getting something and the golf programme on television ends. They’re showing basketball highlights now, and one of the players has just made a three-point from halfway across the court. His fingers try to curl on instinct, as if he can touch the ball through the screen, but it’s only been a week since he got injured and it still feels like fire burning from the inside out. He doesn’t want to watch someone else doing what he can’t.
He doesn’t change the channel.
“I made shiruko yesterday, with toasted mochi like you— Shin-chan, what’s wrong?”
“I—” Midorima stops. He has no idea what he wants to say. There is wetness on his cheeks that he doesn’t want to acknowledge, so he doesn’t look up when Takao sets a bowl on the table and sits down close on his right side. His bare shoulder presses against Midorima’s.
“It’s not the end of the world, you know,” Takao says eventually. At this Midorima turns to stare at him, disbelieving.
Takao, however, isn’t looking back. He’s watching the players on the television screen with a distant expression on his face. Midorima has never seen this side of Takao before. “You’re stronger than regular people, Shin-chan. This kind of thing shouldn’t be enough to stop you.”
Of all the people he knows, Midorima had expected Takao to understand the most, even if he didn’t get all of it (because of course, at the end of the day they are still different people).
“This kind of thing? You really don’t understand at all. My fingers are my life, Takao.” He clenches his right fist, nails digging into his palm. “I can’t play without them.”
“It’s not like they’ve been amputated,” Takao says lightly, nudging him. Midorima recoils from the touch.
“That isn’t the point,” he says, voice hard. Takao’s mouth twists into a smile, but it doesn’t look anything like his usual expressions. Midorima looks away. “This is why you’re hopeless.” Takao doesn't answer him immediately, and just when Midorima is about to say something possibly inappropriate Takao laughs softly.
“Maybe you’re right, Shin-chan!” He gets up, stretching. “Drink your shiruko before it gets cold, huh? I’m gonna go use the toilet.”
Midorima watches him go, confused at his abrupt departure. His teammates always complain about his lack of social graces, but even he knows that something isn’t quite right. Takao has never been the one to end a conversation with him when they’re alone. It’s a long time before Takao comes back, and when he does he only puts the guest futon out for Midorima then retreats to his own room, pleading exhaustion.
The bowl of shiruko on the table is lukewarm, by now. Midorima drinks it anyway.
When Takao sees the empty bowl the next morning, he grins at Midorima sunnily and Midorima decides he was overthinking everything.
*
In the end it’s not the therapy that’s the worst, or the way his teammates step gingerly around him as if he’ll break, or even the times when his long shots rebound off the hoop without any outside interference (though when it happens icy fingers grip his heart and his left hand trembles more than it already does). In the end, it’s how Takao never stops reminding him that he’s strong enough to get past all of this. The way he says You’re doing great as always, Shin-chan! even though Midorima’s range can’t even stretch further than the half-court line now, let alone full-court.
Today, team practice is over. Midorima wants to stay longer because he’s painfully behind; besides, his finger hasn’t started to ache yet. He’s still good for more. He picks up a ball from the bin, stares at it as if it’ll make a difference. It catches him completely by surprise when Takao steals it neatly out of his hands.
“Remember what the nice doctor said just a month ago? Don’t push yourself so hard! I know you’re miraculous and everything, Shin-chan, but you’re not invincible yet. Think of us lowly humans,” he adds with a laugh, and somehow this is the last straw. Midorima snaps.
“How am I going to be able to play again if I don’t practice extra for all the weeks I’ve missed?” He smacks the ball out of Takao’s grip with his right hand. Takao blinks at him, mouth open. The ball bounces a few times then rolls to a stop. “Do you not see how my play has deteriorated? Does it thrill you to watch me miss easy shots like— like an amateur? Is that why you’ve been so irritatingly persistent—”
“Shin-chan,” Takao interrupts, “shut up.” Midorima does, but only because Takao has never ever told him to shut up in the three years they’ve known each other. He’s stunned into silence.
“You’re so dramatic. And I’m too soft, letting you get away with this for so long. You know basketball isn’t only about three-pointers, right?” When Midorima opens his mouth to say yes, clearly, he isn’t dense, Takao holds up a hand to forestall him. “I mean, your basketball— your worth isn’t just crazy long-range precision shooting. I’d thought you got it already, you know, since we’re more like a proper team now and less Midorima and Minions. I guess Teikou conditioning is tough to beat.” He says this last with a wry smile, and Midorima doesn’t understand.
Takao comes a little closer to take his left hand gently. “This hand isn’t just a tool for winning. It’s here so we can hold it— all of us, your team. And not like, literally hold, I mean—” he coughs. “You know what I mean. You’re not playing alone anymore. For whatever you think you lack, we’re here to make up for it. It’s not like you have to rush through rehabilitation just so you can play like you used to.”
He pauses, hums softly. Midorima’s throat is tight with some unnamed emotion. “Well, actually, it doesn’t matter to us even in the really really unlikely scenario that you can’t. Your play will still be amazing— that’s why you’re our ace, Shin-chan.”
“My style is based around my ‘crazy’ shots,” Midorima says. He can feel the calluses on Takao’s fingers where they close around his. “It isn’t as though I can simply rebuild it.”
“Can’t you?”
“Don’t,” Midorima says, rough, “don’t say it like it’s so easy.”
“I never said it was. I’m just saying that you can’t keep dragging your feet about it forever, you know?”
“But I—”
“You can still play,” says Takao forcefully. Midorima’s words die on his tongue. “That’s all that matters. Yao Ming broke stuff like ten times before he retired, and those were a lot worse than a fractured finger. I told you— you’re too strong to let something like this break you.”
“I’m no Yao Ming,” Midorima retorts, but there’s no real heat in it. Takao snorts.
“No,” he agrees, “and that’s great because the high-school circuit only needs one Murasakibara. Besides, you’re still recovering. Who’s to say you won’t be able to get back your range? Just take it easy, geez.”
Maybe I’m the one who didn’t understand, Midorima thinks. Because Takao is right. He’s been too caught up in thinking of what-ifs— a silly mistake to make. He’s realized since graduating middle school that a lot of the principles Akashi lived by were flawed, but there is a line from one of his lectures to the second string that Midorima always remembers: If you assume you’ve lost before you start, you are already halfway there. He’s almost done exactly that.
“I’ll take it easy even without you telling me to do so,” Midorima sniffs. “Let go of my hand.”
“Aah, you’re such a tsundere.” Takao lifts Midorima’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles with infinite care. “Don’t worry, princess, I’ll take care of you.”
“What are you talking—”
“I will,” Takao says, over Midorima’s spluttering. “Take care of you, that is.” He looks at Midorima intently. Midorima’s fingers feel like they’re burning, but it’s not because of his injury at all. The back of his neck is hot, too.
“Will you let me?”
“I’m leaving,” Midorima says, yanking his hand back and definitely not running away. Takao’s laughter follows him out of the gym.
*
i was being srs u know, says the text from Takao later.
I’m aware, Midorima sends back. His fingers hover over the keypad for a moment before he types another message very slowly, eyes on his fingers instead of the screen. I don’t recall refusing. He presses send before he can change his mind.
shin-chan ur so cuTE HOW DO I STAND IT???? i <3 u xoxo, is the instant reply. Midorima is starting to regret responding, but there’s still something he needs to say.
Thank you, he writes, and please don’t forward this to the whole team. It’s a futile hope, proven when the next message from Takao reads: its shin-chan saying tq ofc the whole world must see it!! tehehe. Midorima sighs, but then his phone buzzes again.
always, for you, shin-chan. you know that.
Midorima looks at his taped fingers, touches them with his other hand.
“Yes,” he says to his phone, quietly, “I do now.”