Work Text:
“Shin-chan, we’re going to be responsible adults!”
Midorima lifts his head from the summary of his recent Biology lecture. He drops his blue highlighter, lucky colour of today, on his writing pad. “What?”
“I got us jobs,” Takao says, pride evident in his voice.
Midorima just stares at him, eyebrows raised. “You got us jobs,” he repeats. “And a little consultation was out of the question?”
Takao just cackles at that, like he said something particularly amusing. A grey scarf lands on his head, blocking his vision from his notes. “Takao.”
“Let’s go, Shin-chan. They’re expecting us.”
A hand curls around his wrist, and Takao’s blue eyes glitter down on him. Midorima finds himself winding the scarf around his neck before he realises it. The morning sunlight surrounds him, all stark lines and bright smiles and Midorima lets one corner of his mouth curl up, too. They leave the apartment together, side by side, in silence. Takao doesn’t take off his scarf.
The bookstore, Otsubo Books, is crammed between a French bakery and a florist. Midorima examines the entrance, glass doors and a stand outside with sales. It’s fairly big, he discovers when they step inside, with a ground and a first floor counting more volumes than Midorima has ever seen in his life.
Next to him, Takao sighs. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
A large young man with black hair comes up to them. “Ah, Takao.”
Takao waves and pushes Midorima forward. “I haven’t seen you before,” the man says and holds out a large hand.
Midorima shakes it. “Midorima Shintarou.”
The man laughs. “I had a feeling. Otsubo Taisuke, nice to meet you.” He tips his head in the direction of the counter. “If you would come with me.”
They sign the contract, Takao wild and enthusiastic, Midorima apprehensive and precise. Otsubo introduces them to Miyaji Kiyoshi, who is very tall and very slim and very angry.
Especially when Otsubo announces that Midorima will take over the Literature and Science sections from him, three days a week.
“You better not fuck up, kid,” he growls. One long finger pokes in Midorima’s chest. “I’m watching you.” With that, he stalks off.
Takao turns to him, wide-eyed. “Is he always like that?” His hand hover over the spot Miyaji’s finger poked and inside Midorima’s chest grows a feeling so overwhelming it almost feels like nothing at all. Then Takao’s hand disappears and Otsubo rakes a hand through his dark hair, embarrassed.
“He’s not so bad, once you get to know him.”
(He wants to leave, feels the heavy press of despair in his gut because something in Miyaji reminds him of Aomine on his bad days, of casually thrown insults and violent threats dancing on the edge of his peripheral, but when he looks at Takao, he’s staring at the books around them with so much light in his eyes Midorima just purses his lips and glares, instead)
“Well, he’ll warm up to us, surely,” Takao says and grabs a red novel next to him. “Do we get an employee discount?”
****
Otsubo and Miyaji are laughing about something. Takao throws a grin in his direction and pours the rest of his drink in his mouth. His elbow is propped on six books, all bought today. They’ve been working in the store for three months now, and Midorima can feel himself warming up to Otsubo and Miyaji.
When he discovered that Otsubo hates reading and books in general, but has to run the bookstore because his father forces him, he was shocked. Otsubo looks like he doesn’t mind anymore, but sometimes Midorima sees him looking around the counter with something akin to misery filling his eyes. When he catches Midorima looking, he’s met with a ruffle through his hair and a caramel from the sempai. Maybe he should talk with Takao about it. Perhaps he knows what to do. No one deserves to be stuck doing something they hate, especially not someone as blatantly nice as Otsubo.
Miyaji is a whole different story. When they’re shelving, they usually ignore each other. (Midorima is still a bit apprehensive because sometimes, when the light falls on his blond hair in a particular way, Miyaji looks like Kise in his freshmen year and he’s still not sure how to feel about that.) On top of this, he’s started with threatening to hit Takao with pineapples every time he messes up at the cash register.
However, sometimes Midorima sees him reaching for books Takao can’t reach or handing him labels he can’t find. Sees him sharing pineapple-flavoured jelly beans with Takao and book recommendations like they’re dollar coins, hard to find but easy to spend and he doesn’t care that Miyaji is not nice to him. He does not care, give a shit as a certain someone would phrase it, that Miyaji scoffs and double-checks his work, as long as he is friendly to Takao.
Who is currently staring at him, glass held loosely in his hand, books tucked under his arm. Midorima watches the bob of his throat in the dimmed light of the bar.
Otsubo claps a hand on his shoulder. “Another drink for the gentleman here!” he yells and Miyaji is not glaring at him for once, just sips his drink and plays with the little umbrella. Takao slips an arm around his waist and they watch some unknown drama on the small tv in the packed bar. He turns to watch Otsubo carry four brightly coloured cocktails, sees Miyaji pluck the pina colada from his arms and waits for Takao to hand him a glass. Somewhere in his mind, the word thrums. They curl around his bones, warm and golden and grounding.
Friends. Friends. Friends.
****
Midorima sweats through dreams of red eyes. Ankles failing. Basketballs hitting his head while he desperately tries to duck. He wakes up, gasping, sobbing, and runs to the bathroom to throw up. His broken feet hurt every step from the bed to the brightly-lid toilet -all fifteen- and he wonders what happens now to him, now that he’s lost this treacherous crutch called Teiko, if he’s doomed to a life of nightmares about eyes and laughter and the dull pain of a basketball hitting his head.
The piano glows in the late-night light. He goes to sit behind it and flexes his fingers. The keys call his name, whisper names of hidden symphonies and sonatas. He presses one, testing the water. Begins to play.
“Shin-chan?” A sleepy voice startles him in the middle of his angry Bach. He turns around. Takao stands on the doorstep, clad in a t-shirt and boxers. Midorima tries not to stare at his legs.
“It’s 3 AM.”
“Ah,” Midorima says. His hand pushes his glasses further up his nose. He wants to stand up and leave, but Takao flops with his hand.
“Don’t.” He walks up to Midorima, too fast to count his steps, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Did something happen?”
Midorima puts his hands on the keys again. He starts on Beethoven. Sonata 31. “No.”
Takao snorts. “Shin-chan, you’re playing the piano. In the middle of the night. Something happened.”
He keeps looking at the keys and ignores how Takao’s presence next to him speaks to his cells like a song to the solution in their nuclei. “I had a nightmare.”
Takao hums. A warm hand wraps itself around his wrist and drag him up. “As much as I appreciate the Mozart, it looks like this is gonna be a couch conversation.”
Midorima looks at the way his face is framed by sharp shadows. Somehow Takao’s eyes look even bluer and he raises an uncertain hand up to a solid shoulder. They stand there for a while, between the couch and the piano. Half of him wants to go back and counts the steps between the leather stool and where he’s leaning on Takao now, half of him just wants it to all stop. His heart feels a lot heavier behind his ribs, threatening to fall out at any moment.
He swallows. It’s loud in their silence.
A second-hand joins the one around his wrist and Takao starts to slowly stroke his pulse point, making soothing noises every now and then. “Couch,” he says eventually.
Midorima follows him. They sink down on blue cushions and before he realises it, Takao has curled himself around his tall frame. It probably looks ridiculous. Midorima can’t breathe with how good it feels, to touch someone after being alone and cold for so long. Takao rakes his fingers through his hair. They leave small trails of warmth behind that seem to seep through his body. He makes a noise and raises his right hand to rub his eye. He’s been crying. No wonder Takao had been worried.
His mother’s voice rings in his ears; Aren’t you going to bring a friend home, Shintarou? How are your friends doing? Have you done a lot of fun things already?
Otsubo’s face flashes through his mind. He can see Miyaji leafing through a book behind the counter. Somehow the images are tinted with something. What if they just put up with him just because Takao dragged him in? And if so, what are Takao’s motives, then?
“Can I ask you something?” he rasps, brings his voice up from somewhere deep inside of him. Where he hides his feelings, where he will pocket away this: the warm touch of Takao’s fingers, the way his eyes manage to reflect the light, even in a dark room somewhere in the middle of the night.
The small hand on his head stills. “I’m glad you’re ready to talk,” he says. “So yes, ask.”
“We are friends? Am I correct?”
He almost cringes away from this body anchoring him to the couch because he’s never like this. Never uncertain. Oha Asa didn’t prepare him for this, and that thought terrifies him. (He can almost hear Akashi’s voice. “You need faith, Shintarou,” and wants to break his own fingers, one by one.)
Takao curls himself even tighter around him. His hands move from his hair, slide down to cup Midorima’s face, his cheeks. Force him to look at Takao, there on their couch. In their apartment. In the middle of their night.
Here, alone.
“Of course we’re friends.” Sharp eyes rake over him. “Where is this coming from?”
A soft exhale ghost over his neck and Midorima wishes he’d never opened his mouth, because one look at Takao tells him he knows like he knows everything.
“Did you dream about high school again?”
Apparently, he takes Midorima’s silence for the answer it is and a fist clenches next to his elbow. “You’ve got other friends now.”
Midorima snorts. “Certain? You know I’m not exactly the easiest person to deal with,” he says, tone and posture stiff, back within his shell.
Takao pokes his cheek. “Hey, they like you. You are surrounded by friends. Which is what you deserve, every day.” his voice is quiet, but the space between the words manage to drag up affection from somewhere deep inside Midorima. He should feel disgusted now that he’s so exposed for this boy in front of him, but he can’t do anything. His heart beats like a cracked window. Takao squishes his cheeks one more time and then lets his hands rest on Midorima’s shoulders. Blue eyes find his, light. Warm. It’s like that glow falls through the shards in the hidden part of Midorima (Shintarou’s, now. He’s allowed to think of himself as Shintarou with Takao there) mind and accepts whatever he finds. He’s never felt so taken care of in his life.
****
It all collapses the day Kise Ryouta’s elegant feet step inside the bookstore.
Midorima drops five books on black matter and hides behind the sociology stand. Cancer is ranked eighth today, and he’s reminded of that fact rather abruptly when Takao walks up to Kise.
“Hey, aren’t you-”
Kise turns towards Takao in all his golden-eyed glory, and then Midorima just hears silence. “Yes. Is Midorimacchi here?”
Midorima hears that voice, with his back against several books about populism and Miyaji’s sharp eyes focused on him while he tries to breathe. Kise’s voice does nothing but bring back memories from earlier nightmares, laughter echoing off walls of not-quite-empty gyms and endlessly taping his fingers in the hopes it will help him not to lose the grip on the world he has now.
All the wounds hiding beneath his skin are ripped open the exact moment he meets golden eyes, and he’s bleeding while they come closer. If Takao was here, he would probably hum the theme music to the decent shark movie he likes so much, but Takao is still gaping between the counter and this week’s recommendations.
Kise is staring at him and he’s staring at Kise and in the midst of another shogi match against himself, Akashi is cackling.
“Midorimacchi.”
“Kise.”
Miyaji has dropped the books and follows them with his sharp eyes; he looks like a lieutenant. Otsubo is god-knows-where and it bothers Midorima like he feels this newly acquired, mismatched trio is what he needs right now to be able to face someone as faceted as Kise. He used to be able to tell by the slope of the shoulders and the pause between each step which Kise was leading today, but he can’t. Not anymore.
Is this a duel? Will he and Kise pull out gleaming swords? Will Midorima finally, finally be able to sleep afterwards?
Takao slips through the air currents and molecules surrounding him, elegant and not-quite-ethereal like always and grabs his wrist. Kise follows the line of his shoulder to where fingers surround him and his eyebrows rise. Takao breathes in, deep, and for a moment Midorima allows himself to entertain an idea as ridiculous as Takao being nervous before forcing himself to be rational again and wait for action.
“What are you doing here?”
Shintarou is surprised by his tone, fierce and protective and the grip around his wrist tightens. He suddenly wishes those fingers were gripping his hand instead. Palm to palm contact would be about intimate enough to punish himself for thinking he would ever get over Teiko, to think he would ever escape these monsters, and the one inside him, as well.
Would the scorching skin of Takao’s hand be enough to absolve him of all his sins?
He wants to try it. More than anything, he just wants Takao to touch him because he feels sort of askew. Like the world suddenly spun 39 degrees in an opposite direction and he’s the only one left behind. His touch grounds him, he realises. Takao grounds him.
“I’ve had meetings with Kurokocchi for the last couple of weeks,” Kise says and rubs his hands together like he used to do in high school whenever he was embarrassed, “and I thought maybe you’d like to join?”
Shintarou lets his hand travel to touch Takao’s fingers and in a complicated move that doesn’t seem anatomically possible, they’re holding hands. Stardust crackles between their palms and blue eyes catch his. Somewhere in their grey undertones, they encourage him to do what he wants.
“Give me a time and place.” he sighs and next to him, Takao’s lips curl up into a smile.
****
Seeing Kuroko is surprisingly easy after all this time.
He’s wearing a black barista uniform and watches a dark-haired bespectacled man make some kind of complicated cappuccino. Kise has draped himself over a yellow armchair next to the window, demanding attention from his pores.
Takao is next to him, grinning. It’s hard to look away when he’s so happy all his cells seem to celebrate every second. Midorima almost wants to snap at him, punch him. Why is he so ecstatic at the thought of Midorima reuniting with his old friends? He realises Takao will always be the happy one out of the two of them, and the urge floats away.
He fixes his eyes on Kise and sits down. Takao follows him, flunks himself in the chair next to him. A hand lands on his knee. It gives him a brief squeeze. “I’m gonna get a latte and catch up on my reading. Behave, Shin-chan. I’ll be over there.”
“I don’t see why you need to remind me of that fact, Takao. Since I can see you perfectly fine from here.” Shintarou pushes his glasses up his nose. The rude snapped words just left his mouth, but somehow he’s sure Takao understands their meaning.
Takao tsks. “This is just Shin-chan’s tsundere way of admitting he is, indeed, nervous and appreciates my support?”
Midorima just rolls his eyes at that, but he has to will down a smile. “Go get me an americano.”
“No need, Midorima-kun.” Kuroko’s blue eyes stare up at him, steaming cup in his hand. Does he remember Midorima’s coffee order? For a second, he feels out of his depth here, but then he takes the cup.
“Thank you,” he says, carefully, dangles it in front of him like the peace offer it is.
Kuroko takes it. “You’re welcome.”
It’s accompanied by a small smile and his pale, small hands fold themselves around his own mug. Midorima notes absentmindedly that it’s a vanilla latte and does a double-take. Apparently he remembers, too. It throws him off, the way Teiko has settled in his bones, the way their old habits are ingrained in his brain cells.
He turns his face away and looks at Takao instead. He’s sitting at the bar, books open in front of him and chatting with another dark-haired barista. His arms fly around and his eyes are lighting up in a way that’s familiar, comforting.
Kise clears his throat. “What are you majoring in, Midorimacchi?”
“Medicine,” Midorima says. He plucks at the fraying tape on his left hand.
Kuroko makes an interested sound. “Do you want to be a doctor, Midorima-kun?”
Midorima nods. “And you two?”
“Photography,” Kise says. “Once I discovered the other side of the camera, I just had a feeling that was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.” Midorima looks at him, the curve of his shoulders. There’s a camera on the table with them. Occasionally Kise’s hand drifts towards it, slides over it as if it gives him strength.
Kuroko takes a sip of his vanilla latte. “I have an internship at a kindergarten.” Midorima sees him doing it, his quiet deadpan demeanour around all those screaming kids, and somehow it fits. (In all seriousness, if he can handle Aomine Daiki and Murasakibara Atsushi, no toddler will form a real challenge anymore.)
The afternoon passes in a quiet, warm daze. Kise shows them a couple of photographs on his phone and Kuroko tells stories about children. Midorima switches from americanos to black tea halfway through and talks about dusty professors. A loud, red-haired man comes to bring them muffins and when he looks on his watch, it’s suddenly half-past three.
“Jesus, is it this late already?” Kise looks on his watch and hurriedly shoves his camera in his bag. “I promised Kasamatsu-senpai I would look over some layouts with him.” In the middle of pulling on his jacket, he freezes and turns to Midorima.
“Same time next week?”
Midorima rolls his eyes. “Just give me your phone number and I’ll contact you.”
Kise throws him a smile so bright Midorima kind of wants to punch him. “Alright, Midorimacchi! I knew you’d come around.”
Kuroko puts a hand on his shoulder. “It was nice to see you again, Midorima-kun.” He looks down into those strange blue eyes. “Yes,” he replies. “Yes, it was.” To his surprise, he’s not even lying.
Behind a head of blue hair, Takao throws him a thumbs up.
****
Now he’s meeting up with Kise and Kuroko regularly, things change.
He can feel himself relax more and more. The lucky items are stuffed in a bag or pocket and not clutched in his hand anymore, and he only plays the piano to amuse himself.
The rigid study schedules and routines loosen up a bit and sometimes he even goes out to dinner with Takao and thinks about nothing but food and how the fairy lights look in the dark.
Takao notices like he notices everything, and Midorima catches secret smiles in his direction. He pretends he doesn’t know because otherwise he will stop and Midorima likes those little mysteries between them. Thinks he should like that smile more often.
Right now, Takao has dragged him to the library. Midorima slides his finger over the hairs of yellow toothbrush in his pocket and turns to watch him argue with a librarian, all arm gestures and frowning eyebrows. Takao returns, sulking.
Midorima takes three steps and one step back. Old habits die hard, and Takao’s expression is making him nervous. “Why are you looking like that?”
Blue eyes crinkle. Takao rubs a hand over his neck and sighs. “Shin-chan, considerate as always. Someone already borrowed the book I’m looking for.”
His shoulders slump in a horrible curve downwards and somewhere in the distance, Midorima’s too-small diamond heart breaks a little bit.
He glares. “That’s impossible. You own an estimated amount of five thousand books.”
Takao laughs again. His eyes don’t and he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, not this one. Can’t do anything about it.” he shrugs and cocks his head. His cheek and shoulder connect for a brief minute and everything inside Midorima screeches to a halt because he’s never seen Takao like this.
“What was the name of the book?” he asks, already turning around. Takao runs to keep up with him.
“The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Where are you going?”
There is an English bookstore nearby. Midorima bought his anatomy books there. (He used to buy his sports magazines there. Aomine and Kise always fought about who could borrow it from him, all scrabbling hands, arguing voices and it would always end with Midorima handing them to Kuroko instead.)
He steps inside and loses all thoughts about high school. The store clerk looks at him, eyes a little bit wide. He can’t imagine what kind of expression he has on his face right now.
“The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” Midorima says. Orders. The girl’s footsteps echo on the wooden floor and Takao is gaping at him.
“Shin-chan?”
Midorima fights the blush that threatens to spill over his cheeks. “The lucky item for Scorpio is your favourite book,” he lies and pushes the toothbrush a bit further into his pocket.
The walk to their apartment is silent. When he looks at Takao, he’s clutching the book in his hands. His knuckles are white.
“Be careful,” he says. “You don’t want to damage it.”
Once they arrive at the apartment, Takao walks to the nearest bookcase and places the book carefully on top of a row of German literature.
Midorima wonders, if their hearts were telepathic, what would they say to each other right now? And he knows what all these random bursts of affection mean, knows what it means when he wants to smile whenever Takao strolls into their kitchen in a white lab coat and several black pens stuck in his sock. Knows that Takao is a beautiful, leather-bound volume of everybody’s favourite book, while Shintarou is a second-hand thrift store paperback like the ones they’ve got hidden in the back at Otsubo’s. The only thing he can do is gaze upon that beauty, enjoy it, protect it from the outside world.
It’s been five weeks since he’s last missed Teiko.
There is a chunk of warmth stuck in his throat. He wonders if Takao feels it, too.