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Midorima hates losing. Nobody likes losing, nobody likes working hard for something and having nothing to show for it at the end, but in his heart, with how he feels it burn through his soul like acid, how the miasma of despair emanates from the hole in his chest and lingers around him, Midorima is almost certain he hates losing more than anybody else.
He especially hates losing to random acts of fate, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, which he recognises as hilariously, bitterly ironic, all things considered, after spending most of his life trusting in fate and destiny to bring him what he wants. He still does, despite how many times he’s been disproven, in high school, in his career, in general. He still can’t quite let go of that safety blanket, misshapen from overuse, the formerly soft fabric becoming rough and scratching incessantly against his skin, that he relied so heavily on as an awkward teenager, gangly and too tall for the doorframe of his classroom.
He sits, and he stares, and nothing changes, and he can still smell that awful smell that he knows isn’t real but it still surrounds him, and he waits, and nothing changes.
He stands up to leave, and he walks out of the changing room, and he keeps walking, and he still lost. It’s quiet now, the celebrations for the other team moved far out of the arena into more fitting venues for an NBA finals win, but some stay lingering, a few members of his team, the staff and security. Sympathetic eyes watch him as he limps slightly. His knee took a hit in the second quarter, nothing sinister, nothing he can blame anyone for, something that wouldn’t even take too long to recover from, and he thinks that might be the worst part. Another move, if the other man had landed a few centimetres away it wouldn’t have happened, if someone else had tried for that rebound at that time instead it wouldn’t have happened.
He knows that it had lost them the game. If he’d been able to play the full 48 minutes, if he was able to keep going at the rate he was going at in the first half, it would have been a sweep.
He can’t blame his team. They did everything they could; again, that funny, dagger in his side of a notion. They’d fought to their fullest extent, but there were monstrous challengers on the opposing team, monsters like him, monsters from his past that he knew inside out, monsters that first taught him just how much it hurt him to lose.
He keeps walking and he sees Takao, and it brings him back down to earth for a second, the smell changing from acrid, burning rubber to wet soil after rain. He feels his bag leave his shoulder as Takao slings it over his body, and he feels Takao’s hand rest on top of his own that he didn’t realise was clenched, relaxing it out of its position back to rest, staring down at it until his eyes cloud over with tears threatening to drop, obscuring the lines of the tape on his fingers.
“It hurts, doesn’t it, Shin-chan?” and Midorima knows Takao isn’t talking about his knee.
—
The drive home is hard, but he’s glad this wasn’t an away game, because he isn’t quite sure he could have lasted through a night in a hotel, or a flight home. Takao’s hand rarely leaves his thigh as the other steers the wheel, and Midorima stays staring ahead at the road in front of them, and still, nothing of the past changes, no matter how hard he’s willing it to.
Their house is quiet, the moonlight still shining through the open blinds, and Takao, as perceptive as ever moves to close them, but he doesn’t turn on the lights, just a small lamp in the corner so they aren’t fumbling through the dark and Midorima is grateful. The lights have already been enough for one day.
He stands, suspended just in front of the closed door, and he sighs. More than his knee hurts now, his back, his hands, his shoulders from holding his head up for so long, and he lets them sag as he limps to their sofa and sits down, taking off his glasses and closing his eyes, propping his knee up on the coffee table.
He can hear Takao in the kitchen, the soft hiss of boiling water and cups clinking softly against the countertop, the rhythmic tap of a spoon as it stirs, the sound of him rifling through their medicine cupboard and filling a glass with water, and he can hear his footsteps, those he could identify blind after all of these years, padding back through to rest the drinks and two painkillers on the coffee table next to where his leg rests, taking a seat next to him, waiting in silence, their shoulders just slightly pressed together
“Let’s go and take a shower in a minute. The hot water will help.”
Midorima just nods, picking up his cup from the table, taking the first sip, and maybe he isn’t fully burnt out inside, because he can feel it, slightly too hot still against the back of his throat, travelling fluidly through that place where he’s always felt his soul would be instead of pouring out of a gaping wound. He puts the cup down and finally turns to look at Takao, blurred by the absence of his glasses, but he has his face already committed to memory, and he can still feel him, bringing his warmed hand up to his face, resting it against his cool skin and just waiting, grounding himself there.
—
The shower is hot, and their shoulders are red as Takao lifts up onto his tiptoes, saving Midorima from bending his knee as he lathers the shampoo into his hair, pushing it back off of his forehead so none makes it into his eyes. He rests his hands softly on his waist, eyes closed, his mouth still turned down into a frown, but he’s softening slightly.
He hums at the feeling of Takao’s nails scratching into his scalp, leaning into the touch like a cat, feeling the suds run down his neck and over his clavicle, before Takao moves to run conditioner softly through the ends of his hair. He takes a washcloth while it sits, lathering it with their soap, rubbing it in comforting circles over his body, crouching to reach every part, pressing kisses into the still tender skin of his knee before standing to wash out the remaining product from his hair.
Takao turns off the shower and leads him out, wrapping a towel around his hips, handing him his toothbrush, the smell of mint filling the steamy air between them for two minutes before helping him to their bedroom.
“I’ll be back in a minute, let me just finish up. Don’t move too much.”
Midorima likes letting Takao indulge in this caring side, knowing its how he expresses his love, how he shows his affection, and it’s nice to give in on a night like this when everything hurts, but he decides to help himself too, drying off and changing into his night clothes, lying down and finding his spare glasses kept in his bedside drawer so he can see him properly again when he comes back, his still wet hair dampening the pillow, but he can’t quite bring himself to go that far as to dry it yet.
He returns, bringing with him the strong smell of mandarin and lemongrass from their shower gel, wiping at his forehead as his bangs drip water still. Midorima thinks nothing has ever smelled better, and it’s getting harder to remember how overpowering the burning was a few hours ago.
“I could have helped you with that,” he says, pulling on his own shorts and shirt to sleep in, his weight dropping onto the bed as he sits next to Midorima’s legs.
“I know. I can’t let you do everything for me.”
“I would.”
“I know.”
“Do you want me to dry your hair?” Midorima nods, allowing him that, sitting next to where Takao had just sat as he moves to grab the dryer from the shelf in their wardrobe and a hair brush.
Takao kneels on the bed behind him, pulling the brush lightly through his hair a few times to untangle it before turning on the dryer, putting it on the lowest setting so the noise isn’t too jarring despite how much longer it would take, shaking it as he softly waves his fingers through to dry it.
It’s only a few minutes but it feels like hours have passed as the warm air circulates around his ears. Everything is quiet apart from the low buzz of the dryer, and every second he feels closer to peace settling in, to moving on, to acceptance of his fate, which may have betrayed him as far as his game went, but he can’t complain, not really, as the only love he’ll ever have runs his fingers through his hair one last time before clicking it off.
“Better?”
Midorima nods and lies down before remembering the damp on his pillow from where he rested earlier, moving it onto the floor and sitting back up to reach under the bed for two of their spares, placing one under his head and another under his knee while Takao dries his own hair.
“Does it hurt a lot?”
Midorima nods again.
“The medics said it shouldn’t be too bad, it will probably take about a month to recover properly and then just a few weeks of taking it easy. I’ll see the physiotherapy team about it tomorrow.”
Takao hummed.
“You’re lucky even when you’re unlucky, Shin-chan. We’re in the off season now, you’ll have the most amount of time to rest it properly.”
“Indeed.”
“You know nothing changes about you, or your career, or anything you’ve achieved just because of one unfortunately timed injury?”
“I know that, of course. I just wanted to win this time.”
“I know. I wanted you to win too. I wanted you to beat him,” Takao said, lying down next to him, curling onto his side and throwing a heavy arm over his stomach. Midorima picks up his right arm and snakes it around his shoulders, pulling Takao’s head onto his chest.
“There’s always next year, Shin-chan, and if not, the year after that, or the year after that. I won’t keep going, but we know what you’re like. You probably won’t even retire until you’re like, 50. Thats another 25 years of trying. Do you think I’ll still be the hottest partner sitting courtside even then?”
“It’s truly ridiculous to think otherwise.”
“Ah, Shin-chan, you’re already feeling better enough to flatter me again,” he said, leaning up to press a kiss onto his jaw. Midorima just huffed out a small laugh, the corner of his lips quirking up, returning the kiss to Takao’s forehead and tightening his grip around him.
“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep tonight?” Takao asked. He was exhausted in almost every way possible, but there was still a wire somewhere in his brain sparking, and he always found it hard to switch off after times like these.
“Not easily, but I don’t think it will be as bad as usual.” That was thanks to Takao, and with the way Takao rubs his head to burrow further into Midorima's neck, he thinks the other man knows that too.
“I’ll stay awake with you.”
“Don’t be foolish, Kazunari. There’s no use in us both being awake. It’s late already, you should sleep as soon as possible.”
“Humour me, just for tonight Shin-chan,” he said, already starting to yawn into Midorima’s shirt.
“Fine, but don’t complain to me when we have to wake up early in the morning,” he said, knowing full well he’d happily listen to him whining, even if he pretended to scowl through it.
—
He lays, and he thinks for a while, and the ever ridiculous Takao snores softly where he still lays on his chest, unable to see the fondness written into Midorima’s features, and he comes back to that idea of fate and destiny. Everything does happen for a reason, even if the reason is just lying here right now.