There had always been muttering in his head, little ticks and obsessions that had Midorima lying in bed thinking 'Did I lock the door yet? Did I turn the lights off yet? Did I lock the door yet? Did I brush my teeth yet? Did I lock the door yet?' every night. Bandaging his fingers so dirt and germs and air couldn't touch them; couldn't damage or flaw the one weapon he had honed and maintained, that made everything else suddenly a competition of perfection. Suddenly, fingernails perfectly filed down to the millimeter on his left hand wasn't enough anymore; his hair had to be perfectly parted, not a section, not even a single green strand out of place. His glasses had to be perfectly polished, without a smudge or even a puff of breath obscuring their crystal clarity. When he tied his shoelaces in the morning, he had to start with the left one, and put that foot out his door first when he left his home, painstakingly stepping over and around every crack in the sidewalk.
It took him so long to get to school that way that he typically missed the first two bells. It was suggested to him that he bike to school, but then there was no escaping the cracks, no avoiding that he sometimes started down the sidewalk with his right foot first, and when he got his meticulously tied shoelace tangled around one of the pedals, flipping the bicycle over on top of himself, he promptly gave up on that.
When he saw Takao, all the voices in his head went quiet. He was infuriated by how boisterous and careless the snickering idiot appeared to be, but despite himself, all he could think about - all he could obsess over - was the symmetrical curtains of black hair, the one little perfect flaw of a stray eyelash, somehow beautifully contrasting with his cheek. He caught himself staring at him in class, for exactly eight seconds at a time, watching the slant of his slender eyebrows and the squint of his silvery eyes, the curl of his smirking lips. He just had to talk to him….much as he dragged his feet managing that.
When they bumped into one another in the hallway, before the fool could start jabbering, Midorima got in the first words.
"Come with me after practice."That didn't sound right, not specific enough, so he asked again, "Do you want to get something to eat after basketball practice?" That was too long, too wordy; still not right.
He must have tried six different variations of the same question, in about thirty seconds. Takao had agreed after the third time, but then just waited for him to find a proposition that sounded perfect. He did think he saw the idiot laughing at him gleefully behind those pale, narrow eyes, but he didn't do so out loud until he was finished, following the chortle up with a repetition of his acceptance. The way his mouth edged up on the sides and his teeth flashed when he said "Yes," had Midorima actually asking him to say it again...five more times. Takao seemed to think this was terribly funny, but did as he asked nonetheless.
When they went to dinner together, Midorima spent more time arranging his silverware, folding his napkin, and sorting his food by color and then size than he did actually eating...or talking to the man across the table from him. Takao chatted enough for the both of them, laughing loudly at his own jokes and slapping the table in his mirth, but he also watched what Midorima did with interest. Those eyes, those sharp, ever-moving eyes, darting from his pile of rice with all the vegetables carefully picked out to his face and back. Those bird-of-prey eyes were enough to drag Midorima's own up from his plate, for him to notice that his food was organized enough, and remember to at least put some of it in his mouth.
When they left the restaurant, Takao waited for him to decide which foot he should lead with when walking away from the table, slowed his pace beside him so he could step only on the red tiles on the floor, and moved to the side so he could open the door with his right hand, instead of his bandaged left. He didn't ask why these things had to happen, just accommodated for them with patient, amused silence; giggling annoyingly but not questioning.
Walking home, Takao stopped with him at every crack in the sidewalk, waiting for Midorima to decide a path around them before going on. It took them two hours to get to Midorima's house, and then Takao still had to walk all the way home himself, but he said nothing except a cheery "See ya tomorrow, Shin-chan!" before heading his own way, whistling a tune that looped unevenly, wonderfully, every three and a half bars.
A tune that stayed in Midorima's head - replacing the muttering of 'Did I fold my socks yet? Did I wash my hands yet?' - for several days.
They had about twelve first kisses in a row, a week later. None of them felt quite right, so Midorima re-did them to compensate for the little mistakes; making it perfect. Only when he drew away for the umteenth time to see those expressive eyes dancing with laughter and teasing fondness did their noses bumping, lips not quite lining up, not bother him so much anymore. He still tried it again four more times, just to be sure, and Takao didn't ask, didn't complain; giving him the same contact, the same angle with those soft, smirking lips every time.
He loved it. The quirks and ticks that drove everyone insane; it was plain to see that Takao adored them. He took Midorima to school, and just about everywhere else, by rickshaw. On the street, avoiding every crack on the sidewalk - and he did complain and pant dramatically with exhaustion, but continued to do so regardless. He zipped his lips when Midorima took his fifteen minutes in the morning to listen to the day's horoscope, let him kiss him goodbye sixteen times, sometimes more. He stood on his right side instead of his left to hold his unbandaged hand when they walked together, sometimes refraining from holding either if the day's lucky item was particularly large. But he still curled his fingers just slightly - in the way that Midorima imitated on top of his desk - as if lacing their fingers together in his mind.
Whenever he came over, he was always careful to leave things where they were, because if he so much as knocked over a book, Midorima would spend the next half an hour rearranging the whole shelf, until it was to his liking; refusing Takao's help if he offered it, saying simply that he had to make it perfect. So Takao would sit beside him, a hand lazily resting on his shoulder or thigh, and watch him alphabetize the volumes by author, then by title, and then group them together by genre or thickness. And when he was satisfied, and stood back to admire his handiwork, Takao would smile with him, or just shake his head and snicker to himself, but say nothing. He didn't even show the flash of offense Midorima expected, when he caught him spraying down everything he'd touched with disinfectant when he left. Because he knew the only thing he touched that Midorima didn't immediately wash free of him afterwards was Midorima himself.
When he spent the night, he commented with a smirk that he felt safe in Midorima's home, because he'd watched him lock the door at least a dozen times, testing the handle each time to see if it budged even an inch. He'd gotten up and moved from every place they sat or lay to make out, because Midorima said the couch or the bed or the kitchen counter weren't right, so they ended up sprawled on the floor, endlessly rehearsing kisses, perfecting every touch. And Takao corrected himself without a word when Midorima said he'd moved too fast, used too many fingers, or should have circled that place counterclockwise instead. But certain things he let slide, and Takao noticed. Noticed that he didn't count the seconds between slow kisses under his breath, didn't check to make sure they were three squares from the edge of the carpet, didn't stop to take his glasses off and clean them on his shirt when they misted up with their shared breath. Eventually, they did move to the bed, and Takao laid spread-eagled on it and closed his eyes as Midorima obsessively flicked the lights on and off, over and over, a grin spreading on his face as familiar laughter bubbled in his throat. He said he was imagining days and nights passing before him rapidly, imagining the years they would spend together.
When Takao said he loved him, his mouth turned up at the corners, like when he'd said "Yes," to the repeated question, the first question, months and months ago. And, like then, Midorima asked him to say it again, and again, until his lover was giggling too much to be articulate anymore, rolling on the floor where they had kissed and touched without Midorima washing his hands or changing his shirt afterwards. And when Midorima leaned over him to capture those upturned lips stretched tight with laughter, he let Takao take off his glasses and press their mouths together harder, imperfectly, messily; let his hands rake through his hair, messing up all the neatly combed strands, let his tongue into his mouth without thinking of toothpaste and mouthwash. He let his hands skim down his chest, not caring if they were in sync or used all the fingers, or slipped under his shirt.
When they made love for the first time, he didn't disinfect the sheets.
He couldn't stop tracing the fluid curve, the shallow M of Takao's lips, on his pillow beside him at night, on the edge of the basketball before he made a shot, on those perfect lips themselves. He couldn't stop thinking of how he hooked his index finger in the back of his shoe as he slipped it on, how he opened doors like he was giving a handshake.
But some mornings, he stopped curling his fingers just slightly at his side, as if lacing their fingers together in his mind. He left after one imperfect goodbye kiss, leaving fifteen unfinished ones, his silvery eyes no longer dancing with amusement. He kept walking when Midorima stopped at the cracks in the sidewalk, muttering that he was going to make them late. When he said he loved him, he said it once, and his mouth was a straight line.
He stopped spending the night, stopped moving when the place they were making out wasn't right, stopped sitting by Midorima's side when he rearranged the bookshelf; the hand resting on his shoulder or thigh absent. He said it was taking up too much of his time, that all the ticks and habits were just silly worries, and he said it without the familiar laughter in his throat.
Eventually, when even walking a few steps ahead of Midorima made Takao an hour late for a job interview, he sighed and said that it had all been a mistake, that he shouldn't have let him get so attached. Midorima didn't ask him to say it again, and he didn't, but the message was clear. They stopped walking home together. Midorima stopped looking at him for eight seconds at a time in class, stopped tracing the shape of his lips on his pillow, and the basketball before he took a shot. The last time he did, his hand shook so badly that he missed.
Two weeks later, he saw Takao walking down the hall with a girl. Heard his bubbling laughter at one his own jokes, saw his fingers curled just slightly, laced together with hers on her left side. Saw the shallow, curving M of his lips, and knew he had been kissing her. Couldn't breathe, because she didn't care if it was perfect. She wouldn't ask him to say it again, when he said he loved her, or turn the lights on and off while he lay grinning in her bed, imagining days and nights flying by; the years they would spend together. She wouldn't spray everything he touched down with disinfectant, except herself, and it wouldn't matter. None of it would matter.
He walked home in under thirty minutes, passing right over the cracks in the sidewalk. Couldn't see them anyway, with how his vision blurred, and didn't polish the lenses of his glasses when they spotted with tears. His hands, both unbandaged, shook too badly to hold today's lucky item, and it took a moment to remember he hadn't brought it with him anyway. He couldn't hear voices, he couldn't hear questions and ticks, all that filled his head was the repeated statement, "I love you, Shin-chan," as many times as he wanted to hear it, as many times as he needed to hear it to make it perfect…and a cheery, whistling tune that looped unevenly, every three and a half bars.
He couldn't stand it, he just wanted to see those laughing silver eyes and symmetrical curtains of black hair, the eyelash a perfect little flaw on his cheek. He wanted to tell him he loved him a hundred times, and hear it back after the third one. He wanted his silent, amused patience, his lips upturned and tight with laughter, his hands touching him out of sync, with all the fingers.
When he stumbled inside, he left the door unlocked.
When he collapsed on his bed, he left the lights on.
-Shinsun