It had been a month.
Or was it two months, 6 weeks? Takao didn't quite remember.
Thankfully for him, his work attachment hadn't spared him much time for himself. Every single hour he spent employed as a trainee teacher seemed like hell's mangled manifestation on earth. It seemed as if the workload was a living creature of evil; growing and evolving every time he managed to chip at the mountain.
Settling in front of his desk for another lunchless lunch break, he remembered that Miyaji, already a PhysEd teacher, had snorted at him once he'd confided his ambitions. Vengefully pulling the cap from his marking pen, Takao realized with a sniff; the smug bastard had known what treachery lay ahead. Only after stepping into the office did he realize, being a teacher was 90% the paperwork handled behind the scenes during break. Slowly, it occurred to him that what he remembered seeing of his own teachers in the classrooms was probably the smallest part of their jobs.
Laying his head on the desk to catch a breather, he groaned into a pile of folders lying on his desk. Those back muscles he'd pulled weeks ago weren't getting any better, his keen vision was a thing of the past, his prided 6-pack was gone, he was going to have Carpal Tunnel tomorrow, and merciful Saints above he needed a haircut. Make no mistake, Takao Kazunari was quickly breaching his limit, even if Shuutoku was his alma mater.
Sometimes, walking through the gates of Shuutoku highschool in the mornings, it felt something close to surreal seeing students, his students, greeting him while wearing the very same black gakuran and sailor uniforms he'd remembered wearing with his own classmates, not that many years ago.
His own classmates, Takao paused, desperately trying to seize that thought before it could run too far. Of all the 40 something students he'd spent his 3 years of highschool with, only one of them really stood out.
It had been a month, or was it two months, 6 weeks? Takao didn't quite remember.
After all, with his work, time just seemed to fly past him. Perhaps by virtue of that, breaking up with Sh- Midorima, had been much more painless than he'd expected it to be.
All that initial dread from being posted to Shuutoku, curses on inopportune timing, and thoughts of how badly he'd be forced to remember the once-upon-a-time Shuutoku men's basketball team ace. It'd been laughably anticlimactic how none of that ever did happen. He supposed the place had changed just enough to keep any unwanted reminiscence at bay. The classrooms were different, the courtyard was different, and by God, the gyms and locker rooms were gratifyingly different. With a snigger, he supposed that the old school really was on its last legs back then. Hadn't it been renovated from the ground up some years back, he probably wouldn't be here at all.
It took awhile for him to notice he'd even began avoiding possessive pronouns when referring to the guy, much less use his name. It was always "him", "the team ace", or "the ex", "that guy", where ever he'd coincidentally looked. It had occurred to him to check messages, chats, emails and the likes to see how long he'd been doing it. Though, that check never happened. Anything to do with Midorima just seemed like too much effort.
To be sure, it had been a rough ride during the actual feat. He remembered sitting in a corner of his room clutching his hair, he remembered panicking, crying, calling Kise, calling Miyaji, calling Momoi, calling Midorima especially, along with barrages of texts. In that light, it really was no wonder that he hadn't heard from Midorima since, considering he'd behaved like a bona fide stalker. In tranquil hindsight, Takao visibly cringed every single time he remembered how many times he'd pestered the poor guy.
He'd counted. 9 rings. The click after 9 rings didn't mean to start talking; it meant one more step into futility.
He'd hated Midorima for awhile, in all honesty, hated Midorima for leaving him with the severed end of a line they'd once held so tightly together. Though, once he'd pictured the guy in his room, staring at his computer impassively, trying not to be terrified of his phone, any resentment spirited itself away as gently as a wisp of smoke. That image, of someone he'd once thought he'd stay supporting all his life, struck him harder than any ignored call, any misunderstanding, any futile night-long wait could ever have.
It had been maybe a week or so into the struggle that he'd taken a day off work, finally. It was the first time since the panic-stricken night of phone calls that he'd contacted Kise, or anyone for that matter. In some ways he was thankful that everyone else had their own plates full. Even if he hadn't told them he'd been posted to Shuutoku, well, they knew where to find him. He wasn't ready to handle anyone showing up at his apartment unannounced quite yet.
He'd had a clear idea of what to do on that precious day off. First and foremost, a checkup at any clinic that wasn't TMU Hospital. Knowing where the ex worked proved useful in ways he'd never considered before.
Medicine down the hatch, and enough Tokuhon patches on his back that it looked comical, he'd settled down to the main event.
The physical things were the first to go. Midorima's clothes in his closet, shoes, medical books, the coffeemaker, the coffeemaker damnit, that plastic solar-powered potted plant on the windowsill, the manekineko at the genkan, a bamboo pencil holder, numerous CDs, a replica flintlock pistol he'd grown rather fond of… He'd laughed surveying the apartment after everything had been packed into boxes and mailed to Midorima's parents' home. It never did occur to him this much of his decor had been leftover lucky items.
Emails came next. Surprisingly or not, all in one go. Being a teacher had done something to the sentimental fool in him. Instead of lingering attachment, came a cringing sense of dread at how much time he'd need to spend finally spring-cleaning a multi-year-old chat log. Several clicks on his phone, and there went the entire chat history; the very one he hadn't once touched since getting his phone. His highschool phone that he'd kept just for that purpose went unceremoniously into the unflammable trash.
Along with photos, saved dates, messages, and the purikura from that once he'd managed to drag Midorima into a photobooth. Things they'd grown out of.
Riding on that thought, he'd deleted Midorima's number as well.
Feeling decidedly accomplished from his catharsis, he sat down with an instant coffee and wondered. He'd not rarely questioned, especially while they'd still been an item, what it was that had kept him so desperately attached to the other man.
During highschool it'd always been so easy to answer the questions. Why Midorima, what do you see in Midorima, how do you even put up with Midorimacchi (for all his good points, Kise was an unparalleled busybody). Takao had heard it all, but the reasons he gave in all sincerity then, upon reflection, seemed excessive and synthetic. For lack of a better explanation, he supposed he'd said what he had simply because he'd really believed it back then.
But things changed. Things always change, Takao thought sardonically, setting down his instant coffee with a 'blegh', and mentally shuffling the next months' expenses to accommodate a new coffeemaker.
Between Midorima working around the clock at the hospital, and Takao's own studies, their relationship in the past year or two had been on the rocks at best. They didn't live together either, contrary to what their seniors, teammates, and most of their mutual friends had expected. There simply was no room for Midorima's precious lucky items in Takao's tiny apartment, and commuting was a problem that neither of them had much of a financial alternative to. Midorima had stayed with his parents, Takao had stayed alone. Anniversaries weren't made into too big of a deal anymore, which seemed to suit Midorima just as well; he'd never been one for fanfare. Takao had tried at first though, naturally. When he was young and energetic, efforts seemed a fair exchange for the rare and precious little gems of reactions from Midorima. Those little gems that Takao had once treasured and seeked, though, tarnished in time like aging silver. The less time and energy he had to splurge on whims, lucky items and selfish requests, the more being with Midorima became an aching liability.
Midorima never said much. It was one of the things Takao had noticed earliest, and also one of the things that never changed, each intervening year be witness. Nothing ever bothered Midorima, nothing ever made him unhappy, he never had a bad day at work, he never had a fight with his parents, no lost patient ever bothered him… Even though, looking at the age beginning to show in his tired eyes, it seemed as of all those things, and the weight of the world, were precariously balanced on Midorima's back. With time, constantly coaxing the doctor for a response, one never to come, became too much of a chore. One Takao could no longer afford shouldering.
Thinking back, there were probably entire months where they would miss each other entirely, but still not make any particular effort to meet.
Thinking back, a lot of the time, it barely seemed like a relationship.
When Takao had calmed down enough from the initial shock to actually think about the incident, he'd began wondering why he'd panicked the way he did. Perhaps it was something to do with all the sunken cost he'd already invested into their union. The simple comfort of having something stable, unchanging, year after year. The best years of his life; he'd used to call them that, quite cavalierly.
At that moment, whenever he looked back, those so-called best years had been altered beyond repair; his mind had locked a blinker on his memories. Looking back at that time he was almost able to picture a wholesome highschool and college life, his own journey into adulthood, entirely without Midorima in it.
Though, recalling in that fashion, there wasn't much left in it at all.
Needless to say, people had been shocked. Kise and Momoi above all. Both, and several others, had made multiple attempts to contact him after he'd dropped of the face of the earth. After making an effort to disappear from his friends, he'd realized how easy it was to tell which ones really cared.
He remembered chuckling during the heated scolding he eventually got from the both of them.
In his own brusque way, Miyaji had been concerned as well. As a result, going out drinking with his senior had suddenly become quite the common affair. Both of them were teachers after all, even if they did teach different subjects in different schools, and even if Miyaji was less of a gopher and more of the next potential head of department. Same job easily meant common topics, common topics made for good alcohol fodder, which in turn meant good drunken times.
Good drunken times meant distractions.
If he were to be honest, he'd been thinking of their senior a lot in the past few weeks. He wasn't entirely sure why, but the night when Miyaji carried him home probably had something to do with it. As far as he could recall, nothing out of the norm happened; but that puke on his own shirt probably meant the journey hadn't been as effortless as Miyaji waved it off as being.
He wondered if Miyaji ever did catch on to his feelings back during highschool days, even though in his youthful ignorance he'd shoved those feelings away, quite dramatically even. Through the years, Takao did find himself not rarely plagued by a nagging feeling; that he owed their senior some explanation for cutting off almost entirely once the blond had graduated.
He didn't know how Miyaji had found out about the breakup. Nor had he a clue whether their senior was just nice enough to still care for his idiot junior at a time like this, or if he had other motives. Takao didn't know, nor was it his privilege to care. The unexpected slide right back into their previous friendship had at first caught Takao unawares, but with time and circumstance, he'd learned to enjoy it.
Finally clearing the last paper he'd brought home with him, Takao packed up his marking, prepping for that pesky morning class the next day. Marking papers was a rather mechanical process, something Takao had never appreciated. It gave him time to zone out, to think, about what inevitably came to mind. Quick glance at the clock revealed it was going to be another 4-hour night, the 8th or so in a row. With a shrug, he reassured himself he'd had worse, and plodded off to his bedroom, ignoring the calendar on the wall.
Well, no decent grown man would've marked his own birthday on his calendar anyway.
The alarm sounded, jerking Takao out of a dream that vanished the moment he opened his eyes. He could only remember Miyaji's face somewhere in it.
Takao had developed a simple way of knowing if he was late; if he woke up feeling he'd slept enough, he was in for it. Head habitually lifting up off his pillow, he mechanically dragged his person to the showers before the bedding could entice him with harmless, but equally pointless dreams of snappy blond seniors.
Homeroom gave him some time to get his materials in order before he rushed to the classroom. The day passed in a fashion similar to countless before it, lunch break had rolled along before Takao had time to even peek at his phone.
Any other day he might have ignored it entirely, even as it sat face up right on his desk. But today, it seemed to be lighting up just that much more often than usual. When he'd realized it was his birthday after reading the first message, it suddenly felt stupid that he'd wondered if some emergency had happened back home.
Kise of course had pounced on one of his weekends. Miyaji had an invitation to drinks and dinner that night. Momoi was busy with her kids but promised home cooked food ("Don't worry, I've gotten better!" she said). Naturally there were messages from Ootsubo, Kimura, some college pals. He smiled a little embarrassed at a message from Kasamatsu. Hell, even Kuroko had wished him well.
Scrolling through messages, marveling at the fruits of his social grace, the ache in his back started receding, his shoulders laxed, he sank into his seat with a chuckle, suddenly feeling a slight pang of hunger in his stomach.
And then, among the names, there was an unidentified number.
[Happy birthday, Takao.]
He wondered why his face remained impassive. His arse was still half sliding off his chair, legs stretched out comfortably in front of him, shoulders still laxed, his back behaving. He wondered, had it really been that long?
It had been a month. Or was it two months, 6 weeks? Takao didn't quite remember. As mechanically as his marking pen swept over papers, his fingers danced across the keypad.
[Thanks, Midorima!]