There is nothing else that pisses Takao Kazunari off more in the world than Midorima Shintarou.
There is also nothing that makes him so frantic and desperate than Midorima Shintarou.
Hell, there is nothing that can equal the amount of pure anger and agony that he chokes on sometimes, invisible bile rising up in his throat, eyes narrowing as he breathes out a soft "Hey, Shin-chan.", to Midorima's retreating back (always, always.)
Everytime that the ball leaves those bandaged fingers, Takao always has a split second of impulsive wishing don'tgoindon'tgoingoddammitdon'tgoIN- as the ball soars through the air, glorious in its dappled light and solo weightlessness, (always, always) landing in the basket.
So Why?
Maybe because he thinks that if Midorima can miss, even once, then Takao has a chance of even chasing after the generation of miracles.
"Hey, Shin-chan." He had once languidly called, perched on the broken fence by his house. Midorima huffed in response, which Takao took as an initiative to continue on.
"Have you ever missed a basket?"
"What kind of question is that?" Midorima scoffed, looking at him with flat disbelief. "You should know the answer by now."
Takao smiled sadly.
The interhigh was going their way, games after games blurring together and Takao no longer knowing which game he called "SHIN-CHAN" the loudest after the mandatory victory. Being the king of the west had its advantages; winning was the prize of their sweat and bones. But after game after game of seeing faces fall at Midorima's flawless shots and posture have left behind Takao's sense of pride long ago, and before he knows it, he starts seeing himself in every 'victim', seeing himself crack through Midorima's eyes.
Maybe being the generation of miracles wasn't a blessing after all, Takao thinks to himself, chewing on a popsicle and watching Midorima argue into his phone.
So much pressure and anticipation, hearing your name called out from the stands in an adoring frevor, because the cries of "Midorima Shintaro" will be far more prominent than any calls of "Takao Kazunari" might stand.
So Why?
Watching Midorima practice, reaching in the bin for a ball even as the last one had barely left his fingers was something breathtaking and surreal in itself; pure and utter silence, broken only by thuds of basketballs hitting the floor. At those times, Takao felt like he was intruding on something intimate.
The goddess of basketball probably didn't love Midorima, Takao mused-he had probably forced himself on her instead. He snickered to himself, earning a exasperated glare from the other.
So why?
How come Takao couldn't do what he wanted best? He probably cared 100-no, 150% more than Midorima could ever.
So Why?
So why was Midorima bent over his bed, holding onto him so utterly, painfully, gently?
"Isn't it funny," Takao started, rasping
"how day by day nothing changes, but-"
"When you look back, everything is different?"
That must've happened. He decided. Because from the Midorima he first met, there was no way the sobbing one in front of him was the same being. Sure, the hair was the same; there was no way anyone else could have such utterly stunning eyes as those.
So Why?
"Hey," Takao sighed, turning his head closer to Midorima, almost bumping their foreheads together. "I really hate you, you know?"
Midorima continued gasping and stuttering for words to come out as Takao's eyes slowly closed, fingers stilling in his, head lolling back.
"It was your fault, idiot." Midorima hissed, squeezing his pale fingers. "You just had to go rescue that goddamn cat."
"It...was your lucky item, wasn't it?" Takao's voice was quiet, so much that Midorima had to lean in even further to hear. Takao's breath tickled his earlobe. "Always the best for my Shin-chan, didn't I always say?"
The last thing he heard was the shrill scream of a flatline.