Hi. So, like, I didn't really think I could do this but uh…well. Here we are.
So the title was shamelessly taken from something my 4th year polsci teacher shared on my newsfeed in fb the other night (am I the only one here who friends teachers on facebook hahaha gosh I hope not) and well it's defined as a 'fundamental change in approach or underlying assumptions' that I couldn't help but think to myself that maybe I could use this fic to clarify certain moments as well as provide an alternating perspective on various scenes from the anterograde universe of twice begun.
Many thanks to my fellow panget buddy whaddapack for his glorious insights and expert advice bc he's the one who suggested I do something like this
V. IMPORTANT: This story, featuring Midorima's point of view, is a spin-off of the anterograde universe in Twice Begun. This fic will probably still make sense to you if you read this on its own, but I /highly/ suggest you read TB first before you proceed with this to better comprehend everything. [also bc #feelz]
Again, it is written in future tense + a 2nd person POV. [to the boy who began to beta for me when i was in that pathetic age of around twelve or thirteen i am so sorry….i disobeyed.] Again, this fic features dual interpretation. Again, I do not even know or understand what I am doing – both with this fic and/or with my life.
I really tried my best to keep it as closely linked to 2Begun as much as possible, so there will be repeating scenes from there here, rewritten/narrated with only minor changes. I've tweaked some of them, too, because I wanted to recreate the effect of how people who go through the same experience will each remember things a tad differently from the rest. I hope you don't feel cheated by this.
disclaimer: i don't own kuroko no basuke
"Good morning, Takao," you'll say.
(This is the story of you, and the boy you began to fall for when it was too late.)
-x-
Now, you may not have realized it at the moment it has started, but the story of your award-winning arabesque romance begins simply. It begins with the most ordinary, and yet, at the same time, the most unorthodox of methods.
You see, my dear, it begins with a nightmare.
(It begins with Takao.)
-x-
Let me tell you how you'll fall in love.
The day is a Saturday, and it will begin with you working in the kitchen to prepare lunch. Your mind is never fully awake to rationalize enough not to risk burning yourself in the time it takes to make breakfast. (Also, you'll be too glued to the TV to tune into the morning program of Oha Asa that you wouldn't even bother to think about stepping into said kitchen, much less try.) You'll pre-heat the stove, toss meat in the frying pan, and set to work with the magic of your cutlery and some fresh ingredients. The scent will waft through the air and your roommate will stir; as he can always be found napping on the couch whenever he waits for you to finish preparing your meal.
You'll serve bibimbap, bulgogi, and kimchi. Lots and lots of kimchi.
"Hey, Shin-chan?" he will call out to you in the middle of the meal. His chopsticks will hover over the rice and he will not hesitate to continue chewing as he speaks. You'd probably have to remind him to swallow first. But for now, you will pause, muttering a soft yes, Takao? and comply.
"Is it ready yet?"
"Mm, I've made your favorites," you'll hum as you tell him. Then, you'll promptly set the plates and your drinks – one glass of orange juice for him and one canned oshiruko for you – after which, you'll insist that he eat up.
'Really, you did?" he will stutter in between mouthfuls, dubiously. The silly boy probably doesn't even know what they are. But, as you will note, he will heartily partake in the very hefty serving of pickled cabbage that you'd have offered him. In fact, it comes as no surprise that he'll even ask for seconds. (He used to blame it on basketball metabolism, you remember; but even now, you and I both know that he's always been such a glutton.)
He will praise you for your meal; he'll say that it tastes amazing.
"Of course it does," you will scoff, attempting to conceal the heated flush that overwhelms your cheeks. You refuse to give in to such petty emotions. "Man proposes and God disposes. This is only to be expected."
(But to be honest, frankly, you're horrible at cooking.)
Takao is only slightly better, of course, but his problem at hand is that he remains unfamiliar as to how to work around with the home appliances. Based on your past experiences, however, all the apples you slice rust before you're done, the eggs you make always incomprehensibly explode in the microwave, your rib-eye steaks are too undercooked, your fish fillets too over-fried, your miso soups always a tad too bland, and your pancakes inevitably turn into something inexplicably crisp and burnt to the point that they no longer turn golden, and instead look brown.
(Not even your lucky items could save you in the kitchen, as fate frowns upon you and your hands remain, consistently, in an alarming and very much regrettable state of disarray.)
"You're really good at this, you know," he will tell you as he takes the last bite of his lunch. "Seriously. Shin-chan, I think you could even go pro."
But after nearly two years, four months, and ninety-two hours of preparing the exact same set of dishes each day, everyday, you will find your skills in that department slowly but surely becoming tastier – more decent. Not exactly 'amazing,' per se, but at least safe enough for human consumption.
"Please," you 'll chide, biting back a smile. "Do not be a fool, Takao."
-x-
Cancer's lucky item will be carrots. Sagittarius', a pair of glasses. For Aquarius, a book; for Leo, a dog…
In other news, Scorpio's happens to be 'something green.'
-x-
You can invite him to go with you to buy groceries for the night's dinner, as well as your/his 'lucky items.' (You'll probably feel very lost without them.) You know that, in the case of the latter, Takao will not really want to buy them. He may even want to decline. But what is surprising, really, is that he will still agree. Oftentimes even placing a bet, or a wager. In most cases, you'll give in anyway, unable to control yourself from placating both your own as well as his paltry, selfish whims.
"Okay, Shin-chan," he will say to you, grinning, as he cedes. "But only if you pedal our rickshaw."
You will find yourselves walking on the street in no less than three minutes after that conversation. The rickshaw will remain at your home, abandoned in the alley nearby.
-x-
(You'll be amazed that Takao even remembers the damned thing. But there's no way you'll be pedaling around the streets of the Tokyo metro in that ancient contraption, so you'll tell him it's broken. It wouldn't hurt him – and more importantly, your pride – to recite such a simple – albeit, blatant – white lie.
.
.
.
Also…has anyone ever told you before that you're actually a really difficult priss?)
-x-
"Do you hate me, Shin-chan?" a voice will ask you quietly, the same way it did some time ago on a certain spring morning early in the day. You'll wonder if something as simple as a nickname could ever make a difference.
(It does.)
You'll shake your head. "You're annoying, but…no, Takao, not in the slightest. Not even at all."
-x-
You'll head to the grocery and scour through the aisles in order to find your supplies. A promo poster featuring Kuroko's latest novel will be advertised on the glass window, near the cashier counter and a couple of bookstands and shelves. (How fitting, you'll pause for a moment in order to reflect, that it is today's lucky item for him.) You will proceed to pick up an assortment of items from your last-minute-scrawled-in-horrible-med-school-handwriting grocery list. They are, namely: a bottle of Kikkoman liquid seasoning, a carton of eggs, fresh meat, carrots, strips of Kobe beef, shallots to substitute garlic, a packet of table napkins, two sets of disposable chopsticks, and to add some more flavor, a couple of bell peppers to spare.
When you reach the counter, you'll quickly nab the first thing that catches your eye – a green toothbrush decorated with a frog and mainly designed for children below the ages of 12 but not lower than 2. You may want to buy it for Takao. You can, actually; it's totally fine. Go ahead. He doesn't have his lucky item yet, you'll think, and perhaps for now this will have to do.
Without a moment's hesitation, you will dump it into your basket, straight into the pile.
(Besides, it's not that hard to associate him with that age group, too. For as long as you have known him, Takao has proven to you – time and time again – that he most certainly has the same mentality and even attention span as that of a child.)
-x-
You will estimate the time to be half an hour past five when you finish shopping for your groceries, and by then, the sun will be setting and you will be walking together in silence. The streets will be less crowded, and the sky will start the dim. The atmosphere around you will unsettle you both. At some point, Takao will even ask you if you two can hold hands.
He will look at you, hopeful, when he says that he prays you won't laugh at him for this. He'll even make you promise and say to him that you won't. Do you take me for a fool of course I won't, you'll tell him.
(But, knowing you, I'm sure you still will.)
-x-
"You're an idiot, you know that?" you'll tell him as you laugh.
(Your hands will feel warm cradled against his.)
-x-
You'll promise to head to the park immediately afterwards – you say this to him earlier, only mere seconds before you had both entered the realms of the supermarket. It will take you ten minutes to finish paying everything at the counter, and another six minutes to make your exit. The plastic bags will feel heavy as you strap them to the crook of your wrist, freeing your fingers to grasp and open the doors' handlebars. The sign reads 'push,' you bumbling idiot – not 'pull.'
(This moment in your day never makes for a pleasant memory. We can just move on and skip ahead to the next scene, if you'd like.)
Takao will follow you wordlessly, as you stroll through the cosmopolitan outdoors. He'll release stunned gasps in breathy exhales, taking in the sights of the scenes before him like an outgrown child smitten with nostalgia, viewing the world for the first time in a very long time. Whenever you go here, he always does that.
(Let's not talk about it.)
When you make it to your destination, you will leave him behind to rush to the abandoned court across the street.
(On second thought, nevermind. I think we should.)
-x-
Hesitantly – though you try to hide it at first – you will call out to him, unwrapping your bandages and the tapes on your fingers before you hold up a basketball and cradle it in the palm of your hands.
He'll raise his head, lift his gaze, and set his eyes straight towards your direction. He doesn't remember anything about you – with regards to this world and what is perhaps the most valuable facet of your history and relationship and what/how much exactly you mean to each other, be it now and in the past – yet. Perhaps one day he will. Until then, you will hold out the hope and continue to bring him here, each day, everyday, never failing to repeat the same question to him again and again and again.
"Takao," you will ask, "would you like to go one-on-one?"
(Do not cry when you do.)
Sorry, he will answer shyly, and tell you that he doesn't know how. Today, again, he will decline your offer – but he will hold out an invitation, somewhat vaguely, for you to perhaps one day teach him.
At this, do not say anything and instead plaster on a smile. (It will be hard – it always is – but I urge you to be strong enough to hold back your tears for just a little while longer and at least try.)
You do this everyday. You should be used to it by now.
"Ah, of course," you will reply hoarsely before throwing the ball. Your throat will feel raw, heavy and thick as though a rock has lodged itself so deep inside your system that you feel like you are on the brink of death, though instead you will only manage to give a choked, mangled sigh. Regardless of the pain, you will numb yourself to it; a desperate attempt to perfect your form and ensure that the ball will reach the hoop in the most optimum of trajectory arcs ever possible, landing you yet another a flawless, well-calculated shot.
"My apologies, then," you will promise him, "Perhaps next time, Takao."
(Again, I repeat: do not cry when you do.)
-x-
I'm in love with you, he will say.
Why? you may feel you want to ask, but cannot bring yourself alone to muster.
He will take you by the lips, by surprise; you will let him. Your heart will pound and your head will grow dizzy and your chest will soar with a wave of emotions, a plethora of something electric and happy and gentle and fierce. It will feel warm, even, for a man normally as cold as you – and by the time you gasp for air, long after the both of you let go, that feeling will still remain, and it will linger.
(And it will fester and it will burn and you will feed it like a fire.)
Somewhere along the way, you will realize that you, too, feel the same.
-x-
(Takao was the one who told you you'd never have to cry.)
(Takao was the one who promised you he would never have let go.)
((Takao, you now most certainly believe, had lied.))
-x-
"Tell me, Shin-chan. Am I burden to you?"
He will ask you innocently one night, when the two of you are propped up on the couch and he is watching NHK reruns on the television screen and you are reading your book – Osamu Dazai's classic retelling of 'Hashire, Melos!' as a requirement for your Japanese Literature 116 course on 1940s publications. Your heart is not ready for this; his words will render you speechless.
You will look at him and blink. Soon enough, it will appear to him as though you have developed an affinity for staring at the ground.
The hours will pass awkwardly. Dinner will probably have to be cup noodles, as you will realize you two have forgotten the carrots and groceries at the park. The tension will build and will cause you to squirm uncomfortably. The silence will be stifling, and soon enough, you will have reached your limit.
"Shin-chan—" he'll call out to you moments before you usher your self out the door in order to take a breather and leave. Your conversation will end abruptly, and soon, only the boy will remain, alone in the darkness and the solitary confines of your shared apartment.
(You can always come back, you know.)
And until you do, as always, he will wait for you.
-x-
Later, when you return, he will stare at your face and poke at your skin and prod at your cheek so much it'll become irritating. He'll point out the bags hanging underneath your eyes, and you will feel tempted to lecture him about the necessity of decorum. Again. Give in. Though, I warn you – it's not like he'll listen to you this time anyway.
"Is there something wrong?" he will ask, worrying his lips as he looks at you, charcoal-shaded brows furrowing in concern.
"No," you'll answer stiffly, "it's nothing of the sort, Takao. Just go to sleep."
"You're upset," he will certainly rebut. (He's stubborn like that, as you very well know.)
"No, of course not." (Unfortunately for him, so are you.)
"You look upset," He will remark, slightly apprehensive as he proceeds with caution. "Maybe, angry…are you angry?"
"I have to wake up early to view our lucky items on Oha Asa tomorrow, Takao." You will reason, "I'm just tired. Let me rest."
"But—" he'll whine, and you'll halt him as you stand up to make your way across the room, rolling out a futon and putting yourself to bed.
"Good night," you'll hiss.
"Shin-chan, I—"
"Good night, Takao."
-x-
At night, you'll dream.
There was an accident – a car, a wrong turn, a swerve, a collision. Everything. It will haunt you – the grotesque, painful, and horrid torment of that memory. The damp sweat will stick to your skin mercilessly, amidst humid skies and the quietest, perhaps loneliest of times. Nightmares will plague you in the dark. It will be terrifying, as you remember. You'll always remember.
(He won't.)
But that's okay.
Tomorrow you can start again on a blank and clean slate.
-x-
"Are you tired of me yet?" he'll ask you, once – just once – before you turn off the lights and he closes his eyes.
"No, Takao," you will answer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, his cheek. "Never."
-x-
When tomorrow comes, he will forget.
It's called anterograde amnesia; the doctors tell you that there is no certainty of a cure. His memory will vanish as soon as he wakes, and everyday he will be forced to live out his life oblivious to the meaning of your existence, and perhaps maybe even his own. There will be good days, and there will be bad days. Sometimes, he will be warm and talkative and welcoming. Other times, he will be quiet, hesitant – perhaps even afraid.
But again, that is okay.
His raison d'etre will become something different – something fleeting. It is something he must find for himself within a span of twenty-four hours; and within those hours, he will come to understand you, as well as your feelings for him. But those are only ephemeral things, transient thoughts that will only matter for a short while, until the time comes that his mind will mend itself with the safety of permanence and the portent to heal. Be patient. Wait for him; I promise you he will be worth it.
(But you probably already know that.)
Time will turn, years will pass, days will finish, the world may change; but despite all this, only one thing will stay the same – you.
Be the constant in his life. Live out your days together; stay by his side, take him by the hand, and when he opens his eyes to be greeted by the sight of you, smile. You can kiss him, too – if you'd like. (Just wait for him to warm up to you first. Those kinds of things take time.)
Ask him how he feels. Ask him about his dreams. Invite him to play basketball. He'll probably decline – don't take it to heart though, he means well – but there's nothing wrong with you wanting to try. Buy groceries together, go home with him; and when he walks together with you and asks if you can hold hands, laugh at him first before you give in, then let him. Afterwards, tell him you love him.
And then, when the day ends, allow him to forget.
Because he will forget, as he is prone to do so; he will forget, as it is his curse and the inevitability of his condition. But despite that, I urge you to continue. Through the seconds and the minutes and the millennia of your years, and through each and every struggle you may face in between, tell him. Tell him you love him. Tell him everything. It will most likely sound like the cheesiest thing to spill out your lips and fall onto his ears…and you're right, it probably is – and believe me, he will most certainly not pass up on the opportunity to tease you for that, either – but go ahead. There's nothing wrong with repeating it.
Say it. Then say it again – five times, ten times, a thousand times more. Devote to him a million of your moments for the next million of your days.
For he will forget.
(But still, you will remember.)
(You always do.)
When he reintroduces himself, you will take his hand and call him by his name, and then ask that for you, he will do the same. You'll insist that he will refer to you as 'Shintarou.' But the boy is stubborn. He will smile at you when he tells you he would prefer to call you 'Shin-chan' instead.
I don't expect that you'd smile back.
He will laugh at you for all your quirks, and you will crack jokes at his expense. Often you will comment that you find his presence exasperating, but despite this, you will find that you still care for him deeply. You will love him, and he will love you – only, a little differently this time, each time. And so when morning comes and the sun breaks through the sky and the light streams through the windows and your memories trickle through the hours and his brilliant irises peek through the crevices of paper-thin eyelids to look at you, be there. Promise me you'll be there. So that when he wakes, you will be there for him, and you will be able to tell him this:
"Good morning, Takao."
(And – I assure you – everything else will soon smoothly follow.)
here I have returned with the AnterogradeAmnesiac!AU that nobody asked for. this started out as me organizing like 688 words of my plot bunny list and then before I realized it this 3k+ word organism/beast/animal/monster/unidentified fictional object/creature was born.
again, there are two ways you can go about this.
The first is that it is or a foretelling narrated by some mysterious omniscient third party person from the future. So that later on, Midorima will be equipped and ready to live it all out. He's very superstitious. He'll most likely carry each and every instruction here out to the very last detail and brim. I wouldn't put it past him to not entrust his lifestyle to fortunetellers. Plus, in that sense, it would give this fic an air of circularity and cause it to loop in a way.
The second is that it can be taken as a diary entry that Midorima has narrated to himself (like it all happened in real-time and he's jotting everything down so that he can look back fondly at their memories either for personal happiness or for future reference if/when Takao ever regains his memories and asks him about what happened between them at that point or something)
it's kind of open-ended, and the future tense was used to help retain it's vagueness. (I couldn't decide this time either HAHA and like I've said before, I happen to like confusing things so I figured I'd let you readers find the pleasure in deciding that for yourselves too. It's more fun and interesting that way, for both you and me.)
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thank you for reading i hope you enjoyed hehe please leave a review :)