••••••••••••
Chapter Four
Broken mirrors give false reflections
••••••••••••
Riko doesn't feel quite right about their win. Even as the bus takes them home, her thoughts are confined within the four walls of the gymnasium. Shutoku's players were in top condition but their game play lacked something big, something crucial. Analyzing these sorts of things are her forte but she can't quite put her finger on it at the moment. What's more, even her players can tell that their winning game was a bust.
Kagami is missing his satisfied grin, looking uncharacteristically pensive as he stares out the window. Beside him, Kuroko's eyes look a bit deader than usual.
Their conversation on the matter was over in three lines.
"Hey, what's wrong with Midorima?" Kagami asks while storing Kuroko's luggage in the bus compartment – the last one for their group.
"I don't know, Kagami-kun. By the looks of it, neither does his team." Kuroko looks Kagami in the eyes, trying to read beyond the tough-guy exterior. "It is most disconcerting."
Kagami nods in agreement. "Takao is worrying his head off, the poor guy."
To that, Kuroko only hums. The Shutoku point guard was certainly distracted during their game, allowing Kuroko a wide leeway for his drives and passes, practically handing the win over to Seirin. If he is to be honest, it looked like Midorima had reverted back to how he was two years ago at the height of Teikou's glory days. It's no wonder that Takao has been thrown into a loop – everyone had moved on to better lives and, ideally, nobody should've relapsed. But for some reason Midorima did and, despite not getting along splendidly with him, Kuroko is worried about what this could mean.
Sometime later, Kagami falls asleep, still propped up against the window, brows furrowed. Kuroko watches the play of light over tan skin, wondering how warm it would feel if he was given permission to touch. Their arms are pressed between their seats and Kuroko could lay his head on Kagami's shoulder if he just leaned a little closer. He wants to, after such a tiring couple of days – he wants to listen and feel the way they would breathe, synchronized, the way their very psyches fit together, drawn to his true light's aura as he is.
Kagami kept in pace with Midorima's single-minded attacks, scoring point-for-point until the last few seconds where he dunked right over Midorima's head – a red phoenix soaring over green flames. Midorima had fallen as an after-effect of the dunk, refusing the hand Kagami offered him. Right now, Kagami is wearing the same expression as he did then – confusion with a mix of worry.
Oh, the things Kuroko is willing to do if he knows for sure that it will help.
••••••••••••
The fall semester starts and their minds are momentarily distracted with school work. There are projects and tests that chip off their recollections of the incident at training camp.
Midorima has profusely apologized to the coach and the entire team after the game, willingly surrendering his three special requests per day for the following week. He'd remained quiet the entire way home and didn't reply to any of Takao's increasingly concerned messages the whole weekend.
Envy is a foreign concept to him, at least in the sense that he is the one experiencing it. Midorima is well-aware of the general public's perception on him, his skill, and his epithet of being the Generation of Miracle's number one shooter. Jealousy has always been directed at him and he finds it easy to deflect until that night when it seeped into his very veins. This sort of resentment is a poison that came from within.
Takao is playful and Kagami isn't the smartest guy around – juvenile, being a common factor between them. So, yes, their friendship shouldn't be surprising. Birds of a feather, as the saying goes…
Midorima had gone looking for Takao that night bearing a brilliant idea. He would transfer his cleaning free-pass for the last day of training camp to Takao; a fair trade for the lucky item Takao had procured for him. He was brimming with excitement and it took all his self-restraint to keep up appearances. It was suspicious enough that he was asking his teammates about his partner's whereabouts when it was usually the other way around. His sources led him to the gym – unoccupied, he assumed, having passed the Seirin team on his way there – and how he wished people had some decency to close their doors.
Initial shock engaged his self-preservation instincts and he retreated from the site. He ignored Takao's curious stares throughout dinner – no doubt that Takao had heard about his god-awful state from their roommates – and purposely faced the wall as he slept.
The morning of their final practice match, Midorima was reluctant to step foot inside the gym. It was only by the virtue of Takao's quiet question – the thousandth one he'd received since last night, asking if he's alright – that Midorima forced himself to take the final step. Maybe he was overreacting to nothing, but the sting of betrayal has paralyzed the rational part of his thinking.
In the end, what hurt the most is the unwavering trust Takao has shown him. The guy has no idea, no clue that he is the root of all this pain but he still stood by his ace, his light. Midorima only has himself to blame.
••••••••••••
These days, Takao doesn't complain when he loses at rock-paper-scissors. He dutifully hauls Midorima's lucky item onto the rickshaw and pedals them through the busy streets of Tokyo. He remains chatty even though it's like talking to a brick wall. His one condolence is that Midorima isn't completely ignoring him.
It blows his mind how everything turned a complete one-eighty in the span of – what, one hour?
Seeing Midorima revert to his self-centered play honestly scared Takao but he could do nothing except keep playing his best. If that was how their ace played his game, then it was his duty to support it. Of course, their loss was a slap to the face.
Takao trains harder, pushes his body further. Midorima can't be the only one to blame for their poor performance. One more slip-up like that and they'll be out of the Winter Cup without even knowing it. He works hard for his team, for himself, for the fervent wish that Midorima would rely on him again. He'd earned the prestige of being the ace's shadow and he'll win it over and over again if he has to.
Gradually, Midorima loses the clipped tone he'd adapted as a defense mechanism. Weeks fly by before he lets the smallest of smiles show when he thinks Takao has turned his attention elsewhere after cracking one of his jokes. They're small victories, but victories none the less.
One lunch period after their winter break, Midorima sets down a jar of pickled vegetables on the floor beside Takao. His parents had gone to Korea on a business trip and they remembered that he has this friend who likes kimchi, he explains with a push of his glasses. Takao's smile can hardly contain his relief; he takes the item for the truce that it is.
Having won the Inter-High, Shutoku is an automatic contender for the Winter Cup. It's not surprising that the rest of the Generation of Miracles' schools also make it to the competition; there's a general consensus among sports fans that the finalists and winners will merely rotate among them until they all graduate. Then Japan will brace itself for the collegiate competitions.
••••••••••••
"You're terrible," Midorima says, bland but not cruel.
Takao scowls, arms crossed as he looks up from worksheets between them. "Well, so-rry." English is one hell of a language and Takao can't find the will to learn a third one when his mother is still insisting that he perfect his spoken Korean; that's what happens when your parent comes from mixed descent.
Midorima gathers the papers and reference books that lay open on the table, turning pages to show his study partner where he'd gone wrong.
"Noo~ Forget that!" Takao moans, upper body slumping over the kotatsu, effectively halting Midorima's actions. "Let's do something else, Shin-chan!" It's getting late but he doesn't want to go home just yet.
Red pen in hand, Midorima raises a brow at Takao. "Like what? We're not totally exempted from turning in our assignments, Takao. Most of these are due next Friday."
Blowing at the strands of hair falling into his eyes, Takao looks over at the orange sitting at the corner of the table. It's bigger than his fist and it's Midorima's lucky item for the day. More than once, Takao has entertained the thought of peeling it and eating the juicy fruit within. "I'm hungry."
"For the last time, you are not allowed to eat the orange," Midorima hisses, though it is with little heat. He puts a hand on the fruit in case Takao tries anything. "If you want, I'll call on the maid to cook something."
Maybe it's the amount of time he's spent with Midorima that such statements don't sound as pompous as the way rich people on TV say it. Takao cushions his head with one arm, waving his other hand limply in the air. "Nah, that's okay. I just feel so comfy right here, I wanna take a nap." At Midorima's responding frown, Takao inclines his head in question. "What? Like you've never fallen asleep under a kotatsu before?" The wintry weather is perfect for it.
"… I used to do it a lot when I was younger but I have… outgrown… that phase," Midorima admits, looking all prim and proper yet oddly embarrassed.
Takao feeds that thought to his imagination and… "Your feet stuck out," he blurts into the warning silence.
"I had a growth spurt," Midorima states curtly.
Mental images of a disgruntled Midorima lying under the heated table with his toes wiggling out in the cold has Takao chuckling. "Aw, but that's adorable~"
"Shut it."
"C'mere."
"Excuse me?"
Takao pulls up the blanket and pats the space beside him. "I bet if you curled up a little, you can still enjoy kotatsu naps."
Narrowing his eyes, Midorima creates a list of why going over there would be a bad idea. He pins Takao with his most incredulous expression but it does nothing to dispel the encouraging smile directed at him. "Fine."
The space under the table barely contains the both of them. Takao keeps his limbs as close to his body as possible to give way for Midorima's more… extensive… appendages. They face each other, the kotatsu blanket covering everything from the neck below.
"Isn't this nice?" Takao grins.
"Not particularly," is Midorima's dry response.
"But it's so warm~ You'd let me sleep awhile, wouldn't you, Shin-chan?"
They did just beat Kaijo for the semifinals spot that afternoon. It was an exhausting match with Kise utilizing his perfect copy but a duplicate can never outshine the original; Takao's playmaking drew out everyone's full potential with extensive use of his Hawk Eye. With that win, the final four contenders have been confirmed: Rakuzan, Seirin, Yosen, and Shutoku. They are looking forward to a match versus Yosen on the weekend.
It was Takao's idea to get a bit of studying done despite their already busy day; his way of using up the excess adrenalin from the game.
Midorima shows his assent by pulling off his glasses and setting them on the table. "Five minutes. Then we go back to English."
"Make it ten," Takao bargains, snuggling a little closer to the heater.
"Why?"
Takao's smile is lax and he's obviously half-way asleep. "'Coz that's my jersey number."
Midorima could only sigh at the explanation but allows it anyway. Taped fingers curl into a fist over his chest. He watches the minute changes in Takao's face – defined lines softening in his slumber, lips parted by even breaths, curious silvery eyes hidden, exhaustion of the mind and body taking its toll. He can't remember closing his eyes but he remembers opening them to find Takao pressed up against him with a different kind of heat simmering under the kotatsu.
Night has sufficiently blanketed the outside world and all is quiet save for the sound of their breathing. Up close, Midorima can feel the rhythmic heartbeats, surprised with their calm pace in contrast to such a hyper personality. Even without his glasses, he finds residual soap on Takao's skin from the post-game shower, miniscule crumbs surround the other teen's mouth from the granola bar he'd eaten on the bus, there's a fallen eyelash resting beside dotted ink marks from their study session. Midorima knows all these irrelevant details and he craves for the important facts – if Takao would object to Midorima's touch, whether he'd join Midorima on a day out which does not involve the search for lucky items, how he'd react if Midorima tells him about –
"Mm, Shin-chan…"
Takao's eyes are still closed but Midorima figures the guy must've sensed something; he's perceptive like that. Any second now, Takao is bound to wake and Midorima doesn't know how he's supposed to act. They're entangled beyond what Midorima can hope to undo without disturbing the shorter teen's sleep. Escape proves futile when Takao's hands find the front of his shirt under the kotatsu.
"Takao?"
The point guard hums upon hearing his name but remains apparently asleep. He does, however, move closer to the voice, subconsciously drawn in. His movements are blocked by a foreign body that he decides is harmless, a pressure that unintentionally lines with his groin and oh, there we go. Takao murmurs a name smothered in a low moan and he makes another push of the hips.
Heated palms are groping over his chest and Midorima is stricken, at a loss on how he's supposed to deal with this development. Objectively, he knows that Takao's state is a product of the body's natural reaction to heat and the play of hormones. He isn't entirely unacquainted with the phenomenon but it still throws him. This is a side of Takao that he isn't familiar with, one that he is both curious and afraid of. They may be compatible from star sign to blood type but sexual chemistry is also a major factor in lasting relationships and –
"Takao."
A vice grip on both his hands snaps Takao out of his sleep. He's confused for the first few seconds until he deciphers Midorima's somber expression. If the kotatsu wasn't over them, he's pretty sure he would've jumped ten feet into the air. Sleeping so close to Midorima, no wonder he was having such a happy dream but now he has to face reality and reality is nowhere as sweet. Takao scrambles away but Midorima (and the constraints of their sleeping place) doesn't let him get very far. At the very least he manages to get his traitorous private regions at a safe distance. Ah, damn, this is so embarrassing, Takao whines in the confines of his mind. "That was a long ten minutes, eheh."
Typical. Midorima releases Takao's hands and pulls himself out from under the table; the other teen follows suit but keeps his lap covered by the blanket. Putting on his glasses, Midorima manages a cordial tone. "It's nearly dinner time. Would you like to–"
"Maybe next time," Takao interrupts, his usual smile not making it to his eyes. "'Sides, it's my turn to do the dishes at home." Unable to look at Midorima, he defers his gaze to the clock hanging on the wall. If he takes a short cut, he'll only be five minutes late for dinner.
Midorima nods, letting Takao take the easy way out. "I see. Then let's clean up."
Stashing everything into his bag, Takao is antsy to get as far away from his partner as possible. Passing by the study, Takao excuses himself to Midorima's parents and then makes quick work of putting on his shoes at the front door. He bids Midorima goodnight and hops on his bike, pedaling like there's no tomorrow.
Once Takao is gone, Midorima has dinner with his parents who lament that his friend couldn't stay over. They ask him about the game, giving perfunctory congratulations at hearing about their victory.
••••••••••••
Out on the streets of Tokyo, Takao stops by the 24-hour convenience store at the end of his street. His heart is racing for a reason that has less to do with his cycling cadence and more with the fact that has done something unspeakable to his best friend, never mind that he did it in his sleep; actually, that fact just makes it worse. "Shit," Takao curses, wiping at his eyes. Just when everything is going right, he has to fuck it up again.
His face feels hot as he whips out his phone, scrolling through his contacts list until he finds the right person. Thumb hovering over the call button, Takao double-thinks his decision. Does he really want to involve other people in this mess?
No, should've been his immediate answer but a voice in his head echoes words from the not-so-distant past.
Just call me, alright? If shit hits the fan or whatever. You freaking asked for my number, right? Put it to some good use.
That time, he had jokingly replied with "Wow, you must be really desperate" and got a smirk in return but now he finds the situation to be the complete opposite. He's the desperate one.
••••••••••••
In accordance with the big game scheduled over the weekend, Nakatani drives them late on Friday, squeezing all final preparations into team drills. Even Midorima gets dissuaded from his usual after-practice regimen in order to ensure his best condition for Sunday. Saturday is meant to be their day off.
Depositing an evergreen bonsai in the cart, Midorima catches Takao's hand before their deciding rock-paper-scissors game. "You've been awkward around me all day," he states, leaving no room for argument. "If this is about yesterday, then know that I have resolved to not think about it." When Takao's jaw drops, he continues with enough finesse for the both of them. "I understand that it's a physiological reaction and do not take it as a point against your character."
Filtered through Takao's mind, Midorima's point stands clear – he does not reciprocate. He's glad that the scarf he's wearing covers most of his sorry attempt at a smile. "Got it, Shin-chan." He doesn't even try to win and takes on his yoke without breaking pace. He delivers Midorima home and dislodges the cart, having no intention of prolonging his stay when taped fingers grab him by the elbow.
Midorima is scary when he's all focused like that. "Are we alright?"
Takao freezes, getting a split-second urge to say 'No' and just spill everything right then and there but he steels himself and replies with a nod. "Of course, we are. I'll see you on Sunday," he waves as he kicks off again, not waiting for any reply.