iv-b. i knew i loved you then
but you’d never know
ft. midorima shintarou
This is the thing that made me want to rip my hair off my head because of my PC randomly blue-screening me. To those who responded to the rant, thank you for your understanding!
@ourneverendingpossibilities it’s nice that you have such a positive outlook in life!! I was so mad when it happened, but since it’s complete now I guess everything’s okay ヽ(＊>∇<)ﾉ
@squirrelsass13 thanks for the encouragement! I rarely ever write on Word (it transfers weirdly when I copy and paste the text on tumblr) so I was typing straightaway on my Drafts… I click on “Save Draft” every paragraph now lol
Faint connections to the previous installation of Cantabile
Fem!Reader. Semi-NSFW. Long (2728 words).
I’m sorry if this sucks but… yeah.
Why do you play?
Isn’t being a doctor busy enough for you?
I’d ask you to tutor my son if you weren’t so busy!
Wow, you’re very ambitious.
Those are words spoken by housewives, small medium enterprise owners, and white-collar workers. Midorima doesn’t think that they’re somehow lower than him in any aspect—sure, they earnings are technically lesser than his, but how does that define someone as a person? He meets these people everywhere, the people that make up his community, his society: at the clinic, in parties, at the grocery store… It’s no secret that he’s seen as an outstanding person by these people.
Twenty-seven, has the letters “M.D.” behind his name, helps people get over all sorts of sicknesses from light ones like a common cold to not-so-light ones like diabetes, plays piano as a hobby.
It’s not really surprising to the people who ask him “what do you do in your free time?” because, you know, doctors. They’re classy and smart and all. Sure they can play the piano—he can probably play the violin, too.
But you can see their eyes significantly widen when they know he has a diploma in piano, certified by the Associated Board of Royal Schools of Music. Where is that name from? The United Kingdom. Why did you take it?
He always tells them it was just for fun, but a small voice inside him knows the truth: somewhere deep in his heart, he wanted to be a pianist.
His first words to you are: “It’s a common cold.”
“That much I can see, Doctor,” you deadpan, holding a tissue against your runny nose. He sighs.
Midorima is used to handling all sorts of patients: naggy, rude, stubborn people… he’s seen them all in the past four years of his practice. Today, however, it’s only after lunchtime and he already wants to go home already. Maybe attending Akashi’s party last night isn’t really a great idea. Sure, it’s not a DJ-inviting or dance floor grinding kind of party, so he’s not physically tired—he’s tired from all the socializing with fake people. “Meet new people,” was Akashi’s reasoning for inviting the doctor, and of course Midorima did, but none of them were enjoyable.
To be precise, he can’t tell if they’re really enjoyable or not through layers of faux talk. Akashi texted him earlier, expressing his regrets that it was somewhat an unpleasant experience for Midorima. He also wrote “but I won’t stop inviting you to these social events—I understand how you think they’re superficial, but I can guarantee you that they genuinely enjoyed your piano very much.”
Well, if there’s one thing Midorima likes about those parties, it’s that he’s presented the opportunity to play.
“As a doctor, I have to announce the diagnosis to you, don’t I?” He replies, scribbling a pen on his prescription pad. “I’m prescribing you to these basic medications, but since your cold isn’t a serious one—yet—I highly recommend that you consume home remedies before resorting to these medicines.”
“Turmeric tea, ginger tea, a mixture of lemon, cinnamon, and honey.”
“Control your diet; you don’t want to eat food that’s going to worsen your cough.”
A sound of ripping paper. He hands the slip to you.
“You don’t remember me do you?”
That takes Midorima by surprise.
“Have we met before?” He asks warily as you take the prescription paper from his hand and fold it, putting it inside your handbag. Your lips form a small smile, and Midorima eyebrows furrows.
“You sang last night, didn’t you.” It sounds like a question, but his tone makes it clear that it’s rhetorical. He knows for sure that it was you who was dragged by one of your acquaintances that claimed you to be the best singer in a ten-mile radius—the expression itself is a horrible exaggeration, but when Midorima hears you sing, he has to admit that you do have an exceptionally lovely voice.
His first words to you turns out to be “what key?” instead of an illness announcement because he was the pianist accompanying you.
“You look different, Ms. Fly Me To The Moon,” he says aloofly, writing something on a document. You chuckle at the nickname, not knowing that the stoic doctor-slash pianist has the capacity to be somewhat playful, and towards the opposite sex, nonetheless. Midorima can only admire how melodious your laugh is, even when your voice is nasally from the cold.
“At least you remember what I sang.”
“Like I said, you look different,” he repeats. You were clad in an elegant evening gown for the party last night, and although Midorima doesn’t have the eye to identify expensive clothing brands and such, he is able to appreciate how attractive you looked in the attire. Your hair was done simply in a style that matches your dress, and among the slight make-up you applied, he notices the suppleness of your colored lips first.
The person sitting in front of him doesn’t carry the glamour of the party—you’re slightly pale, dressed humbly in a sweater and jeans—but the lack of make-up, fancy hairdo and dress doesn’t affect how beautiful you look, in his opinion. Your eyes still glows the same captivating way as he witnessed last night.
“Yes, well,” you sigh with a smile as you stand up, “you better engrave how I look last night deep in your memory, doctor, because I’m never going to attend one of those high-end social events ever again.” The first part was sarcastically said, but Midorima finds himself doing as you told, picturing the details of your gown and hearing your singing voice echo in his mind. Being a quite introvert doesn’t mean he’s immune to any of your charms.
“Shame,” he finds himself saying. You smirk, pausing right before you walk out the door.
“What, not being able to see me all dressed up again?” Ten years ago, Midorima would’ve easily flushed red at the teasing remark. He’s way past that now, and instead of reacting like the teenage boy he was, he looks straight into your eyes when he says:
“I was talking about how it’s a shame that I won’t hear you sing again, but that too.”
Two months later what you said proves to be a blatant lie. You’re standing beside Midorima, arms hooked with his, a casual sign that the two of you are attending together, presumably as a romantic couple. This time it isn’t Akashi’s, but a business partner of his—he nevertheless invited Midorima along to provide him the audience for his piano, and regarding yourself… well, you’re accompanying the pianist. It’s not like you’re crashing this party or anything.
It’s only your third “date” with the man, so to have the opportunity to see him up-close in a formal setting that requires guests to dress up is exhilarating, to say the least. Midorima’s handsome enough in his casual attire—having to stand next to him wearing a nicely tailored, dark-colored suit while having to keep your hands to yourself is almost some sort of punishment. And the collar button of his shirt! He always buttons his shirt all the way up and wears a tie to complement the outfit, but for some unknown reason he’s left it open this time and disregarded the tie.
If you didn’t know any better, he’s trying to tease you.
“It’s rare to find you with someone by your arm, Midorima-kun.”
“Akashi,” Midorima acknowledges the voice. You turn to meet the redhead face to face, smiling softly.
“Good evening, Akashi-san.”
“Hello, _________. Good to see you,” he replies smoothly, as you reply in a similar manner. “Even more surprising finding out that you’re with him tonight. Are you two…?”
The two of you exchange looks as if telepathically deciding who should answer, and turns out you are.
“Sort of,” you say, and the hint of mischief in your smile cannot be missed by even the most oblivious person in the room. Akashi surely isn’t one, but thankfully he doesn’t push you further.
“It’s a long story,” Midorima chips in, as if his relationship with you bloomed out of a blackmail kind of situation of some sorts. You chuckle, and so does Akashi
—the latter is gracious enough to show the two of you to where the piano is.
“What are we?”
You are in his arms, as naked as he is, leaning your face against his chest and feeling the beat of his heart when you ask the question. It’s a summer night, and the sheets are loosely resting on your waist, the two of you too hot and sweaty from your previous activity to pull it all the way up to your neck. One of his hands is drawing soft circles with his thumb on your bare skin, while the other one that is untaped (very uncharacteristic of him, but it’s a sign of a good night) brush your hair in long, loving strokes.
He doesn’t respond. You snuggle closer into his chest, relishing the sensation of his nakedness against yours while you think of all the times you’ve spent with him. That one time you had lunch together, those meaningless parties you go to just so you can watch him play and he can hear you sing, the nights you stay together at his place. You’ve spent at least a hundred hours with him, though it doesn’t feel long or dragged—those hours are cherished and enjoyed to the fullest, arguments (petty or not) included.
But it’s his reserved nature that makes you feel insecure sometimes. Tonight is one of those nights.
You move up so that your face is right in front of his because you want to look at him in the eyes. He’s beautiful, the viridian undisturbed by the lenses of his glasses—the eyewear is carefully situated on the nightstand before all this began. You’re sure he can see you clearly from this proximity, your nose against his, your hand caressing his cheek. His hands drift down from the crown of your head to your chest, cupping your breast and playing with a nipple as his eyes grow half-lidded.
Midorima is the one to lean in first, engaging you in a chaste kiss, a perfect juxtaposition what with his hand groping your chest and the other slowly travelling down to your ass, stroking every inch of skin possible. You are the one to pull away, arms around his neck and eyes clouded with lust, thanks to the things he’s doing to your body.
“Do you love me?” The question comes out as a whisper.
“I’ll show you how much,” he answers in a heartbeat before he kisses you again, bringing your body under his.
He never fails to convince you.
The afternoon sunrays shining through the high glass windows of the music hall are almost blinding, considering how dark it was just a few moments ago in the auditorium. You’re by Midorima’s side as per usual, looking around nervously with a bouquet of daisies and orchids in your arms. Your husband seems to be scanning the area like you are, and when you hear a shrill yell of a young child you know it’s who you’re looking for.
The little girl, currently nine years old, runs towards the two of you with two or three large bouquets in her arms, the majority of her face covered by flowers. You laugh at the sight, crouching to hug her tightly once she reaches. Noises of plastic being scrunched can bother you less, as you feel your daughter burying her face against your chest. She pulls away to immediately look up at his father with bright eyes.
“Papa, how did I do?!”
“You did good, nanodayo,” he answers, a faint smile on his face as he fixes his glasses, “although there’s room for improvement in terms of arpeggiation—”
You gasp exaggeratedly, drowning the remaining of Midorima’s sentence.
“Shiina! Papa says you did a good job! Do you know what that means??”
“No!” She replies, confused but ecstatic.
“I promised you we can go have dinner wherever you want if Papa praises you,” you reply, and the confused expression on her face melts into real unabashed excitement.
“Mama, are you serious!?” Shiina’s voice has become high-pitched from the bubbling enthusiasm that seems to have taken over her whole small body. “We can go anywhere I want!?”
“Yep,” you nod for further affirmation. “Papa has agreed on this, too,” this time you look over at Midorima, only to be amused to find the deadpan expression on his face. You give him a wink, and Midorima, witnessing his own daughter having such a great time just because you told her she can eat whatever she wants for dinner, can’t help but melt a little.
“Maji! I want Maji!”
“Sure, we’ll go to Maji tonight,” you say accommodatingly. Midorima can only smile down at the girl when she looks up at him, a face-splitting grin on her face. Even though her physical attributes are definitely inherited from him, she obviously takes after you in terms personality.
“And then I want to have ice cream after dinner! Can I, Papa? Let’s go home so I can prepare for dinner!!”
“You may, Shiina,” he sighs amusedly—what does a nine-year old kid want to do to ‘prepare for dinner’? “But before we go home you must meet Uncle Akashi first. He came to see you perform, you know.”
“Uncle Akashi is here!?”
You chuckle. It’s a wonder how said man is viewed as intimidating and merciless among most adults dabbling in business, but is the opposite in the eyes of children. Shiina is almost obsessed with Akashi, what with his gentlemanly behavior that reminds her of Prince Charming. Shiina once even told you that since she can’t marry Papa, maybe she’ll marry Uncle Akashi instead—you have yet to tell Akashi this, but you have a feeling he already knows.
Speak of the devil, the redhead can be seen from twenty feet away thanks to his hair color, maneuvering amongst the crowd to approach your family. Shiina’s acting very much like an excited puppy, and you wonder if it’s immoral to compare the behavior of your human child to an animal (despite said animal being unbelievably cute as well), but that doesn’t matter anymore because Shiina is already in Akashi’s arms as he lifts her up in the air, chuckling amusedly.
Midorima looks at the scene with mild jealousy in his eyes—not that his eyes aren’t green in the first place.
The usually animated voice of your daughter is now tired and soft as you tuck her in. She must’ve been exhausted after the performance.
“Can you tell me a bedtime story?” This piques your interest a little, because she’s stopped asking for stories before bed for almost a year now.
“Sure. What would you like to hear?”
“The other day… Mai-chan and Reika-chan were talking about how their parents met and fell in love,” she says shyly, hiding her face behind a beloved doll. “Can you please tell me how you and Papa met, Mama? You’ve never told me that story before.”
“You’re gonna have to ask Papa for that, honey. It’s a long story anyways, and you’re tired. Best go to sleep soon.”
“Okay…” Shiina says, and it’s not hard to pick up the disappointment in her voice.
“Goodnight honey,” you kiss her cheek before turning off the lights.
Truth be told, there is no ‘long story’. Midorima just called you one day to ask you out for coffee with a tinge of nervousness in his voice that you can spot even from the other side of the line. You ended up scheduling a lunch instead, and if Shiina asks him to tell her how you fell in love with each other, he’ll have no explanation except of how breathtakingly beautiful you look with sunshine on your skin and a smile on your face as you talk about music and food and the stars.
He will ask Shiina to keep it a secret from you, of course, because if you know he’s been in love with you for that long, he knows you’re never going to let it go.