Ship: Kinjou Shingo/Makishima Yuusuke Fandom: Yowamushi Pedal Major Tags: Character death (alluded to) Other Tags: War, Transformers AU, mentions of injury/violence Word Count: 456
Will I ever manage to go a round without someone making me write Transformers?
***
Makishima had been through quite a bit over the course of the war when all was said and done. (And before the war. And after the war. All things tended to blend into the nebulous before and then simply The War with the after being something that Makishima still had trouble coming to grips with.) He’d been bounced between several units, as a field medic, or part of rescue team. He specialized in medevac, which ended up being a very useful and versatile skill in all sorts of teams.
Makishima could remember one of his first postings, hardly out of his medical training and already tossed into the battlefield, at a base that seemed to rattle every other minute and the medbay never once stopped smelling of singed metal and stale, spilled energon. The CMO was always barking orders, rough and grizzled before Makishima had ever had the thought to become hardened.
It often felt like there was no time for wise words in the triage hustle of the medbay, but amidst all he’d learned of medicine, Makishima held onto one thing: “It gets easier when you find someone to follow.”
Several centuries later, Makishima would understand, but then it had seemed so pointless. He believed in the cause, never had reason to doubt it. He did what he was meant to do.
Then he met Kinjou.
Suddenly, he wasn’t just doing his job, fulfilling his task. He had a purpose. He had a meaning. He had an unshakable faith that things would work out, that everything would be fine, as long as he followed his Prime.
(“I never said it would be easy,” his grizzled mentor would say later, in that nebulous After The War, with a laugh that sounded more like a blade slicing through a spark chamber. “Primes never make it easy.”)
There was certainly not a lack of things to do on the revived Cybertron, and Makishima found himself adrift again, bouncing from assignment to assignment, doing his job, fulfilling his function.
Until the day he found his anchor once again.
“Makishima,” Kinjou said, and even if it had been millennia (and thankfully, it hadn’t) Makishima would not have been able to forget that wicked glint. “It is good to have you by my side again.”
Makishima laughed, trying not to let his voice crack with all the weight of relief and joy that was surging through his field, and he’d never be sure how much he succeeded (and didn’t much care either). “Same to you,” he finally said. It didn’t seem enough, but then, they never needed much more than that.
Kinjou smiled at him, and Makishima was ready to follow anywhere he led (again).
FILL: Team Prince of Tennis, T
Fandom: Yowamushi Pedal
Major Tags: Character death (alluded to)
Other Tags: War, Transformers AU, mentions of injury/violence
Word Count: 456
Will I ever manage to go a round without someone making me write Transformers?
***
Makishima had been through quite a bit over the course of the war when all was said and done. (And before the war. And after the war. All things tended to blend into the nebulous before and then simply The War with the after being something that Makishima still had trouble coming to grips with.) He’d been bounced between several units, as a field medic, or part of rescue team. He specialized in medevac, which ended up being a very useful and versatile skill in all sorts of teams.
Makishima could remember one of his first postings, hardly out of his medical training and already tossed into the battlefield, at a base that seemed to rattle every other minute and the medbay never once stopped smelling of singed metal and stale, spilled energon. The CMO was always barking orders, rough and grizzled before Makishima had ever had the thought to become hardened.
It often felt like there was no time for wise words in the triage hustle of the medbay, but amidst all he’d learned of medicine, Makishima held onto one thing: “It gets easier when you find someone to follow.”
Several centuries later, Makishima would understand, but then it had seemed so pointless. He believed in the cause, never had reason to doubt it. He did what he was meant to do.
Then he met Kinjou.
Suddenly, he wasn’t just doing his job, fulfilling his task. He had a purpose. He had a meaning. He had an unshakable faith that things would work out, that everything would be fine, as long as he followed his Prime.
(“I never said it would be easy,” his grizzled mentor would say later, in that nebulous After The War, with a laugh that sounded more like a blade slicing through a spark chamber. “Primes never make it easy.”)
There was certainly not a lack of things to do on the revived Cybertron, and Makishima found himself adrift again, bouncing from assignment to assignment, doing his job, fulfilling his function.
Until the day he found his anchor once again.
“Makishima,” Kinjou said, and even if it had been millennia (and thankfully, it hadn’t) Makishima would not have been able to forget that wicked glint. “It is good to have you by my side again.”
Makishima laughed, trying not to let his voice crack with all the weight of relief and joy that was surging through his field, and he’d never be sure how much he succeeded (and didn’t much care either). “Same to you,” he finally said. It didn’t seem enough, but then, they never needed much more than that.
Kinjou smiled at him, and Makishima was ready to follow anywhere he led (again).