warnings for: character death, alcohol/intoxication, 840 wc.
i. the beginning
“This is your—”
“You’re joking,” Futakuchi says, eyes narrowed in scrutiny, in distaste at the man, the boy in front of him. He’s smaller than Futakuchi is, frailer too. There’s something about him that seems winded, exhausted. He doesn’t even look like he’s fit to step another foot in the Shatterdome. “You’re absolutely joking.”
The Marshall does not humor him, hand clamped on the shoulder of a man that Futakuchi thinks might be his next burden. “This is your co-pilot, Futakuchi. And I shouldn’t have to remind you but Ennoshita Chikara went through all of the training you did and came out with higher marks in every single category except for physical.”
There isn’t time for compatibility tests when the kaiju are growing stronger and in number by the second. The size of their pilot class has diminished since the last Category V took out Crimson Pistol and Caerulean Tango in one go. He remembers. He remembers the rushed funerals too, the way he was ushered out of his cramped room to be told he was graduating, hushed undertones of we don’t have enough people to die for us.
“Please be kind to him,” the Marshall says, releasing Ennoshita from his grasp and exiting the training room stiffly.
Futakuchi scowls. Ennoshita looks at him mildly, hooded eyes depicting sleepiness, a disconnected sense of attention that Futakuchi thinks he might absolutely hate.
“I won’t hold you back,” Ennoshita says before Futakuchi can spit venom in his direction about how his co-pilot was supposed to be someone else (because Aone has always been the most compatible in wavelength with Futakuchi—it’s not anyone’s fault that Aone isn’t here, won’t ever be, not anymore). “Do you want to punch me?”
“What?” Futakuchi says in response, eyes narrowing in confusion because what the fuck is sleepy-eyes even saying?
“You can,” Ennoshita says, looking earnest as he rubs the back of his neck. “Punching something helped me after Tanaka died.”
ii. the middle
His cheeks are warm. Every inch of his skin is warm as he tangles his arms around Ennoshita’s waist, pulls him flush against his chest, unyielding. The alcohol is still coursing through his veins, the only lasting reminders of the party that had just been thrown in their honor—the darlings of the jaeger program, the new glimmer of optimistic hope that there might be salvation yet.
“Remember,” Ennoshita barely hiccups out, words muffled as he tries to speak against the fabric of Futakuchi’s t-shirt, tries to free his legs from their tangled state beneath the covers, “—remember when you hated me?”
Futakuchi only squeezes Ennoshita closer, harder, letting out a noise caught between an indignant groan and a much too childish whine when Ennoshita pushes him away. It barely lasts, the mourning of the loss of body heat. Ennoshita pulls himself up until their eye-to-eye, face-to-face, the corners of Ennoshita’s eyes wrinkled as he laughs, as he curls his fingers in the lapels of Futakuchi’s shirt to pull him forward. They stand no chance, any preexisting thoughts coursing through Futakuchi’s mind, any coherent words lingering on the tip of his tongue. They stand no chance when Ennoshita’s looking at him like he’s the absolute best thing on the planet.
“Are you—are you going to kiss me or not?” Futakuchi asks, lips curving into the faintest smile as he tries to will the heat away from his cheeks.
Ennoshita traces a scar running along the side of Futakuchi’s neck, a battle wound from a fight they almost lost, before looking straight into Futakuchi’s eyes again.
“Not again,” he says in a whisper, words still slurred just a touch as he leans in closer, until their lips are but millimeters away from each other. “I’m not letting you get hurt—not again.”
The promise is sealed with a kiss, one that feels like it lasts until hours are meaningless and all Futakuchi can feel are Ennoshita’s fingertips carding through the harried tangles of his consciousness, their consciousness.
iii. the end
(He keeps his promise.
This is what he all but tattoos in your mind when he is torn from his side of the cockpit, when he is hurled into nothingness. I’m sorry, he says first, and that is when you think you started panicking. I’m leaving so soon, he says second, and that is when the panic reached his eyes. Please, please, not now, he says third, and that is when you realized this wasn’t just a nightmare. White noise, static, it filled your mind as you felt a thread—a thread you’d never once seen before—drawn out, tugged apart, snapping.
You'll find me again, he says fourth. At least I kept my promise, he says fifth. At least I kept you safe, he says finally.)
The funeral procession is short and rushed. The Marshall rises in front of all of the Shatterdome, gathers up every last breath in his chest and says, “Let us take a moment of silence for our fallen pilot, Ennoshita Chikara.”
FILL: TEAM IWAIZUMI HAJIME/OIKAWA TOORU, T
i. the beginning
“This is your—”
“You’re joking,” Futakuchi says, eyes narrowed in scrutiny, in distaste at the man, the boy in front of him. He’s smaller than Futakuchi is, frailer too. There’s something about him that seems winded, exhausted. He doesn’t even look like he’s fit to step another foot in the Shatterdome. “You’re absolutely joking.”
The Marshall does not humor him, hand clamped on the shoulder of a man that Futakuchi thinks might be his next burden. “This is your co-pilot, Futakuchi. And I shouldn’t have to remind you but Ennoshita Chikara went through all of the training you did and came out with higher marks in every single category except for physical.”
There isn’t time for compatibility tests when the kaiju are growing stronger and in number by the second. The size of their pilot class has diminished since the last Category V took out Crimson Pistol and Caerulean Tango in one go. He remembers. He remembers the rushed funerals too, the way he was ushered out of his cramped room to be told he was graduating, hushed undertones of we don’t have enough people to die for us.
“Please be kind to him,” the Marshall says, releasing Ennoshita from his grasp and exiting the training room stiffly.
Futakuchi scowls. Ennoshita looks at him mildly, hooded eyes depicting sleepiness, a disconnected sense of attention that Futakuchi thinks he might absolutely hate.
“I won’t hold you back,” Ennoshita says before Futakuchi can spit venom in his direction about how his co-pilot was supposed to be someone else (because Aone has always been the most compatible in wavelength with Futakuchi—it’s not anyone’s fault that Aone isn’t here, won’t ever be, not anymore). “Do you want to punch me?”
“What?” Futakuchi says in response, eyes narrowing in confusion because what the fuck is sleepy-eyes even saying?
“You can,” Ennoshita says, looking earnest as he rubs the back of his neck. “Punching something helped me after Tanaka died.”
ii. the middle
His cheeks are warm. Every inch of his skin is warm as he tangles his arms around Ennoshita’s waist, pulls him flush against his chest, unyielding. The alcohol is still coursing through his veins, the only lasting reminders of the party that had just been thrown in their honor—the darlings of the jaeger program, the new glimmer of optimistic hope that there might be salvation yet.
“Remember,” Ennoshita barely hiccups out, words muffled as he tries to speak against the fabric of Futakuchi’s t-shirt, tries to free his legs from their tangled state beneath the covers, “—remember when you hated me?”
Futakuchi only squeezes Ennoshita closer, harder, letting out a noise caught between an indignant groan and a much too childish whine when Ennoshita pushes him away. It barely lasts, the mourning of the loss of body heat. Ennoshita pulls himself up until their eye-to-eye, face-to-face, the corners of Ennoshita’s eyes wrinkled as he laughs, as he curls his fingers in the lapels of Futakuchi’s shirt to pull him forward. They stand no chance, any preexisting thoughts coursing through Futakuchi’s mind, any coherent words lingering on the tip of his tongue. They stand no chance when Ennoshita’s looking at him like he’s the absolute best thing on the planet.
“Are you—are you going to kiss me or not?” Futakuchi asks, lips curving into the faintest smile as he tries to will the heat away from his cheeks.
Ennoshita traces a scar running along the side of Futakuchi’s neck, a battle wound from a fight they almost lost, before looking straight into Futakuchi’s eyes again.
“Not again,” he says in a whisper, words still slurred just a touch as he leans in closer, until their lips are but millimeters away from each other. “I’m not letting you get hurt—not again.”
The promise is sealed with a kiss, one that feels like it lasts until hours are meaningless and all Futakuchi can feel are Ennoshita’s fingertips carding through the harried tangles of his consciousness, their consciousness.
iii. the end
(He keeps his promise.
This is what he all but tattoos in your mind when he is torn from his side of the cockpit, when he is hurled into nothingness. I’m sorry, he says first, and that is when you think you started panicking. I’m leaving so soon, he says second, and that is when the panic reached his eyes. Please, please, not now, he says third, and that is when you realized this wasn’t just a nightmare. White noise, static, it filled your mind as you felt a thread—a thread you’d never once seen before—drawn out, tugged apart, snapping.
You'll find me again, he says fourth. At least I kept my promise, he says fifth. At least I kept you safe, he says finally.)
The funeral procession is short and rushed. The Marshall rises in front of all of the Shatterdome, gathers up every last breath in his chest and says, “Let us take a moment of silence for our fallen pilot, Ennoshita Chikara.”
Futakuchi is quiet.