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The first time Touya meets Keigo, they’re both bleeding.
It starts with Touya, lip split and eye socket sure to turn a pretty shade of purple by morning, locked into a fist fight with another airman cadet. Some guy with a smart mouth and a penchant for getting a little too familiar with the nurses on base. Rumour had it he’d introduced himself to a new transfer, a young woman with silky white hair tipped with red, and had nearly backed her into a corner off the mess hall before she’d stomped on his foot, kneed him in the groin and calmly walked away, heels clicking on tile as she straightened her blouse.
And while the embarrassment of things would likely be enough to humble the asshole any other time, Touya seems to take this particular incident personally.
For the second time that day, the guy is doubled over, clutching at his valuables while Touya wipes the blood from his mouth, smearing it across the back of his bruised hand. In the crowd that’s gathered, money changes hands, everyone placing bets on who’ll come out victorious, who’ll get court martialed, and just who this girl is to warrant such a scene.
He pities every one that bets against him.
“If you wanted dibs, shoulda just said so, Todoroki,” the cadet sneers.
“Fuck you,” Touya snarls, the itch to crater this guy’s nose an urge he’s rapidly losing the will to ignore. In the seconds he hesitates, his opponent moves, crashing into him at the waist and swinging low.
Unfortunately, it’s at the exact moment that an officer breaks through the line of onlookers, a whistle pressed between his lips. He doesn’t get the chance to blow it, however, because Touya stumbles back into him, and the force of a flailing elbow connecting with his nose results in a crack that echoes across the courtyard.
Touya freezes on impact, and the cadet held in his grip drops to the pavement with a grunt. Slowly, he turns to see the officer’s head tilted back, one hand clasped to his nose—the other is fisted in the back of Touya’s shirt. The locks of ash blond hair and richly tanned skin are a stark contrast to the blood now pooled between his fingers, ruby river snaking its way down his jaw and neck. A drop splatters against the collar of his white shirt, and Touya’s stomach hollows out when he spots the nameplate and pin affixed there—Takami, First Lieutenant.
Most of the gathered crowd gasps, then disperses.
(Not that it matters, really. He’s known from the first punch he’d be walking away with nothing more than a slap on the wrist, at most. One of the only perks of being as deeply tied to this service as he is.)
Touya does his best to offer a winning smile as he plucks a handkerchief from his pants pocket and holds it out. “My bad.”
“Really? You just assaulted a fellow cadet and an officer, and that’s the best you’ve got?” The Lieutenant says thickly, and as he presses the cloth to his bleeding nose, he levels a steady glare Touya’s way. His eyes are the colour of sunset. “My bad? ”
“Wasn’t aiming for you,” Touya shrugs, and glances down at the cadet carefully and quietly picking himself up. He reaches out with his foot, sets it squarely on the guy’s hip, and pushes hard enough to topple him over again.
“Enough!” Lieutenant Takami shouts, dragging Touya a full foot backwards by his shirt. For someone nearly a head shorter, his show of strength is a little impressive. “What is this about, Cadet?”
“I think I hit on his girl.” The snicker that follows is nearly as annoying as the statement itself, and does the job of drawing Touya’s attention back to him. The words are an open invitation, trying to pick the same fight anew, egging him on while there’s a higher power present.
With a nasty smirk, Touya spits, and a dark splash of red lands wetly on the other guy’s shirt. There isn’t any retaliation, and it brings a delighted flutter to his chest—whether it’s the fear of him, or the officer beside them, Touya doesn’t much care. It’s still a win in his books.
“Actually, you hit on my sister, shithead.” When he glances left, he notices Lieutenant Takami’s eyes are no longer trained on either of them, but on the nameplate pinned to Touya’s own uniform. He resists the urge to smile as the shorter man’s eyes widen, shock eclipsing the gold of them. He counts the seconds it takes him to process this revelation with genuine glee.
“Airman… First Class… Todoroki?” There’s uncertainty there, and a hint of nervousness. “As in… the General’s son?”
There’s a soft curse behind him, as the other cadet puts two and two together and realizes just how badly he’s fucked up. But Touya’s lost interest in the asshole. Slowly, he pulls out of the Lieutenant’s grip on his shirt and turns to face him properly.
“Not by choice,” he laughs, but even to his own ears it’s hollow, devoid of any real cheer. His eyes give the man a slow, careful once-over, drinking in the details. Golden stubble, angular jaw, muscles pulling the sleeve of his uniform tight on the arm bent at the elbow to apply pressure to his nose, and a shine to his shoes that suggests the value of his appearance. Touya’s lips weave into an amused smirk. “But it’s nice to meet you, Lieutenant.”
Takami’s razor-sharp gaze drops to the offered hand. “A pleasure, I’m sure.” He looks like he’s certain it’s anything but.
Oh, this one will be fun, Touya thinks.
The first time Keigo kisses Touya, they’re celebrating.
The bar is packed, jukebox playing a tune worth dancing to. There’s a crowd gathered doing just that, a mix of pilot officers and nurses and aircraft technicians that have all recently finished with their training programs.
Graduated, with badges and titles and roles to play in the war at hand.
Touya, fast-tracked to Technical Sergeant to “teach him some responsibility, for once”, will be in charge of an air base hangar out west. And though he thinks it might be the first time in his life he’s thought his father had a sense of humour, he plays along.
(As though choice is a luxury he can afford.)
He picks the crew himself, plucked from the misfits in his program. A ragtag group of loud, foul-mouthed screw ups not unlike himself, most of whom enlisted because life gave them no other option. If the General considers it him finally following orders, as opposed to another act of rebellion, then it’s no skin off his back.
And while he lets them drag their new team leader out for drinks, he draws the line at dancing.
No matter how hard Bubaigawara begs, beer sloshing in one hand and bright cheery smile splitting his face. No matter how dramatically Toga pouts, her young and frenetic enthusiasm something Touya can’t help but find endearing.
So he lets them celebrate. Finishes off his drink and smiles fondly as he watches them drag Shimura and Iguchi onto the wood paneled floor, though neither tech looks like they’ve got anything other than two left feet.
He steps away, happy they’ll have a little quiet before the oncoming storm.
Touya slips through the crowd, distantly aware of the group of pilots thunderously applauding a speech in the corner he passes. Vaguely, he registers the head of fluffy blond hair and familiar flight jacket belonging to the person standing on a stool addressing them, but the urge to smoke itches beneath his skin, crawling around his brain like a nest of ants, and that’s enough to distract him. He needs something a little heavier than the booze settling in his bloodstream to balance out his nerves.
He steps out the side door, careful to leave it ajar by propping up a loose brick at the base of it. The alleyway beyond is dimly light, and he spots a dingy dumpster in the flash from his old, worn lighter. It’s an old thing, with his family crest etched on the back of it. And though he’s never once found himself beholden to his last name and the ties it binds him to—it had been a gift from his mother before her illness, so it’s simply not something he’s ever been willing to part with.
The smoke burns in his throat, mixing with the beer and whisky in his gut. He leans against the brick wall, tilting his head back to look at the sky. It’s…a sort of calm comfort, standing in the cold night air with the stars above and the muted sounds of revelry at his back. His own peace and quiet, before the work that’s to come. Before they’re sent into the thick of things, to support a team of pilots that won’t all survive.
(Touya has always known he left positivity behind in the womb for Fuyumi at birth, leaving him the cynical twin. And he’s never had an issue with it.)
It’s just his luck that as he’s pulling another drag of his cigarette, one of those very pilots steps out into the alley with him.
Captain Takami has a healthy flush to cheeks as he stumbles past the brick holding the door open, golden eyes roaming like a bird of prey, seemingly hunting for something.
Or perhaps someone, judging by the way his sharp gaze narrows and his alcohol-reddened lips press together thinly when he sees Touya standing there.
“There you are,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger his way.
“Here I am,” Touya mimics, with a raised brow and profound curiosity. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Captain?”
Takami narrows his eyes, as though he thinks Touya is being a shit. (He is, a little.)
“You.” There’s the smallest of tremors to his voice as he steps closer, bringing with him the smell of rum and fancy cologne. “You are the bane of my existence, you know that?”
“Am I?” Oh, now Touya’s interested. He smirks around the end of his cigarette, taking a long drag and trying very hard not to let his amusement show as Captain Takami wrinkles his nose at the haze of smoke that follows. The other man watches his every move, golden glare locked squarely on his lips as they part around the offending little stick. “And what, exactly, have I done to earn myself such a thrilling role in your life?”
They’ve interacted only semi regularly since that day in the quad, when he’d broken the pilot’s nose. Crossed a few times in the mess hall, been paired together for sparring in training—but largely, they’ve orbited at arm’s length, Takami resolutely offering him a chilling glare in answer to his ever entertained smirk nearly every time.
As far as Touya’s aware, he’s never done anything directly to the pilot to warrant the anger burning hotly in the other man’s eyes, small suns seemingly intent on boring through him.
“You just—you’re so frustrating! You haven’t done a thing to earn yourself the position you’re in, and you don’t even care that you have it! You—You couldn’t care less!” With every few words, the shorter man jabs a finger squarely in the center of Touya’s chest, against his sternum.
The mechanic merely watches, taking another long drag. “And that’s… personally bothersome to you, is it?”
“Yes.” Takami nods, cheeks puffing out, red and glossy. Touya would never dare admit it’s endearing.
He’d done some research on the Captain—then Lieutenant—after they’d met that day. His records were sealed, but that didn’t matter much for someone in his position, someone wearing the Todoroki name on his chest like a badge. He’d batted his lashes and said a few pretty words to the pencil skirt in the registration office, and she’d folded like a bad hand of cards.
Takami Keigo had come from nothing. From a broken home and neglectful parents, who’d just as soon have a new bottle of rum between them than a child they needed to care for. They’d traded him off to some military man who’d come knocking for recruitment, and had known better than to take his bastard father. He’d seen potential in the young Keigo, a little baby chick who looked at the wings on his uniform badge and told the man he wanted to fly.
Enlistment hadn’t even been a question for him, something he’d simply been raised to expect. A chance to spread his wings, and take to the skies, with a restricted sort of freedom that was still better than what he’d had. And he’d worked every single day since then to earn his place, to climb as high as he could, so that he’d never owe anything to anyone again.
Unlike Touya, who’d been handed everything on a silver platter from birth, whether he wanted it or not.
“It’s because I have to see you everywhere. When I’m eating, when I’m studying and training, when I’m fucking sleeping —”
Wait—what? Touya frowns.
“—putting the minimum effort into your job, while everyone around you works their asses off! Anyone would kill for the position you’re in, y’know?”
“I’m aware,” Touya nods, finding himself more and more confused by the second.
“And now, I’m going to have to see you at my airbase!” He looks rather frazzled now, the flush on his cheeks warming the rest of his face, stretching down his neck in splotchy patches, a rash of his inebriated state. “Because of course your team and mine have been assigned to the same airbase—of course—”
Touya tries his best not to look surprised, because he hadn’t bothered to look at the assignment when his father had personally handed it to him this morning.
“—and it honestly wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to look at you!”
The amusement Touya has been playing with this whole time dissolves like the ash at the end of his cigarette, and he drops the thing onto the pavement, stomping it out. “Well, I’m terribly sorry my face is such an eyesore for you, Captain.”
“That’s just it!” The pilot says, sounding helplessly exasperated, his arms thrown into the air at his sides. “The problem is that it’s not ! You’re so—your smug face is just—Ugh!”
Takami’s hands move, and for a split second, Touya thinks he’s finally going to return the favour and crack his nose open against the brick wall. He’s sure he’s done enough over the years to earn it, really.
What he isn’t expecting, however, is for those hands to grab at the collar of his jacket, fisting so tightly into the leather that it creaks. He isn’t planning on the shorter man yanking him forward, and instead rather unceremoniously crashing their mouths together. On being backed against the brick wall, pinned to it by the pilot’s lips and strong grip.
Touya’s just getting a feel for the way Captain Takami’s mouth slots comfortably against his when the pilot pulls away. His whole face is red now, his brows furrowed tight, and he seems particularly interested in glaring at the brick to the right of Touya’s face, as opposed to the man himself.
“The issue,” Takami’s breath hisses across Touya’s throat, “is that you’re actually very attractive, you smug bastard, and you damn well know it! And no matter how many buttons you push, or how much enjoyment you get out of ruffling my feathers—I can’t get you out of my head!”
Touya laughs.
It rolls out of him like thunder, a deep and rumbling thing that shakes his shoulders against the brick and shuffles Takami’s grip on him, exposing his collarbone. He doesn’t miss the way the gold of his eyes flickers to it, glittering in the low light above the bar door.
“Then I suppose,” he says, voice low and sultry, smooth whiskey over rocks as he leans down and into the pilot’s space. He can smell the rum on his breath, taste it on his own lips when he runs his tongue over them, and delights in the way Takami watches that like a hawk, too. “It’s a good thing that’s exactly where I want to be, hmm?”
Cold, callused fingers cup the pilot’s cheek in the gentlest engraving; and Touya would take a minute to enjoy the scrape of stubble against his skin if he wasn’t so focused on the feeling of his lips pressing against Takami’s, smoke-rough meeting rum-sweet. This time, he notes with delight that the pilot stands on his toes, easily slotting his nose along Touya’s, and Touya steadies him with an arm sliding behind his waist, pushing him deeper into him.
He nips at Takami’s lower lip, and drinks the sigh that spills along his tongue in careful, open-mouthed kisses, his other hand brushing into golden locks as the pilot’s nails cinch tighter in Touya’s jacket.
They remain close when they pull apart, and Takami’s pale lashes fan open over dark, honeyed eyes in the dim light. Touya kisses him again, slow to touch and quick to break away, before his dark hair tangles into gold strands as he rests his forehead against Takami’s.
“Your hands are cold,” he remarks, curling his fingers above Takami’s on the lapels of his jacket.
The laughter the pilot exhales brushes against Touya’s lips, a sweet kiss. “You’re just overly warm.”
“We could go to my place—if you’re cold,” Touya is quick to add when the gleam in Takami’s eyes disappears upwards in mock-exasperation. “We could have dinner, or something.”
“Or something,” Takami repeats, raising an eyebrow, but nevertheless lets himself be pulled along as Touya entwines their fingers and grins, cat who caught the canary. They slip out of the alley and into the night, unnoticed.
The first time Touya realizes they might be dating, they’re painting.
Well, he’s painting, and Keigo, who doesn’t have a single artistic bone in his body, is merely there for moral support.
The Captain’s jet is out on the tarmac, in the setting evening sun, warming Touya’s bare arms with summer heat as he sits at the top of a small ladder. Keigo is laid out across a cloth tarp beneath him, on the other side of the cluster of paint cans, soaking the last rays into his tanned skin and sun-bleached hair. Freckles burst like constellations across his skin, a warm contrast to the splashes of white-pink mottled skin that soar across his back like a pair wings—the very things that earned him his callsign Hawks—and though he’s mapped them many a time, it leaves Touya a little breathless to see them, to know his hands and mouth will travel their course later, a familiar path to every sweet spot the pilot has. To know how he’ll arch beneath Touya’s callused hands, lips parting on soft sighs and delicious moans with every scrape of teeth and press of lips.
Keigo’s voice is a lovely soundtrack to the back and forth strokes of Touya’s paint brush, swiping up and along the last few bits of a primary feather with white accent paint. The wing he’s working on is huge, extending from the nose of the spitfire and back beneath the cockpit, a bright red splash across the garishly coloured metal. The old radio Touya keeps in his hangar crackles with a gentle, quiet tune in the distance, backing the pilot’s chattering. He’s weaving a tale of his last mission for the mechanic, hands lifted above him to imitate planes whooshing and twisting through the air, mouth forming the accompanying sound effects.
He pauses when he catches Touya staring, and his eyes widen, awed golden orbs glittering in the evening light. “Touya,” he says, sitting up, and a shiver rolls down the mechanic’s spine at the word, the same way it always does, no matter that they’ve been addressing one another by their given names for weeks now. “It’s beautiful.”
He clambers down, feet hitting the pavement with a little thud. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, bending at the waist to put the paint brush down, and when he straightens, there’s a nervous smile woven across his lips. “It’s not my best work, or all that accurate but—”
“I love it,” Keigo cuts him off, standing up and reaching for him. His muscled arms snake around Touya’s waist, sitting just above the rolled upper half of his boiler suit, and he presses himself flush against the mechanic, nose tucking into the crook of Touya’s neck. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he chuckles, patting his back gently, careful not to smudge paint across his sun-warmed skin. “Got the second one to go, still.”
“And it’ll be just as stunning as the first, if not better.” The grin curling his lips eclipses the setting sun at his back, and Touya can’t help but reciprocate, shaking his head.
“Flattery won’t get you out of helping, y’know?”
A flash of teeth as Keigo leans back to laugh, a nervous little thing that shakes his shoulders and ghosts across Touya’s throat. “And here I was, hoping I could remain inspiration without lifting a finger.”
“You’re not getting off that easy, flyboy.” The way the nickname dimples Keigo’s cheeks has Touya’s heart fluttering in his chest. He pulls away from the pilot, lest his quickened pulse be palpable in any of the places they connect, and picks up the buckets of black and red paint.
“I really wouldn’t want to ruin art, though…” It’s almost a whine that trails after him, echoing in the hangar and drifting in the air behind Touya to the other side of the plane.
He shakes his head, biting back a grin. “What did I say about flattery? Make yourself useful and bring me the other bucket and the tarp, will you?”
There’s an audible sigh and the dragging of feet, but Keigo still appears with the items in hand, the faintest bounce to his step. How he still has so much energy as the day drags on is a mystery to Touya, but he knows it’ll prove useful later.
He leans down, dropping the lightest of kisses to the corner of the pilot’s mouth. One that he leans into enthusiastically, chasing Touya’s lips when the mechanic pulls away. “Now, Magne said something about sandwiches for dinner? Why don’t you go check while I put down the base layer?”
The childish pout he receives in answer is almost enough to call the whole thing off, but Keigo still disappears obediently in the direction of the main building.
By the time Touya has finished the shadows that will lie beneath the wing on this side of the fighter jet, the pilot has returned with a small wicker basket he wasn’t even aware they had, and is unpacking the contents onto the painting tarp. Sandwiches, two enamel mugs, and a thermos that he unscrews, blessing Touya’s nose with the wonderful smell of Magne’s cooking.
He’s suddenly aware of the fact that they skipped lunch when his stomach lets loose a fierce growl at the scent.
So Touya climbs down from the ladder and takes a break, sitting cross-legged across from Keigo and absolutely inhaling two sandwiches and a full bowl of soup. He chews quietly, unlike the blond opposite him, who’s mouth never really stops running. (And Touya would never dare admit it’s a trait he enjoys, the pilot able to fill the void).
He’s in the middle of describing some county fair coming to the nearby town when the realization hits Touya.
“It’s cliché, y’know? But I think it’d be fun. And I’m sure your team would think so, too. I mean, if you wanted to invite them, instead of just, y’know—going with me?” Keigo’s staring resolutely at the bite he’s taken from his sandwich, rather than at the mechanic. “I know my squadron is going—but Rumi and Moe both said they asked a pretty nurse to go alone, and I thought, well, we haven’t gone out just the two of us in awhile so—”
“You meab wike, a date?” Touya blurts, unattractively aware that he’s got a mouth full of food. He swallows, and repeats the question more coherently.
Keigo looks up, gold eyes wide and startled, not unlike a deer in the headlights. “Yes?” He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that not—I mean, that’s sort of what couples do on occasion, isn’t it?”
Touya’s entire body stiffens, blood running cold. His face warms, but unlike the previously comfortable heat of the sun that’s now completely set, bathing the hangar in the soft, gentle glow of moonlight and open stars—this embarrassment burns bright and scathing.
“You—we—” He stumbles over the words, his arms slowly lowering at his sides and dropping the sandwich from between his fingers into his lap.
He can see the moment realization hits Keigo, who’s mouth clamps shut; a rigid, straight line. His face fills with a scarlet that creeps across his cheeks and down his neck and chest, obvious beneath the open bomber jacket he’d thrown on as the day’s warmth had waned alongside the sunlight. Every visible inch of skin rapidly reddens to match the can of red paint to Touya’s left, and the mechanic’s heart drops into his stomach.
“Um—”
“Keigo—”
The pilot stands, nearly knocking the empty thermos to the ground in his haste, soup leftovers and all. One hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, while the other clenches at his side. “Sorry, I—I uh, just remembered I told Rumi I’d—I said I’d help her with—”
He doesn’t manage to fumble his way through the full lie, his obvious and clear embarrassment tripping him up. Touya is thankful for the pause, for the awkward stumble, because it gives him time to spring to his feet, sandwich falling in forgotten pieces on the tarp behind him.
With his long legs, he crosses the distance between them in short, quick strides, and curls steady hands around shaking wrists. “Wait! Please...”
Todoroki Touya doesn’t beg, but even he’d be hard pressed to deny the shaky pitch in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and it pains him, the way Keigo looks anywhere but directly at him. He slips one hand from the pilot’s wrist, and lifts it to his chin instead, forcing eye contact. And then he winces with every ounce of embarrassment in his body, musters the guiltiest look he can. “I’m an idiot.”
“Well, it probably goes without saying that I agree but—why, specifically, this time?”
Touya leans forward, pressing his forehead against Keigo’s and trying to convey his apology with more than just the words cascading roughly from his lips. “We hadn’t really… talked about it—about us —so I guess I just figured you were… that you weren’t interested in anything more than… I don’t know.”
“Than a casual, routine fuck?” The phrase sounds bitter coming out of the pilot’s mouth, and the taste of regret is heavy and present on Touya’s tongue as he swallows thickly.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, thumb pressing into the stubble at Keigo’s chin, his fingers curling gently beneath his ear. “It’s no excuse, but I’m not… used to people having a lasting interest in me, flyboy. And you’ve—well, you’ve stuck around a lot longer than anyone else, far longer than I could’ve hoped and I guess I didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. Scare you off by assuming more than I should.”
“And so you thought… what, to keep things barely skin deep?” Uncertainty is a starry sky in Keigo’s eyes, twisting guilt tighter in Touya’s chest.
“I was happy with whatever you were willing to give me,” the mechanic says, voice dropping low, breath ghosting over Keigo’s lips. The pilot trembles in his grasp, a shiver that travels the length of his spine and shuffles him closer to Touya, enough for the taller man to wrap an arm around his waist, tucking it just beneath the bomber jacket’s trim.
“You really are an idiot, you know?” Keigo laughs, and it's clear and light, a jingling of bells that lifts weight from Touya’s shoulders. “I’ve already given you… all of me, Touya. And I wouldn’t do that for just anyone.”
Touya thinks about how he wouldn’t be out here, rekindling a childhood passion of painting, for just anyone, either. Nor would he have filled a sketch book with charcoal and lead and ink drawings of bomber jackets and aviators and blond hair aglow in the morning sun. That he wouldn’t have stolen a military radio for his workbench at the back of the hangar to listen to the chatter when Hawks and his squad are on mission, for any of the other pilots on base. That he’d likely do more than just vaguely threaten to set his whole crew on fire when they go out for drinks and tease him about his… relationship with the captain.
And he thinks, most of all, that he’d never have whispered about the scars of his past, the invisible ones that lie dormant in his mind, between soft sheets and warm flesh, to just anyone. He’d never let just anyone know him quite as intimately as he has Takami Keigo.
The mechanic leans in, his nose grazing down the curve of Keigo’s jaw, his mouth pressing against the pulse point at the juncture of his neck. “Neither would I.”
“Then it’s a good thing,” the pilot starts, a breathless little gasp escaping his lips as Touya pulls him closer, flush together so that Keigo has no choice but to wrap his arms around the taller man’s neck, locking them together, “that I don’t want anyone else, hmm?”
“Yes.” His voice is low, echoing deep in his chest with a possessive rumble. “You’re all mine, flyboy—and I’m all yours.”
He doesn’t need anything more than that, really.
“Good.” The blond arches in his grasp, exposing his neck to the moonlight and to Touya’s hungry teeth. “Then the carnival is a date.”
“Hmm, I suppose,” Touya grins against his skin, nipping at his earlobe. It earns him the softest little trill, a barely there moan that sets something deep in his core aflame. A pity that he hasn’t the time to lay him back on the tarp and take him apart. “But only if you help me finish the other wing.”
And then he loosens his grip, stepping away from the blond, who lets out a very undignified squawk and nearly falls backwards in a heap without the taller man’s support.
Touya barks out a laugh that echoes loud and heartily through the hangar when he sees the bewilderment etched in Keigo’s face. The way his ears burn bright red along with the rest of him and his mouth flaps open and shut like a beached fish.
“You’re such a dick!”
The mechanic's mouth is split open ear to ear, his cheeks hurting from a motion that feels less and less rare with every day he has Keigo at his side. “And you’re too easy.”
He bends at the waist, running the paint roller through the tray of red, and has one hand on the middle rung of the ladder when the pilot retaliates.
Red splatters the front of his black sleeveless shirt, a crimson slash that lays wet and heavy and cold against the fabric, seeping through to his skin. Touya blinks in surprise, nearly losing his grip on the roller, and he looks up to find Keigo snickering behind one hand. The other holds a paintbrush at his side, dripping red back down into the bucket.
Touya raises a brow.
The shrug he receives in answer is far from innocent, a smile bordering on coy. “I’m helping.”
“Oh? That’s how it’s gonna be?” Slowly, carefully, he puts the roller down. Crouches next to the bucket of paint. Dips the fingers of his right hand into the substance, keeping his eyes locked to Keigo’s.
That bright, mischievous smile the pilot wears fades slowly as Touya’s wicked one grows.
“Uh oh,” Keigo manages, before chaos unleashes.
In the morning, there’ll be splashes of red across the hangar floor and droplets of red splattered along the metal body of the spitfire that don’t connect to the wings painted there at all. Whispers of a fight among the pilots or mechanic ranks, and some who heard howling from their bunks.
But here, and now, there’s only Touya and Keigo. Hands stained red and skin glistening with sweat under the moonlight. Cheeks smudged with paint, and dimpled with bright smiles. Chests and clothes smeared with telltale fingerprints, and heaving with laughter.
And on the plane’s body, beneath the second wing that Touya does eventually get done, there’s something else, too.
A set of handprints, fingers spread as wide as possible. One dwarfs the other in size, but together, side by side, they’re not unlike wings themselves.
A mismatched set that will warm Keigo’s heart every time he suits up and clambers into his jet, pausing to touch gloved fingers to his lips, and then the handprints—and steal Touya’s breath every time the spitfire touches down again and rolls into the hangar after a mission.
A mark, permanent and personal. And wholly theirs.
The first time one of them says I love you, they’re stargazing.
Or cloud watching, he supposes.
The metal of the wing is cold and a little damp beneath them, but stretched out under the moonlit, cloudy sky with Keigo sprawled beside him, Touya can’t quite bring himself to care. His boiler suit is rolled at the waist, and his arm is folded beneath his head. The pilot’s got his jacket balled up to support his neck, but he’s leaning so close to Touya that he may as well not even be using it, far happier to rest his head against the mechanic’s chest instead.
He’s pointing at the clouds in the sky and comparing them to the most ridiculous things, and all Touya can think is that he wishes they could stay in this moment. Forever.
(But war has never been kind to dreams and wishes, and the longer it rages, the more worried he grows that their time is short and increasingly fleeting.)
“Do you see that one? The one that looks like an elephant?” Keigo whispers, and Touya squints at the sky before shaking his head. “Here, let me show you.”
He slides impossibly closer, warm body pressing against Touya’s left side, and that’s all the mechanic is aware of, really. That comforting, familiar heat of Keigo’s body—and how used to it he’s grown, how he craves it on the mornings he wakes up alone in his quarters, or goes to sleep in an empty bed and dreams of something more. Domestic images that swirl through his mind and fade by sunrise to a blurred memory.
By the third time Keigo tries to point it out, he realizes Touya isn’t paying attention, and lets out a laugh, giving up. “For someone so artistic, you’re terrible at this, y’know?”
“I draw what I can see, flyboy,” Touya shrugs, feeling a smile tug at his lips. “You’ve just got a better imagination.”
“You have plenty of imagination,” Keigo says, rolling onto his stomach and folding his hands on Touya’s chest, resting his chin upon them. “Your dreams for after the war?”
Touya’s heart leaps in his chest, no matter that he knows the pilot can’t possibly be talking about the deepest, most precious ones that involve him.
No, he speaks of the ones the mechanic has talked about when drunk and lacking a filter, the rare hopes for a future he never thought he’d have, with the General breathing down his neck. But with him gone, a casualty of war Touya didn’t lose sleep over… well, he’s got plans to use his inheritance to open an art studio, and teach children, if he can. To spread a joy of artistry, of timeless images that capture the world as he sees it, and nurture that in the next generation the way it was never done for him.
When he closes his eyes, he can see the sign hanging above the doorway—Studio Taeru in a soft, pale blue, bellflowers framing it. Something his mother might like, maybe.
He wonders if she’d like Keigo, too.
“They don’t mean anything,” Touya says aloud, frowning at the sky. “They’re just dreams. That doesn’t mean they’ll come true.”
“And why not?” He can feel the weight of his golden gaze, and knows that if he looks at him now, he might crumble, and tell him everything else he wants and knows he can’t have, too.
“Do you really think we all make it to the end of this thing, Keigo?”
There’s a careful ghosting of fingers beneath his jaw, and Touya lets himself be led; allows the pilot to frame his face with gentle hands, and look at him with a sincerity that burns bright enough in his eyes to rival the stars above. “I do—I want to. I plan to have a future after all of this.”
“And what is that you dream of, in that future?” Touya’s voice is small, barely a whisper in the scarce breaths between them. His hope is a fragile thing that teeters on the edge of his lips, overlooking the chasm of uncertainty that stretches out before them.
“A cozy house a block from the art studio. Traditional, but not in a way that will remind you of your childhood. A big, comfy bed where your feet don’t stick out at the edge, and I can stretch out without worrying I’ll push you off. Wide halls and extra rooms for our friends to visit, or—or something more. A sunroom, where you can paint, and I can write. Where we can weave tales of the war, in our own ways, together.”
As he talks, his thumb brushes back and forth across Touya’s skin, and his grin brightens to match the joy in his eyes, eclipsing the moon in the sky behind him. “Quite simply? I see you.”
“Me?” He wonders if the pilot can feel his heart racing from where it lies beneath his arm, or hear the way the single syllable cracks in his throat, barely making it out past dry lips.
“Of course, Touya. I love you.” He says it so simply, so effortlessly, that Touya believes him.
Still, he blinks, awed by how easily the words seem to fall from Keigo’s mouth. “How long?”
“Since the fair, at least.” And Touya remembers the way he’d looked, illuminated by lanterns and bright, neon ride lights, with something warm and unreadable in his expression. Hand in hand, they’d wandered the grounds, slipped behind booths to exchange quiet kisses and whispered adoration. “Maybe longer.”
“I…,” Touya trails off. He’d felt it then, too, but the words thicken in his throat and choke him up. They sound so simple and matter-of-fact coming from Keigo’s mouth, but his own lips struggle to form them, to give that last, final piece of himself away, when the remains of it are jagged and charred by his past. His love blooms in his chest with thorns, and the vines keep it buried deep.
“It’s okay,” Keigo’s smile is easy, too. A warm comfort that washes over him, a cascading ray of sunshine. “You don’t have to say it back, yet. You’re mine, and I’m yours—and that’s all we need, yeah?”
Touya presses his forehead against Keigo’s. “Yeah.”
And then the pilot closes the gap between them, and every doubt the mechanic had about his own dreams are gone, washed away by the warmth that seeps into him through the kiss. With Keigo’s lips pressed against his, Touya believes in everything he didn’t before. His fingers reach up to tangle in blond locks, and for a single moment, there isn’t anything in the world to stop him from dreaming and getting what he wants.
I love you, Touya’s heart paints the phrase across a banner in his chest, bright red like the wings on Keigo’s plane. I love you, his lips scatter along Keigo’s throat and across a constellation of scars, each one woven into his skin by a unique story. I love you, his hands knead into Keigo’s skin, down his back and over his hips, nails biting the words into his ass as they slip beneath the loose waistband of his pants.
I love you, and I have for the longest time, Touya cannot say with words just yet, but hopes he conveys with actions, as he melts into Keigo’s touch beneath the open sky, and takes him apart slowly, with every ounce of adoration he can.
This isn’t the first time they say goodbye before a mission, but it is the first time Touya genuinely worries that it might be their last, and knows that letting him go will be the hardest thing he’s ever done.
They’re tucked into the shadows of the hangar, and Keigo is suited up to go. His squadron is headed into the thick of things, one of the most dangerous zones of the war, where the survival for flocks like theirs are decidedly low. There are rumours across every radio channel that this could be it, the end of everything, the last push to freedom.
The pilot clings to him, arms wrapped so tightly around his chest that Touya thinks he might squeeze every last ounce of air from his lungs. If he isn’t to return from this, the mechanic thinks darkly, then it’s not like he’ll really need it.
There isn’t a future for him after the war without Keigo in it. That much has been clear to him for months now.
The blond whispers promises and loving words against Touya’s throat, and every one sounds wetter than the last. In his chest, his thundering heart aches, and his hands fist into the pilot’s flight suit to keep them from shaking. His trademark bomber jacket is missing from his shoulders, and instead sits on Touya’s own. He knows they have only a few moments before he has to go, klaxons blaring in the distance, signalling all pilots to the tarmac and to their planes.
He can see Moe’s garishly bright hair out there, despite the late hour and dark runway. She’s crying, wrapped fiercely around Rumi. Sandwiched between both of his boyfriend’s Lieutenants is his sister, her petite frame all but disappearing, obscured by their long manes of hair and identical flight suits.
He knows Fuyumi will find herself in his quarters and hanging around his workbench more frequently over the next few hours, as she does whenever her partners fly out. They’ll share quiet, understanding looks over whiskey and rocks—the kind of family bonding they haven’t done in years.
(Tenko, too, will wander over from the workbench he and Shuichi share, worrying his bottom lip and scratching at his neck the way he always does when he’s nervous, and Touya will inevitably threaten to kick him out if he doesn’t stop. He will never admit it’s because he knows Natsuo hates it.
Sometimes Touya wonders if it’s fate or irony that he and his siblings all found themselves stationed at the same base during all this—and only after their father had left it, and them, permanently.)
His eyes travel to his workbench now, just barely visible over the wild fluff of Keigo’s blond locks, and his gaze narrows to a singular point. A black and white strip, tucked tightly into the corner of his bulletin board, amongst charts and blueprints and sketches alike. A series of photos as familiar to him as his own name, as the lattice of mottled, pink scars across his skin.
“Keigo,” Touya tries, but it’s weak, and cracks at the end. He clears his throat, feels the pilot’s grip on his shirt tighten at his back, unwilling to let go. “Keigo, I have something for you.”
This, at least, gets his attention.
He looks up, golden gaze watery and uncertain, and his fingers loosen their vice grip just slightly. It’s enough for Touya to slip free and cross the distance of the hangar, towards his workbench. He pulls the photo strip down, careful to unpin it first, and turns to walk back to Keigo—only to find him a pace or two behind, curiosity tilting his head and widening his eyes.
“Touya, that’s—”
“It’s from the county fair,” the mechanic cuts him off, sure he’d been about to rebuke the gesture on the grounds of how he’d been the one to give Touya the strip for his workbench all those months ago. “It also happens to be the only photos of us together.”
Somehow, through all this, they just haven’t found the time or opportunity for more.
“I can’t take that,” Keigo shakes his head.
“I know,” a confident smirk stretches his lips, and he inhales deeply.
Then he rips the thing in two.
Keigo gasps, reaches out with quick hands, but just this once, he isn’t fast enough. His fingers end up curling over Touya’s hands gently, and he stares down at the photo strip held aloft between them.
The tear is clean, straight down the middle.
It’s almost funny, how perfectly the photos are displaced.
There’s a kiss in the center of the top row, and another in the bottom right. Laughter and smiles in the top left, and middle below. And an undeniable gaze exchanged top right, and bottom left.
The vines in Touya’s chest detangle, and he feels the truth of that look float up his throat to part his lips, unburdened and free of his past.
“I knew then, too,” Touya says softly, and Keigo’s gaze drags slowly up from the photos to meet his. “That I loved you.”
There’s a small little inhale between the pilot’s lips, a barely discernible gasp, but Touya’s watching for it, standing close enough to see even the barest flutter of Keigo’s long lashes. It softens the smirk parting his mouth to a smile, fond and full of warmth. “I love you, Takami Keigo. So you better come back to me, okay?”
He reaches forward, tucking the upper half of the photo strip into the pocket of the blond’s flight suit. His thumb pads it gently, and he leans down to cover Keigo’s mouth with his. He smells of sunlight and honey, and tastes of happiness and summer days, tinged by the salt of tears.
Gloved fingers pull the lower half of the strip from between his calloused fingers, and gently slip into the inside pocket of the bomber jacket he’s wearing to do the same when they pull apart. “I love you, too, Todoroki Touya.”
The final klaxon fires on the runway, and Rumi’s loud, boisterous yell of Keigo’s callsign reaches them both. He winces, guilt glittery stars in his eyes. His fingers slip from Touya’s like time, like moonlight, like every moment they wasted not being together.
He turns away and scurries onto the tarmac, headed for the centre plane at the head of the squadron. Touya closes his eyes and memorizes the shape of him, the way his flight suit hugs his hips and shoulders. The way the patches on his jacket feel under the mechanic’s rough, calloused hands as he takes it off and runs his fingers over every one, thinking of late nights sewing them on together, serenaded by Keigo’s bright smile and songbird laugh.
(The air force badge on his shoulder they’d done over takeout. The country patch that sat at the square of his back, directly beneath the stylized wings Keigo had gotten commissioned. The squadron patch all his wing mates had gotten together to drink and crookedly sew on, which Touya had later had to fix. And even… the mechanics patch Keigo had asked for, to carry a piece of Touya with him everywhere he went.)
He tries not to think about the fact that the pilot didn’t answer his question before leaving.
This isn’t the first time Touya has felt dread, waiting for the planes to come home, but it is, hopefully, the last. He’s pacing the length of the hangar, the third cigarette of the day held tightly between his lips.
Fuyumi is perched on the edge of his workbench, her pencil skirt frayed at the edge where she’s been playing with it almost all night. She’s chewed through the end of two pens writing reports and going over medical charts to keep her brain busy.
Tenko has come and gone many times between the hangar and bunks, more and more irritable every trip, until Touya finally sent him packing—calling in a favour with Magne to keep him tied to the chair in the kitchens until he ate something to settle his stomach and mood.
The rest of the crew is scattered in the garage. Jin’s snoring in the hammock Touya let them hang from the back rafters. Himiko’s picking grime and oil from beneath her nails with a knife. And Shuichi is focused on a round of chess with Dr. Atsuhiro, though lord only knows why he fancies playing a losing game against the man.
(And lord only knows why the Head of Medical on base has taken such an interest in their little ragtag group of misfits, but if it gets them the care they deserve whenever one of them slices a hand open on warped metal, or suffers a burn touching an engine too soon after landing, then he doesn’t really care.
Plus, his card tricks really make Himiko laugh, and that may or may not be Touya’s second favourite sound, next to Keigo’s.)
They’re all on edge, trying to stay focused and quiet, listening to the crackle and chatter of the radio sitting at Touya’s station. He’s got it up as loud as it’ll go, and it hasn’t stopped all morning.
The august heat swelters off the tarmac in waves, the noonday sun shines brightly overhead, and it’s been barely an hour since they heard the news.
The war is over. They’ve won.
And their squadron is heading home.
There hasn’t been word of how it went, of who’s flying back, and Touya’s heart sits heavily in his throat as they wait.
He knows those planes inside and out. He knows every nut and bolt and scrap of rust. How much oil it takes to tune the engine, and how much elbow grease to spin a propellor smoothly—and most importantly, how much fuel to carry a spitfire through a dogfight and back.
And they are rapidly approaching the mile marker for empty.
It makes him twitchy and nervous, but he supposes someone has to have their shit together around here, and unfortunately, he’s the one with the title that says he should.
Only it isn’t his responsibilities that keep him grounded in this moment, no.
It’s the thought of that home Keigo dreamed for them, and that future of togetherness he saw.
It’s the hope in his golden eyes when he’d talked about making it to the end of the war, about wanting to see the other side of it, with him.
It’s the weight of the little black box in Touya’s back pocket that he’d very nearly pulled out when they’d been alone in the hangar. It’s why he’d given him the photo strip, instead. A connection, a meaningful thread to tie them together for just a little longer, until he could ask something more timeless of the pilot.
He’s just dragging on the last embers of his cigarette, feeling the burn in his throat, when he hears the hum of the engines on the horizon. A swarming buzz in the distance that sets his heart racing, pumping adrenaline through his bloodstream like a needle in his vein. A loud whirr that echoes across the runway, stirring up dust and debris as the first spitfires touch down.
Touya’s feet set him in motion before he can even process the command to move, tugged along by an invisible anchor that draws him out to sea, to the edge of the hangar, squinting against the sun high above him. In the echo of the garage behind him, he can hear the welcome chatter he missed announcing the squadron's return, but can’t hope to make out any of it over the sound of his crew shouting and hollering over one another.
He tosses the butt of his smoke to the ground, blowing the last cloud into the air above him as he stomps out the dying embers, and glances out towards the tarmac. So far, three birds have landed, with another three coming in hot.
(He tries not to think about how that’s only half the squadron.)
The nose art tells him exactly who’s arrived. Stylized neon flames, a cluster of ninja stars and a long, winding gold and pink dragon mean that Burnin’, Edgeshot and Ryukyu have returned. The planes are beat to shit, scuffed and scraped and Moe’s rear stabilizer might actually still be on fire, a little bit.
Touya hears his sister before he sees her, the rapid click click click of her heels on the asphalt a loud and echoing thing in the hangar. Her steps pause when she reaches him, and blindly, without even looking his way, she digs her nails into his forearm to steady herself. He spares her a glance, sees the watery grey of her eyes behind clouded lenses and wobble of her lower lip. She slips her shoes from her feet and discards them, and then races the rest of the way to Moe’s plane barefoot.
The pyromaniac has already disembarked by the time Fuyumi makes it to her, and throws herself the remaining two feet into the blond’s arms. Touya can’t help the gentle tug on his lips as he watches his sister be twirled through the air, face streaming tears. The look on Moe’s face is the gentlest he’s ever seen it, as she points towards the three other planes on the horizon.
Touya knows before even looking that a plane featuring rabbit decals will be among them. The relieved sob that rips free of his sister’s lips as Moe dips down to kiss her is answer enough.
The second plane that hits the runway eases the pressure in his chest, too. The swirls of blue florals that brought both Touya and his sister to tears to see Natsuo unveil many months ago when he joined the squadron fill him with relief now. And he can’t help but snicker when he hears a door bang open across the runway, by the main building. The flash of white hair and a boiler suit tells him exactly who’s coming to welcome his brother home.
But it’s the final plane that finally gets Touya in motion.
One look at the red wings smeared along the mangled body of metal, charred and blackened in some places by the wounds of a dogfight, and his heart kicks up a furious beat. His feet carry him out onto the runway, faster and faster as the jet rolls across the tarmac, heat from the engine rolling up into the sky and blurring the air around the cockpit.
Touya’s right there waiting, mere feet from where Keigo will drop when he clambers out of the metal beast. It’s hot, almost unbearably so, even though the engine cut and the rumbling beneath his feet ended moments ago. But Touya’s spent his life around machines, around jet and car engines alike, and there’s no place else he’d rather be as the cracked glass peels back, and he looks up to see a tousled head of blonde peek out over the dashboard.
The clunk of a helmet hitting the seat hits like a drum in Touya’s ears, syncing with his erratic heart, and then Keigo’s lifting himself from the plane. There’s blood smeared on one cheek, and the glow in his eyes that typically rivals the sun itself is muted, and tired. A cloud hangs above his head, dimming the delight he typically wears when he returns from a flight.
Looking at the lack of planes on the runway, it’s not hard to guess why.
Hawks. Miruko. Rindou. Burnin. Edgeshot. Ryukyu.
For every fighter that returned, every spitfire battered and beat on this runway with glory to their name and a future ahead of them, there’s a pilot that didn’t make it back. A light guttered before the end of the line.
Woods. Lady. Ingenium. Gunhead. Rock Lock. BJ.
But all that fades to black the moment he locks eyes with Keigo.
Relief is an instantaneous wave that washes over them both, smoothing out the worry lines on the pilot’s face and nearly buckling the mechanic’s knees. But Touya steadies himself as best he can, so that as Keigo skips the last rung of the ladder and launches himself at him, he’s ready and waiting with open arms.
He crushes the pilot to his chest, and inhales the scent of oil and sweat and blood as he spins him around, light as a feather and held so tightly in his arms. Keigo melts into him, and he’s shaking, trembling like a leaf. There’s a fragile sob against Touya’s neck, and he digs his fingers tighter into the pilot’s flight suit, through his hair, anywhere he can get his hands on to lock them tighter together.
“You’re home,” Touya whispers, his own voice cracking at the edges. “You came back to me.”
“Course I did,” Keigo laughs, and it’s wet, strained. “We’ve got plans, remember?”
The mechanic pulls back, wiping thick, bubbling tears from the pilot’s eyes with calloused fingers. He blinks down at him a few times, both to confirm that he’s real and he’s there, that Touya’s not simply dreaming, and to clear the blurriness from his own eyes, too.
And then he kisses Keigo sweetly, gently, and feels the tension bleed from the pilot’s frame with every passing second. Touya’s fingers tilt his head up and to the side just so , swipes his tongue between Keigo’s lips in a way he knows makes him lose his mind just a little bit.
“Oh, I remember, flyboy,” Touya laughs against Keigo’s lower lip, slides his thumb across his cheek. Then he’s kissing him again, chaste little things that spread fleeting and hot across the pilot’s cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his eyelids. As though inspecting every inch of his beautiful face, memorizing it anew.
When he pulls back, the blond looks a little breathless.
When he reaches into his back pocket and retrieves the small, perfectly square velvet box, Keigo’s eyes are as round as saucers.
When he clears his throat, feeling heat creep over his face, jittery, nervous energy causing his hands to shake, his boyfriend reaches out, grazes his chin with his thumb, cups his fingers along his jawline. Touya thinks it’s half to soothe him, and half to ground himself.
“I’ve been carrying it around for weeks,” the mechanic admits with a soft, shaky laugh, “waiting for the right place, the right time. But I knew I couldn’t—not until the war was over. Not until a promise of forever wouldn’t be left uncertain.”
Touya takes a deep breath, and as he lowers himself to one knee, Keigo is the most perfect vision above him, the high afternoon sun bathing him in light, wrapping him in a halo of warmth. His chapped lips manage to form the words oh my god, but Touya’s sure he doesn’t hear it over the thunderous drum beat his heart plays in his ears.
The runway fades to black around them, falling perfectly still and silent as Keigo’s eyes well with fresh tears, and Touya’s thumb flicks open the box. Nestled inside is a thin band of black, a stream of ruby red running through it.
“I love you, Kei. And I’ve known for so long, before the fair or that night painting your plane, that this is what I want,” Touya’s voice trembles with every word. He hears a delighted cry somewhere to his right, but can’t make out if it’s his sister, or one of her partners. “You asked me, once, what my most secret dream was. It’s this. You, every day, forever. If you’ll have me.”
There’s no nervousness in the golden eyes staring down at him, just an ocean of love big enough for Touya to drown in. “Touya, I—I don’t know what to say—”
The mechanic cuts him off, fingers tangling to take Keigo’s left hand in his, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Yes, preferably.”
As if it’s the simplest, easiest thing in the world.
He hopes it is.
There’s the faintest wobble of Keigo’s lower lip, before the words leave him in a quiet, breathless little I will. He stares, jaw slack and mouth agape, as Touya pulls off his glove, takes his trembling hand, and slides the cool metal band home. It’s cold beneath the press of the mechanic’s lips as he rises from his knees to wrap Keigo in a flurry of kisses, on hand finding its way to the small of his back.
The crowd around then erupts into deafening cheers, one that rivals the cacophony of celebration as the pilots flew in, or when news of the war’s end broke this morning. He can hear Natsuo’s loud, raucous laughter, and a happy sob that sounds distinctly like Fuyumi. Moe and Rumi are whistling, and from the corner of his eye, he can see his crew running from the hangar, arms thrown into the air.
“Say it again,” Touya murmurs into the curve of Keigo’s lips.
“I will,” he says again, unable to stop the stupidly wide grin from spreading across his face against Touya’s mouth. He captures the edges of the taller man’s jaw with his hands, one still gloved, the other cold and sparkling with the gleam of the ring. Yes, yes, I will, his kisses seem to say, slow and sweet with tongue and teeth as he holds him close.
And knows he’ll never have to let go again.