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Idle afternoons are rare during the first two months in the Force, but even less so than those afternoons at Tokyo Neutralization University; While a driven student, innate gift was enough to propel Izumo right to the bowels of kaiju hunting on a coast, so long as he maintained his studies, or, at the very least, the appearance of. Of course, appearance of entails detailed itineraries, cramming and workouts and polite chatter aflush.
And so, he finds the lazy gaps in the days with a surprising amount of alarm, a relaxed sort of trepidation that finds him drawn to liminal spaces, hovering in doorways and milling about in the hallway adjacent the dormitory. He idles in the bath, takes extra minutes with his meals to sit, head upturned to trace the patterning of the ceiling with his gaze, all clean, right angles. Breathes between each rep in the training room and tilts sweaty forehead against sweaty shoulder, pinning back sweaty hair with sweaty hands. Among these new things, the mundanes and unpleasantries he’s been spared in the years of lavish upbringing, is Aoi Kaguragi.
Kaguragi, who tilts his head with a cool indifference--nothing there is a beckon, but still, Izumo feels himself drawn, drifting on light feet to stand at his side as they settle into desks, as he lowers himself with serenely narrowed eyes into the bath, as they sit cross-legged on the floor at the low tables of the dining area, Izumo’s head upturned so as to not catch the fleeting sparks skipping between them, white-hot on their tongues. All clean, right angles. He stands beside Kaguragi, gaze skipping over the easy, liquid flex of the bicep and the subsequent ripple through the rigging of his abdomen as he completes each curl in the training room, mouth dry and sweaty, sweaty fingers quivering. All his idle time is occupied by warm skin and low laughter, brushing glances from shoulder to fingertip that, to his pleasant surprise, startle neither of them, a quiet synergy brewing in their own form of liminal space as they come to find pace beside each other.
This is particularly so upon their return from their first mission, when the liminals are stretched even longer, more bereft space between the lonely islands of each troop member, doing nothing but crowding Kaguragi and Izumo even closer astride. "Aoi," Izumo hums, moving to match his pace as they enter the base, "holding up alright?" He brushes their knuckles as they walk, exhaustion weighing on his limbs, and he hears a soft intake of breath from Kaguragi.
"Yeah," He says, turning his head to redirect from Izumo's tentative care. Izumo swallows, watches the flex of his neck, all too clear without the heavy cast of the suits. Muscle that's all his.
"Thanks for that," he says, too proud to be a mutter, but slight in volume nonetheless, "out there."
“Hm?” Izumo places awkward fingers at the first notch of Kaguragi’s spine, a subtle call to return his gaze in the twist of skin.
“The assists,” Kaguragi says, and, oh , he turns to meet Izumo head on, and the other’s hand jerks back as if scorched, the jolt of it traveling to seize every muscle, lock his knees and leave him briefly, momentarily helpless. Every inch of him aches with the desire to cup his face, run a thumb along the tired crease of his under eye until it melts back into the smooth, tan planes of his face, at peace.
“You’re tired, man,” Izumo grins, mouth once again cotton-dry and face raucously warm, tongue clicking softly against his hard palate with each word, “Let’s get that breakfast the vice commander promised.” He swallows, appeases the itch festering beneath the joints of his fingers by wrapping them about Kaguragi’s limp wrist, leads him wordlessly to the dining area.
(Just so they can sit, kitty-corner as always, outstretched toe brushing folded ankle, leaning back on lazy elbows and averting their gazes.)
When Kaguragi enters the bath that evening, he is unusually brazen, searching for--and finding--Izumo the instant he nudges a toned shoulder through the doorway, both eye and hand directed vaguely in his direction. Rather than beside, as usual, he settles directly opposite where the other lounges, leaning his chin against curled fingers as he scrutinizes Izumo. Izumo chews briefly at his lip, blames the heat pooling across the bridge of his nose and dusting his ears with pink on the steam.
“Embarrassed to be outdone by another bean sprout?” He tries, lets a half-laugh skitter from the warmth in his throat.
“Hm? Oh, sure,” Kaguragi says, gaze still flickering across Izumo’s form, scanning for something that Izumo once again attempts to dispel with a laugh. He’s unsure what to make of this--being ignored, especially, never has Kaguragi been so internally occupied as to neglect Izumo’s attentions. Regardless, he turns his head to rest it on his outstretched arms and closes his eyes, fights the urge to fidget when he feels the raking tines of Kaguragi’s stare drag slowly, decadently up the pale curve of his shoulder, the shadow at his throat, the vague shape beneath the water where he lays one thigh over the other to skew his weight in casual, leisurely asymmetry. His stomach quivers with strain, mouth twitching. Kaguragi only hums, barely there against the ambient slosh of water, the slow plink of drops off Izumo’s drenched nape.
There are no more words between them until Izumo rises, towel about his shoulder as he clears his throat in some attempt to dislodge the foreign embarrassment. Kaguragi, again, unusually, remains seated, eyes closed and shoulders drawn forward, sinew shifting beneath wet skin. Izumo slides a wet sole on the flooring, drags fluttering fingers down the length of his face in an attempt at grounding, and moves towards the lockers.
"Heard they faced the humanoid back from the testing grounds," Izumo hums, curling onto his side and staring over the empty cots of the dormitory; with Ihara and Leno hospitalized, Kafka off god-knows-where, the soft shuffle of cloth and the slow rhythm of quiet breath is shrunk to their singular bunk. Another errant, stray gap to be filled only by the two of them.
"If it had been--” he starts, and while Kaguragi is relatively sparing in his speech, particularly in comparison to their more boisterous groupmates, Izumo has himself quietly primed, vigilant to the tells that Kaguragi seems to offer him.
He is hardly surprised at the cautious statement, processing in the instant it takes Kaguragi to roll onto his back as he opens, timing his outbreath with the gentle thump against the bunk overhead, “If it had been you?”
He is, quite suddenly, too exhausted to feign smugness, letting the words scrape low and gravelly against his sternum, touched with some unknown, preemptive grief that he attempts to dismiss, “Don’t be cocky, Aoi. Shinomiya hardly--”
“No,” Kaguragi says, punctuates the speech with another sway of the bunk. “I was thinking about if it had been you.”
“I would’ve--” Oh. He just barely manages to abort the wounded animal noise clawing up the velvet walls of his throat, burying itself just behind his teeth. He would’ve-- “I’d have made it. I mean, Iharu and--” Restlessly, he turns to his other side, the sight of the unoccupied bunks no longer a gracious reminder of their two man world, but a testament to weakness.
Kaguragi's hand dangles from the top bunk, tucked privately, quietly between the wall and the bedframe, hovering in the dark and just barely twitching. There it is: synergy. Izumo takes the hand in his own, elbow propped up at an awkward crook, fingers curled like nesting doves.
“Let’s get stronger, Haruichi,” Kaguragi says, with Izumo’s name melting in his mouth, and their grips tighten; together, with you .
Izumo leans forward, brushes his lips against the ridges of Kaguragi’s knuckles, lonely mountains adjoined. He dismisses every conceited answer, every show of pride and guarded rebuttal.
“Yeah,” he breathes against their joined hands, and he feels the bunk shift a final time, Kaguragi seeming to relax, the uncoiling of his tension thudding full weight against the sheets. An insidious thought flickers through Izumo’s head; crawl up there , but he is, by now, used to sorting through precisely which longing supplications to fulfill. He snorts at himself, lets the heat wash through his face, and melt away his own strains.
As he’s lulled to slumber, his hand drifts from Kaguragi’s own, flopping against the mattress. Kaguragi lets himself dangle.
(From the hall, Hoshina snickers against the fingers pressed to his lips. Should’ve offered them the same warning as Kafka. Still, his step is light and a smile just barely curls at the edges of his mouth.)