Work Text:
“Fix your stance,” Seungcheol yells down from where he’s leaning against the railing above the training area. Chan pauses to take stock of himself and finds that, infuriatingly, Seungcheol isn't wrong. He sets his jaw and dutifully shifts his balance, very pointedly not looking up as he does it.
Seungcheol doesn’t stay much longer, but Chan keeps practicing all night — evaluations start in three days, and Chan’s going to ace his. He works harder than anyone else, he knows he does. He’s going to ace his evaluation, and he’s going to get his assignment, and he’s going to be a fucking great pilot. He’s going to be better than Choi Seungcheol. More than that — he’s going to take Seungcheol’s place some day.
When Chan says as much to Seungkwan over lunch he laughs incredulously, eyes wide with disbelief.
“The world is ending, and that’s your motivation?”
Chan scoffs. The world is ending — so what? It’s been ending since before Chan was born. He doesn’t care. Choi Seungcheol started making Chan’s life a living hell the first day Chan showed up for training, and he hasn’t let up for a single moment since.
Chan cares a hell of a lot about that.
*
“Watch your left side,” Seungcheol calls out from the doorway, even closer than he was the day before. Chan whirls to face him, scowling, but Seungcheol only raises a challenging eyebrow in response. No matter how strong the temptation, Chan knows better than to snap back. He forces himself to swallow down his anger instead, looking down at his feet as he moves back to the starting position.
Anger isn’t useful, he reminds himself. There’s nothing he needs to say to Choi Seungcheol. If Chan works hard enough, it’ll speak for itself. If he can work hard enough he’ll show everybody.
*
Chan works hard enough.
*
Chan fixes his stance and watches his left side. Chan grits his teeth and clocks double the hours of any of the other trainees in the simulation room, even when the artificial gravity leaves him with constant nausea and a headache he can’t shake.
Chan works, and works, and works, and when he’s up for his final evaluation he aces it, just like he said he would.
*
What happens next isn’t what he expected at all.
*
When their results are posted Chan stares at his assignment for a long time, trying to make sense of it.
Choi Seungcheol (main) — Lee Chan (supporting)
He thought Seungcheol was retired for good. That’s why he’s here on Earth, helping the recruits, instead of up in the sky where he belongs — or at least that’s what everyone says. There were whispers that too many flights were making him unstable, that he couldn’t plug in anymore at all, but Chan didn’t listen to any of that. He’s never been one to speculate.
Well, he thinks, squaring his shoulders. It’s whatever. He’s getting what he wanted, isn’t he? What better way to reach Choi Seungcheol’s level than to pilot alongside him?
*
Chan’s training covered a lot. Physical and mental conditioning, gravity disruption, endless piloting simulations. Worst-case scenario after worst-case scenario, forcing the possibility of death down his throat like a bitter pill. So many psych evals they started to feel as normal as taking a shit.
But as comprehensive as his training was, Chan’s never actually tested a neural link. None of the trainees have — they can’t until they’ve passed, because the whole point of the program is to test whether they can handle it. Asking someone to plug in without preparing them beforehand is basically a death sentence. One of the instructors said as much on their first day, when an overeager recruit in the front row dared to ask. Chan was glad it hadn’t been him, even though he’d been thinking the same thing — that recruit barely made it two months.
But even as they avoided it, Chan never forgot what he was training for — the opposite, obviously. It’s all he could think about, every single day. Getting into a fighter pilot and plugging in. Finally getting to really fly, relying on his mental strength as much as his reflexes. Chan’s thought about it pretty much nonstop. He’s the best pilot in his year, but until now it’s all just been kids’ games. Controlling everything with their hands, like it’s three centuries ago and they’re driving retro cars.
Real piloting is different. It takes as much mental strength as it does physical. It’s not for the faint of heart, or the weak of mind. It’s only for the best, and now Chan’s got his chance to prove that’s him.
*
Chan doesn’t sleep at all the night before they test the neural link. It’s stupid — he needs to be in peak condition, physically and mentally. He knows that. But every time he closes his eyes his mind starts racing, his fingers and toes twitching in anticipation.
Even so, as he makes his way to the test room he doesn’t feel tired. It’s the adrenaline —he’ll crash when he’s done. Chan’s familiar with the ups and downs of his body, at this point. He trusts that he can make it til then.
In the lab the technicians explain everything slowly and clearly, going through the process as though Chan hasn’t been walked through it a million times before. We covered this much in training, he wants to tell them. He’s been in this room before, he’s just never actually gotten to sit in the chair.
“The link only goes one way,” the closest tech says. “You’re both plugged in, but not to each other.”
I know that, Chan doesn’t say.
“You won’t hear each other’s thoughts, or anything like that,” one of the women stresses. “So don’t worry about invasion of privacy.”
Duh, Chan doesn’t say.
“If you need to communicate with your co-pilot, do so verbally,” the first tech says, leading Chan to sit by the console and untangling the wires to hook him up. “It’s easy to space out when you’re plugged into the computer interface directly, but it’s important to maintain both lines of communication throughout the duration of the mission.”
Obviously, Chan doesn’t say.
“Are you ready to begin?” The tech is at the station, now, looking up at him to verify. Across the room Seungcheol sits up straight at the other console. Jaw set, eyes front. Chan tears his own gaze away, mimicking his posture.
“Yes,” Chan says. His voice is steady.
Jaw set.
Eyes front.
*
It’s wrong from the start.
*
As soon as they’re connected Chan’s mind opens to Seungcheol’s and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It’s wrong — this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. They connect to the computer, not to each other. Only the ship is supposed to hear them. But Chan can’t feel the controls at all, only Seungcheol. And Seungcheol is loud, his feelings almost deafening, taking up so much space in Chan’s brain he can barely breathe through it.
Seungcheol’s face is always so blank, with his strong jaw and heavy eyebrows. Chan never would have guessed this was what was screaming underneath.
He grits his teeth and bears it anyway, lets it wash over him like they taught him to in training. He can handle this — he can handle anything. He’s the best, isn’t he? He lets himself feel all of it, pulsing in his ears and behind his teeth and under his nails, ill-fitting and foreign. Hurt and anger and joy.
Terror.
Want, underneath all of that, shocking but undeniable.
Chan doesn’t let it pull him under, weathering it like a storm.
When the technicians cut the link he gasps and blinks, emptied out just as quickly as he’d been filled up, the suddenness of it enough to make him want to vomit. It feels like someone’s torn a hole somewhere inside of him, jagged and gaping. Like his organs have been taken out and put back in, everything shifted just enough to feel wrong.
He leans forward in his seat as soon as he’s unplugged, bracing his hands on his knees and trying to breathe through it.
There are tears forming in his eyes. He isn’t sure they’re his own.
“What was that,” he wheezes.
The technician who plugged him in frowns at the screen instead of answering, tapping rapidly to scroll through the data he collected during the test run.
“What was that,” Chan repeats, loud enough that the other man is forced to look up. The guilt in his expression is unmistakeable. Chan freezes at the sight of it, trying to process what’s happened through a brain that feels like it just went through the spin cycle.
“Did you know that was going to happen?”
“Of course not.”
The woman from earlier cuts in smoothly, coming to step in front of the technician, meeting Chan’s gaze evenly. Chan doesn’t believe her at all. He opens his mouth to argue, but before he can get the words out Seungcheol cuts in from the other side of the room.
“Cadet,” he says, voice firm and commanding. Chan’s training cuts in before he can do anything about it and he straightens as he turns towards Seungcheol, his expression smoothing into nothing.
I’m not a cadet anymore, he doesn’t say, trapped under Seungcheol’s heavy gaze, the belligerence hidden just under his tongue.
“Let’s go outside,” Seungcheol says, opening the door.
Chan follows him out.
*
“You knew that would happen,” Chan says immediately, testing out the thought and finding it solid. Seungcheol hesitates then nods, brisk and businesslike.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice washed clean of emotion. Professional. But he can’t fool Chan — Chan was just inside his head, wasn’t he? Chan knows what he’s hiding.
“Why did you do it?” he asks, dropping his respectful posturing completely as his curiosity gets the better of him. “If you knew, why did you try?”
Seungcheol hesitates, jaw working. His mouth opens, then closes. Chan tracks its movement with his eyes and doesn’t back down — shoulders back, chin up. A soldier through and through.
“Something happened the last time I plugged in for real,” Seungcheol says, finally. “The techs don’t know why. They’ve done tests, but — nothing. It’s never happened to anyone else.”
“What was it?” Chan asks, even though he thinks he already knows. He felt it, didn’t he? He waits for Seungcheol to explain anyway.
“The link’s supposed to be one-way.” Seungcheol looks away, gaze fixing on the wall behind Chan’s head. “But now every time I try, it’s — not. It’s like parts of me are bleeding out into the connection. They don’t know how to stop it.”
“You were the strongest recruit,” Seungcheol continues, meeting Chan’s eyes again as he says it. Chan feels the praise take root deep in his chest, his posture straightening infinitesimally. “We thought if anyone could handle it, it would be you.”
“And you didn’t think to warn me beforehand?”
Chan doesn’t bother asking why they tried at all — it’s obvious, isn’t it? They need every good soldier they can get, and Seungcheol was the best. Is still the best, maybe.
For now.
“I didn’t — I hoped it wouldn’t happen. I didn’t want to — overstep.”
Chan can’t help it — he gasps out an incredulous laugh.
“What? You thought I’d mind finding out you liked looking at me?”
Seungcheol scrubs a hand over his mouth.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says, voice sharp and impatient, a wary expression on his face. Like he thinks Chan’s fucking with him.
Chan shrugs, holding Seungcheol’s gaze so he can’t look away again.
“What it sounds like,” he says steadily. “I liked it.”
After a stunned second Seungcheol snorts in disbelief, a wry smile cracking onto his face.
“Of course you did.”
“Let’s try again,” Chan says, grinning. When Seungcheol raises a questioning eyebrow Chan nods towards the closed door of the lab. “You didn’t give me a fair warning — I can handle it this time. I promise.”
*
Chan opens the door.
Seungcheol follows.