Work Text:
———
“Wait!”
Feyd ignores the yell as he stumbles from the room on trembling legs, wiping away the lingering vomit from his lips. His heart is pounding so hard he feels like he’s dying. The cadets by the entrance don’t meet his eyes as he wrenches the door open and barrels from the room, frantically shedding the gloves and tugging at the neck of the too tight drivesuit.
Away from the pod.
Away from the familiar breath on the back of his neck that doesn’t feel like a memory.
Away from—
“Feyd, wait!”
He moves faster, pausing only to vomit one more onto the cold concrete hallway before dashing blinding away, heartbeat pounding in his ears.
———
The boy standing next to Marshal Atreides is slight and unimpressive. Not what Feyd had pictured when he thought of a Jaeger pilot. Certainly not a famous one like Paul Atreides. He shifts, shouldering a few of his fellow ‘volunteers’ out of the way to get a better look. Paul scans the surly group in front of him with thin lipped disapproval, eyes touching on Feyd for a fleeting moment before sliding away.
At least he’s pretty.
The sparring should be fun.
Before they send Feyd fucking back. Back.
———
He has to get away. He can’t do this. It has all been a terrible mistake. Why the fuck did he think he could do this? He should go back and just fucking die back on the fucking wall. Back—
He wants to find a knife. To carve it out of his head once and for fucking all. The world is about to be fucking smashed to pieces under the lumbering steps of a fucking monster and he can’t fucking stop his mind from falling down—
Feyd hits his head against the wall, the feeling blunt and fucking painful.
And not enough. Never enough.
———
“Next,” Marshal Atreides calls shortly, looking down at the clipboard in his large hands.
Paul is standing over a much larger man, staff pressed to his collarbone. His thin chest is heaving under his damp shirt, dark curls wet with sweat, pale cheeks pink from exertion.
And Feyd is no longer unimpressed as he accepts his own staff and steps into the ring, excitement buzzing through his veins.
Less than ten minutes later and he’s on his back as well, looking up into animated green eyes. An eager grin stretches Paul’s thin face and Feyd can feel an answering smile tug up his own lips as he takes his hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet.
“Paul,” he says, excitement clear in his soft voice.
“Feyd.”
But it feels like they said something else.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as the Marshal jots something down quickly.
His breath is coming rabbit fast, body slick with sweat, fingers still in Paul’s hand, heat squirming in his belly. He doesn’t want to pull his eyes away from Paul’s. Like a magnet or something. He could do it, but—
———
Feyd draws his legs up, throbbing forehead pressed against his knee, sharp pain pulsing as he worries at the tender skin. The noise from the Shatterdome is loud and abrasive. He looks out from the ledge and towards the giant pieces of machinery, blinking dully. They look far away. Out of reach.
They are now.
They look huge and strong. Cold and capable. Ready to take on the threat.
He doesn’t actually hear anything over the noise. But the back of his neck prickles. He stiffens, heart thumping and stomach squirming.
Feyd doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.
———
The Marshal immediately takes Paul away for a ‘briefing’ after the first day of training. Probably trying to convince him to change his fucking mind. Feyd’s skin feels tight and uncomfortable, but he doesn’t see Paul for the rest of the day. He can’t stand it.
The next day Feyd dogs Paul’s steps back to his room, mouth open and stupid. He knows he’s not wrong. He can feel it buzzing in the air between them. Knows Paul can feel it too. Just knows.
He watches Paul carefully as he hesitates outside the metal door, thin shoulders drawn up, back of his neck still slick with sweat. And Feyd wants to lick him. Just wants him to turn around and—
Paul turns, pupils big, cheeks red, hands stretched towards him, pulling Feyd close and yanking him inside his room. Feyd presses him roughly up against the wall, swallowing his sharp gasp as he grabs his skinny waist eagerly, helping Paul sling his leg over Feyd’s hip and—
They fuck every day after that. Hands reaching for each other in and out of the ring.
———
Paul doesn’t speak. Just sits next to him. He’s still in his drivesuit. And Feyd can’t look at him. Can’t meet his eyes. Because he doesn’t want to see what’s surely there. Shock. Horror. And worst of all, pity. The silence stretches between them as they look out towards the Jaegers.
“You should find someone else,” Feyd says eventually, voice a rough grate.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Paul shake his head.
“I don’t want to find someone else,” he says. “We’re drift compatible. I’ve never felt— it’s never been like this before. Not with anyone else.”
Feyd swallows, fingers curling in towards his palms, short nails scraping at the skin. He closes his eyes briefly, a shadow of an image threatening to—
“If you try to talk to me about what you saw, I’ll push you off this ledge.”
“No you won’t,” Paul says.
No I won’t.
“Do you want to be my co-pilot?” Paul asks.
He’s turning towards Feyd now. Because Paul’s not a coward. He clenches his jaw, feeling the throb of pain lance through his head again. Fuck that.
Feyd looks over at him quickly, like ripping off a bandaid.
And—
It’s just Paul. A little solemn maybe. But just Paul. He looks tired. Like when he just wakes up. Because Feyd knows what he looks like when he wakes up.
“Yes.”
———