Archive of Our Own

You’re watching the live news broadcast when it happens.

“Yeah,” Johnny hollers, “get that bastard right in the fuckin’ face!”

He’s swinging his arms around like a hooligan, but you know him, so you’re already hunched over on the couch, letting his arms flying above you harmlessly. Marcus, on the other side of you, however, isn’t as lucky. 

“MacTavish,” he snaps, “you’re smacking me!”

Johnny completely ignores him as Strike Raven takes a hit that rattles your bones even through the digital screen of your TV. You hiss at the impact, but are reasonably impressed at how fast the pilots recover to block another blow.

“That was what, two seconds?” Johnny muses.

“Two and a bit,” you confirm, nodding. He leans forwards on his knees to copy your stance, his face right beside yours. “Two point four, I’d guess.”

“Fucking nerds,” Marcus grumbles.

“Get the fuck off my couch then,” Johnny shoots back, arm shooting out around you to give him a shove.

“It’s a public space!”

“Shut up,” you order. They instantly quieten down. 

The camera broadcasting the live report—as mere cadets, you’re not allowed to see the classified reconnaissance drone footage—is shaky at best as it tries to zoom further into the massive exchanges, but you manage to make out the two huge bodies decking it out at the edge of Perth. The Kaiju and Jaeger are like natural nemeses, tousling in the water like toddlers who are too invested in a playfight. 

The situation seems to be in the bag, you think. Strike Raven is one of the oldies, and there’s a decent amount of area before the Kaiju can make any decent damage on the city. Additionally to being some of the most experienced pilots there are in the world, from memory, this is a pair of twins, which makes their Drift compatibility off the charts. Honestly, every time some Kaiju even tries to attack Australia, you feel sorry for the poor alien bastards who meet these veterans. 

The Kaiju, some ugly thing you believe they named Yaga, lands a hefty smack to the head of the Jaeger. But Strike Raven has already prepared, having locked into place the head into the neck, and an arm swings in retaliation, something akin to a mace swinging straight into the Kaiju’s face.

“Ooh,” you and Johnny say at the same time, leaning back in tandem. “Good hit,” he praises. 

The monster wavers, stumbling in the waves. The cameraman almost starts hyperventilating with ecstasy, and you can hear in the background, “Did you see that? Did you see that! It’s gone! It’s gone!”

You grin at Johnny, who smiles just as widely at you. You feel your ears flush at the eye contact, and you quickly look away back at the screen before you can say or do something dumb.

Marcus gives you a knowing look—you’re pretty sure everyone has a betting pool as to when you fuck up your friendship with Johnny. You glare at him in response.

“That was two hours an’ twelve,” Johnny says, leaning back against the backrest, completely ignorant of your quick exchange with Marcus. His arms wind back to hold the back of his scalp, arms stretching outwards. “A new record?”

“Considering the minimal spill,” you reply, taking in a breath, “it’s pretty impressive. I mean, I didn’t see any open wounds.”

Marcus sniffs from your other side. “Wait until those fucking reporters get a whiff of anything poisonous ‘sullying our waters’ and campaign for another shut down.”

“Fuckin’ reporters,” you and Johnny agree simultaneously.

A scream erupts from the TV, and all three of your eyes snap to the display. At first, everything seems fine. The sky is blue, Strike Raven is gleaming in all its silver and black glory, but then there’s two fucking Kaijus pouncing out of the water with a single intent to take down the pest in their way.

“Holy shit,” you and Johnny breathe.

Alarms rattle your brain, and you almost believe that it’s coming from the TV when you realise it’s coming from all around you. The red sirens have switched on and they’re whining from all corners of the rec room, and the door slams open and the youngest ever Ranger in history is in the doorway. You swear he locks eyes with you.

“Everyone,” Kyle Garrick orders, “to the Kwoon room. You’ve got ten minutes to round everyone else up because God knows where all of you are in downtime.”

Johnny’s arm curls around your shoulder reassuringly, before you even have the chance to start getting nervous. The two of you share a suspicious glance, Marcus spluttering in the background, before everyone is moving at lightning speeds to get to the Kwoon Combat Room. 

Johnny is right behind you, his chest almost pressed against your back from proximity. The two of you cut through the dormitories to bang on every door that’s still closed, making sure to alert anyone that still doesn’t know about the situation. 

This is an unprecedented situation. You’ve never seen two Kaiju monsters come out at the same time.

Is…Strike Raven still out there?

Someone barrels into you from the side, but Johnny’s there to stabilise you when you stumble. It’s a random mechanic who stutters out an apology before running in the opposite direction, and you shoot Johnny a bewildered look. Why would would tech be terrified?

“Move!” Marcus yells, shoving past cadets to get to the front. Johnny sets his jaw, hand firm on your waist as he helps you push through, following. 

Once you get closer to the Kwoon Room, you recognise Kara and Rami stumbling out of their shared dormitory looking far more disheveled than any self-respecting cadet should be looking. But before you can make a comment to it to Johnny, you lose sight of them as you all cram into the Kwoon Room. 

Still, he catches your eye to tell you I fucking saw that too that makes you smile. 

Even though there’s no superior to order you around, all of you are lining up in height order like you always do before class. This is where you and Johnny split; Johnny’s muscle makes his proportions seem like he’s short, but he’s one of the taller ones moving towards the front, as you slip into the middle of the pack.

Johnny still glances back at you, as if to make sure you’re there, before snapping his head to the front. He does it every time. 

Yells resound from outside the room, but they subside once the last cadet steps in and the airlock shuts. There’s an eerie silence that fills the room, and everyone resists the urge to shuffle their feet. 

All of you stand there, for a continually increasing stressful period of time, seconds ticking away to minutes ticking away to hours. An hour in, you realise that you’re probably being kept in here to staunch the flow of information—Strike Raven, no matter how good, had slim chances against two Kaiju. It’s most likely that they were lost, but being in here with no news network or contact with other staff, you can’t know for sure.

The awkward limbo is reminiscent of a certain cat in physics. You try not to think too hard about the implications, because Strike Raven is one of the best Jaegers known to date. It’ll be a massive loss to lose them.

You think you’ve been standing there for at least two hours before the airlock doors finally hiss in the tell-tale sign of entry. As practised, all of you straighten despite fatiguing, heels clicking together as you stand to attention.

It is Ranger John Price, one of the oldest pilots still in action. You’re pretty sure he’s from the same generation as Strike Raven.

“At ease,” he says, running a hand through his hair, picking up his boonie hat off from his head. “How long have you cadets been in here?”

“Around two hours, sir,” Marie answers from further down the line.

Price hums thoughtfully. “I see.”

“What the fuck happened, sir?” Johnny asks, never afraid to voice his questions.

“At ease,” Price repeats, but he doesn’t seem overly offended. His gaze flits to Johnny, sharp and evaluating. “Many of you would be watching the news broadcast, and so you would’ve been aware that there were two Kaijus during this breach.”

If you could, you’d kick the back of Johnny’s knee before he can say anything more. Unfortunately, since two cadets had dropped out, the order had shifted and now Johnny was no longer in your kicking range. Thankfully, Jamieson, one of the younger cadets, elbowed him instead.

“Our response was to drop Ghost Weaver and Emerald Wrath as support for Strike Raven,” Price continues, ignoring your antics. “As you all very well know, Emerald Wrath is a small unit and Ghost Weaver is stationed in the Hong Kong Shatterdome.”

The box is opened, and you see the cat inside. It’s dead.

“By the time Ghost Weaver was on scene, we had lost both Raven and Wrath.” Price gives you a second to let that sink in. “That means, we’re down two Jaegers. One wouldn’t impact us too much, but two is damning. Hence, even though selection was supposed to occur in another month, we’re pushing it up. You will be ranked based on the average of all your previous results from the past six months.” 

The top ranker is Johnny. Everyone knows that. 

“But what matters most is Drift compatibility. We’ll be selecting Drift compatible partners starting from the top ranker.”

You’re third on the list, behind Farah, who has an innate ability to get violent very quick but in a very controlled manner. Although the three of you get along well, there’s no denying the compatibility between you and Johnny. There’s virtually no chance for any other duo to be selected.

The entire cohort knows it. Marcus shifts uncomfortably to the side, either ranked four or five depending on how he scored on the last written test, clearly unhappy with how things are panning out. You know he’s been waiting to take Johnny down from his top dog position since the first ranks came out a month into training.

Price picks up on the change in mood. “What is it?”

Nobody says anything. Price frowns. 

“When do we start?” Johnny asks, before the tension can get too high.

For a moment, there’s a second of doubt. Maybe he isn’t going to pair well with you—maybe he’s going to pick Marie, who you know he fancied back when you all first started, or maybe he’s going to pick Luther, who consistently beats you in spars. Johnny ranks one for both written and practical components; you’re ranked two for written and four for practical. Luther is ranked second for practical.

But then his head moves almost imperceptibly to glance at you in the corner of your eye, and you relax. This is Johnny. He’s awfully straightforward and simple in his approach to relationships, making him a pain when playing classroom politics, but sincere as a friend.

“Now.” A new voice enters, at the same time as when the doors hiss open and the tallest man you’ve ever seen, still decked out in his Drivesuit, stalks into the room.

Price sighs. “Simon, you should really get some rest—”

“Tommy’s fuckin’ passed out,” the pilot of Ghost Weaver grounds out, a medical mask covering the lower part of his face but his scowl still evident. “He’ll sleep enough for both of us.”

Ranger Simon Riley is a myth; his first co-pilot had been ripped from the Conn-Pod but he still managed to maintain control and get to safety. Now, his co-pilot is his younger brother Thomas Riley, joining just a year older than Kyle Garrick had. The whole Riley brothers debacle had been massive at the time, since Simon had been intensely against coming back after his premature retirement. Somehow, Price managed to convince him, and now Ghost Weaver was one of the most effective Jaegers there are.

Johnny is Simon Riley’s biggest fan. You’ve never even seen idol or celebrity fans as fanatic as Johnny was about this one Englishman. You know everything from the man’s height in centimetres to the second decimal point to the man’s supposed favourite food from that one interview he did when he was just a fresh pilot. 

Even then, the man unnerves you. His blond hair is messy from just having gotten off his Jaeger, and his eyes are piercing. Honestly, you don’t think anyone other than Price could possible calm him down if he ever got into a rage.

“So,” Simon Riley says, giving all of you a sharp once-over. “Which one of you is ranked one?”

There’s a moment of silence. This is the start of the test, and all of you recognise it. Well, you hoped everyone did, because you see Johnny considering it. You stare lasers at the back of his head, trying to convey a don’t do anything fucking stupid via telepathy.

“You.” Riley points at Marcus. “During my time, everyone would keep a tally. Who’s rank one?”

“The results of our last practical eval haven’t been released to us yet,” Marcus says, and he’s not wrong. Technically, Price did say that it was the average of all your results from the past six months, meaning your most recent examination should be calculated into it.

“Rank one doesn’t change,” Riley says flatly. 

Marcus swallows. You look at Price, probably not the only cadet to, but the older man doesn’t move to stop the other pilot. Instead, Marcus just flounders under Riley’s intense stare, spluttering, glancing furtitively left and right to catch anyone else’s eye.

It’s almost too much to see. God, you didn’t realise Marcus would get so nervous so quickly—you’re standing behind him, so you give him a subtle nudge with the tip of your shoe. He has the urge to snap his gaze around at you but he knows better to, instead trying to catch you in his peripheral vision.

Johnny steps forwards, jaw set. You’ve never seen him so determined. “It’s me. I was number one before the last practical.”

Riley’s expression doesn’t change from the steely glare as his eyes snap to Johnny’s. “Who’re you most Drift compatible with?”

“My best friend,” Johnny says. He points at you without even needing to look at you. 

Should you also step out? But you’re in the second line, are you supposed to just shove Marcus out of the way? Price catches locks eyes with you, reading your hesitation, nodding just once as if to give you permission to step forwards.

Marcus catches the interaction and politely makes way for you to stand in line with Johnny. You do, only half-aware of what you’re doing, chasing Johnny’s gaze as you move to the front.

His head turns just as you stop moving, and he gives you one of his trademarked Johnny smiles. You smile back at him tightly.

“Get on the mat,” Riley orders. “Spar.”

Instinctually, you split to the right as Johnny heads for the left. There’s a sparring staff waiting for you each, and you clasp yours in your hands tightly to get a feel for it.

It’s the same as every other past sparring session, but also different. The weight is the same, factually, but it feels heavier. Your palms are also starting to sweat, so you quickly head for some chalk to increase friction.

You, being three ranks behind Johnny in practicals, have never ever been able to beat him before. The best score you’ve ever gotten was 4-2, and you still wear that as a proud medal. But now, under the watchful eyes of both Price and Riley, you’re not sure you’re ready to get your ass kicked.

Pivoting, you see Johnny waiting patiently for you to prepare. He gives you a grin that can only translate as don’t worry, it won’t hurt too much .

You shoot him a look that replies, I’m going to smack you upside down.

He breaks out in a full grin as the two of you step onto the mat. You give each other a customary bow, before you drop into a wary stance. Johnny’s more aggressive, his stance one ready to pounce at any time, but he’s kind enough to give you some time to read his intention before he lunges.

Although you’ve never been able to beat Johnny like that one time Luther did, you’ve always been able to last the longest. Your spars will stretch longer after others’ have ended and they’ve already swapped partners, and you’d still be in your area, sweating like a pig but holding onto that one point that gives Johnny a victory.

This time is no different. You know where Johnny will step before he does, and you snag the first point by smashing at his ankle and almost knocking his teeth together as you point the staff at his face.

“Mean lass,” he grunts.

“I told you I’d smack you upside down,” you point out.

“Yeah, well,” Johnny steps back as the two of you reset, “don’t come complaining when your muscles hurt again.”

“Bastard,” you mutter, knowing full well he meant the one time he landed at an awkward position between your shoulder and your neck and caused you to have an intense cramp. He later apologised with free massages, but now he likes to pull it out whenever you say he hits too hard for a spar.

He’s first to move, again. This time you’re not fast enough to respond, only managing to deflect instead of preparing a counter, and you’re pressed on the defense as Johnny is relentless. His blue eyes are sharp, almost predatory-like, and he tracks your movements like he’s some electronic sensor. 

You’d like to say that this is the first time he’s paid such close attention to you, but that would be false. Sometimes he comes knocking just before curfew to steal your skincare products, and you’d let him lather on your clay mask for you. Self-care is rare when you’re being trained every day like you have no soul, but the rare days when your mother’s package arrives in the mail are the days when Johnny would so carefully handle you and your clay mask you’d think he was looking at one of the demolition blueprints instead.

You’re only slightly distracted from Johnny’s blue eyes because you’ve had plenty of practice to dull their impact on you, but it’s enough for Johnny to disarm you by yanking your staff away from you with his. You barely have time to react before he’s slamming you down with his entire meat-lump of a body, and you feel all the air leave your lungs for a moment.

“Shit,” you hiss, already trying to weasel your way out of his hold. But then his staff is pointed at your face, and you give him a terse glare in response.

“1-1,” he calls out, smugly.

“Fuck you,” you reply, already forgetting about your crowd. He laughs heartily, still amused even as your staff whips around and almost nails him in the temple.

He’s off your body with a lightness that does not suit him, prancing backwards and out of your range as you scramble to your feet. His hands shift on the staff, and your eyes snap to the movement instantly.

He’s right-handed on a good day, but ambidextrous on a bad one. You know he’s shifting his grip before he can complete it, and you push on the offense instead.

You’re not as aggressive as Johnny, but you currently hold one of the fastest records of a takedown in Academy history. You’ve gotten a few 4-0s, one of which because you always moved before your opponent. You’re only that aggressive when you know your opponent would be disorientated and lacked the skill to come up with a good counter, which is why usually it’s Johnny who goes first between the two of you. 

Still, you’ve discovered that getting the jump on Johnny sometimes is a game-changer. That’s how you got your two points; consecutively, by charging forwards and taking him by surprise.

Johnny’s smiling as he parries your hits, pivoting left and right to get around you, but you don’t let him. You pivot alongside him, your body always facing his, no matter which way he goes, and you can tell by the way his eyebrows set that he’s taking this seriously. 

You’ve got a total of one singular card up your sleeve, a trick that Farah had taught you. Farah Karim was one of your other close cadets, and she would be the next most desirable pilot if it were for the lack of any Drift compatible partners. She had once told you in your shared dorm that it was a pity, and sometimes she’d wished that her brother was still around to pair with her. Then she had told you she was rooting for you and Johnny.

You consider it. You could—but it would be too early to do it. Johnny is just getting warmed up, and you know that all his MMA and body-tossing judo moves are going to come out soon. You need something to go against that.

So you stick to the basics. Block, disarm, stab. The three main steps to fighting with a polearm. With your measly strength against Johnny’s absolutely mouth-watering biceps—okay, that’s a bit off topic, but they are massive—you can’t block him for long. So you take to flicking your wrist in the most flexible ways possible to get the most time out of a disarm and you lunge forwards.

Johnny parries, barely recovering, but you’ve anticipated that. The attack is a feint, and you’re already moving your body in preparation for another disarm. 

Eyes narrowing, Johnny swaps his grip to flip his entire stance as if reflected by a mirror, trying to disorientate you. Okay. Scratch being conservative. It’s one point at a time. You shift your centre of weight to a back leg, letting instinct take over. 

Johnny is striking, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because you’re dropping to the ground and swinging your leg up instead. Your foot makes contact with his staff, and you use the whole momentum of your swinging bodyweight to yank the staff down with your leg. Johnny stumbles, and you snap around with your staff.

“2-1,” Riley says, and you detect some mild appreciation in his tone.

“You’ve been doing yoga again,” Johnny accuses as you disengage.

You shrug. “I told you, you really should get off that pinball machine during rec. It really destroys your lower back. Feeling it now?”

“That’s cause you fuckin’ jump me all the time,” Johnny argues. 

You don’t tell him it’s because he’s always warm, and that’s why you latch onto his back whenever he’s in front of you and you’re in private. Johnny gives you a look that you reply with a sheepish smile, and you circle each other across the mat.

Price comes into line, just behind Johnny as the two of you move. His expression is amused, and you’re distracted by the gruff smile that he sports when Johnny lunges.

He’s got you. “2-2,” he croons. “Pay attention, lass.”

You disarm him with a quick flick and you slam your staff into his thigh where you know a nerve sits, and he cusses, crumpling down to a knee as you whip your staff up to his face. “3-2,” you correct, raising an eyebrow. “Pay attention, Johnny.”

This is actually the first time you’ve been ahead and been one away from securing the spar. Something giddy spreads inside you at the thought of winning, because you’ve never done it against Johnny before. A smile flickers on his own face, as if he can’t control it, before the two of you are attacking each other again.

This next point takes years to get. Every time you want to get the upper hand, Johnny has somehow already slipped into defense.

He’s playing defense against you, you realise. He’s being careful. Usually he isn’t so wary of his movements, arrogant in a way that dictates every single move he makes with confidence, but you’ve made him careful. That’s a feat on its own.

The two of you keep exchanging blows, one hit for another, and the two of you are tiring. You’re pretty sure you’re drenched in sweat like you’ve taken a shower, and Johnny’s no better. The gentle blue t-shirt that compliments his eyes has been stained into a dark navy, hugging his body in all the wrong ways. Fuck’s sake, the way he looks slightly feral as he forces himself to be hyper alert is distracting in itself.

You’ve known you fancied Johnny four weeks into the program. You’ve spent the rest of the time reigning it in, and until recently, you thought you had it under control.

Apparently not. Not today, at least.

There’s a flash in his eyes that warns you before he pulls a fucking superhero move. He swings at you, causing you to raise your staff up to parry, but then he suddenly drops down to the side and he uses the butt of the staff to support his weight as he closes the distance.

You didn’t even know the staff could sustain all that weight, and you’re surprised it didn’t snap underneath Johnny’s all-muscle-no-fat glory. But your wonder doesn’t last long, because suddenly Johnny’s all up in your personal space and he aiming for your face.

You step back to create distance. Thrusting your staff out in a counter, Johnny evades it with deadly grace and pushes forwards. He does a frightening twist from his waist, snapping back upright with a terrifying speed. His staff hurtles through the air as you dodge, dropping down, only to see Johnny’s leg heading for you.

You soften the kick with your staff, but still stumble to the side. He’s bringing his staff down on your head like some aggressive parent punishing a child, and you shoot up from where you crouch and aim for his chin.

His grip suddenly changes and he’s completely fucking up physics as he breaks momentum to drop down and kick your legs out from under you. 

You land on the mat with a loud thump, and Johnny points his staff at your face. You’re both panting. “3-3,” he says, cheerfully.

“Johnny,” you complain, but you catch yourself and it comes out less like a childish whine and more like a disgruntled sigh. 

He bends down, offering you a hand to help you up, but you’re taking the chance to yank him down alongside you to straddle him. He falls much easier than expected, and as you swing your leg over his waist, you see his staff moving in the corner of your eye.

You barely dodge as it swipes right in front of you, landing back in Johnny’s hand which he had spared to help you up, securing his two-handed grip. He tries to buck you off, but you’ve got a vice grip, and instead you’re rotating alongside him, swapping places as you’re thrown under him.

Johnny has to press his arms to the floor to stabilise himself, but your hands and weapon are free. You snap your staff up to his face, adrenaline thrumming just under your skin. 

He’s staring at you, blue eyes wide. Your hair is plastered to your face, a strand somewhere in your mouth, and you heave heavily as he cages you underneath his chest. Your ankles are still locked behind his waist, securing yourself to him. 

“4-3,” Riley says. “Spar over.”

Johnny still stares at you. For a second, it’s just the two of you in the world, you and your sweaty face, him and his big blue eyes. He looks as if he wants to say something, or as if there’s something whirring on in that brain of his, but nothing comes out.

You don’t want to break the spell, but your arms are tired, and they can’t hold themselves up for much longer. Your arms collapse, grip breaking on the staff, the wooden object hitting you lightly in the face as you loosen your grip on Johnny’s hip.

The loss of contact seems to wake Johnny up. He groans softly, rolling off you to the side. He reaches out blindly with the hand closest to pat you, smacking you in the face when he doesn’t calculate distance properly, and you have to pull his hand down so it lands at your abdomen instead.

“That was fuckin’ fantastic,” Johnny says, and you know he means it.

You turn your head to grin at him. “That was fucking fantastic.”

He looks at you, but instead of the post-exercise content expression he usually has after a spar, there’s a softness in his gaze that makes you freeze. It makes all those feelings that you buried rear their ugly heads, and you snap your head away before the pounding in both your heart and head becoming too overwhelming.

“That was impressive,” Price says, appearing over you to be in your sights. “What rank are you?”

The question is pointed at you. “Third,” you answer honestly.

“You ever beat him before?”

You shake your head. “First time.”

Price hums to himself, stroking his beard like a sagely grandfather. Riley siddles up beside him, giving the two of you pointed looks. “Hit the showers,” he orders, “we’ll continue without you. Come by Mission Control when you’re cleaned up.”

“So it’s us?” Johnny asks, hope clear in his voice.

“Hit the showers,” Riley repeats.

“Yessir,” you say before Johnny can ask another dumb question, offering a tired salute. Riley nods at you, clearly appreciating your quick adherence to orders over Johnny’s inquisitive nature, before he and Price pull aside to talk to the rest of the cadets.

You don’t even really take note of their expressions as you haul yourself to your feet, Johnny doing the same beside you. “I’d offer you a hand, but,” he says, shrugging, and you smack his arm. He grins, and the two of you hobble to the exit together.

You notice Luther blatantly staring at you as you walk past, Marie doing the same with Johnny. Farah sports a look of pride, the only thing you really care about, and you give her a thumbs up in response as Johnny places an arm around your shoulders. 

He hand settles at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder, where he once hit it too hard, and he squeezes it, almost subconsciously. 

Your attention is instantly swooped away, zeroing in on nothing but Johnny. 

For the first time in a long time, you don’t mind how your entire world becomes him for just a moment. You used to think it’ll be too distracting, but for now, you give yourself it. Like a prize. 

You imagine that you can stare at him like this every day, and not be afraid to. That you can climb on top of him not when it’s just the two of you, but when everyone else is around too. That you can just press your lips to that little bump at the corner of his and savour his taste.

God, if only.

But for now, you’re satisfied with just looking. Honestly, it’s not like anyone is going to find out about your desires.

—

“Drifting means sharing memories, emotions, and even instinct. There will be virtually no secrets between the two of you; it’ll be the closest thing you’ll ever get to a soulmate.”

Shit. You close your eyes momentarily to make sure no amount of panic reads in on your face, because you had totally forgotten about this.

It’s not like you’d forgotten, because everyone knows that Drifting with someone else means bearing the most vulnerable parts of yourself to someone else, but you just hadn’t made the connection. You’d known, but you hadn’t known. 

Oh god, Johnny’s going to find out. Johnny’s going to find out that you’re in love with him, and then it’s going to get awkward. Then the whole Drifting thing might go wrong and—

Oh. You’re going to fuck this whole thing up.

“We’ll do a test run in our newest Mark V,” Marshal Kate Laswell continues, completely oblivious to your internal meltdown. “Which is named Castile Victor. It was designed to be deployed Lima, but since our loss of Raven, Sydney’s been given the unit. If this goes well, it’ll be your unit.”

Johnny vibrates with excitement beside you. The two of you wear your formal uniform because you’re before the Marshal, but even then, Johnny is almost dancing on the spot in excitement in the stiff wear. This is a dream come true for him—for both of you, actually, but your muscle have been frozen still by the realisation that you’re going to end up confessing involuntarily through a fucking science fiction-esque mind link.

“Soap’s all fired up,” one of the mission controllers report.

“Soap?” you ask.

Price grins from where he stands beside Marshal Laswell. “Castile is a type of soap, you know.”

Johnny’s eyebrows furrow and you know he’s judging the nickname, so you nudge him as you reply, “We’ll clean up those Kaiju like it was done with some excellent Castile soap, sir.”

“You need to Drift first,” Riley mutters.

“I think they’ll be okay.” Kyle Garrick nods to himself, looking at Price. “I mean, you said it yourself. They’ve got a compatibility you haven’t seen since us.”

That was also something else intriguing that you’ve always wanted to know the full story of. Kyle Garrick had been the youngest to be appointed as a Ranger not just because of his flourishing results at the Academy, but his insane Drift compatibility with a veteran. Price’s old Drift partner had considered retirement, or something similar from what you’ve heard, but Price hadn’t been ready to give the fight up.

In comes golden rookie Kyle Garrick, whose practical record not even Johnny can beat is still in the honorary hall of fame, and they click instantly. From the way Price somehow conveys his thoughts via eye contact, you think this is a surprisingly heart-warming father-son dynamic.

“She should take the right,” Riley proposes, nodding at you.

Marshal Laswell frowns. “MacTavish ranks first.”

“You didn’t see her in the spar,” Price agrees with his subordinate, giving you a look that you can’t quite decipher. “I think she suits the right hemisphere.”

“What’s the difference?” Johnny asks. “Aren’t we just one mind anyways?”

Don’t remind me, you think sourly. Riley’s face moves and you’re only realising it’s something borderlining a smile when he finishes speaking. “It’s for good balance.”

“Marshal,” an engineer calls. He doesn’t need to elaborate for her to know what he wants.

“The two of you need to suit up,” Laswell says, motioning to dismiss you and Johnny. “But I don’t need to remind you that although the two of you have the highest probability of success, you’re not guaranteed the graduation. We have other combinations, one of which is a full replacement of both of you.”

You and Johnny sneak a glance towards each other. Luther, he proposes silently.

With Marcus?

No, Johnny disagrees, Farah.

You give him a look that clearly shows your disbelief.

“The two of you seem to be taking this telepathy thing seriously,” Garrick says, amused.

Laswell also sports a look of what you think is mild humour, but you’re not quite sure, because her stony expression doesn’t change much. She probably conveys emotions via micro-expressions and micro-expressions only.

Not wanting to wait until she realises technically you’ve shown insubordination through having private conversations in front of a superior, you say quickly, “We’re off, ma’am.”

Johnny salutes obediently alongside you, and the two of you wait for her dismissal. She gives the two of you a curt nod, before you and Johnny are pivoting in perfect unison, heading for the door. The engineer waits for you to reach him, before he turns around, expecting you to follow. 

“It’s not Farah,” you say immediately, once the airlock door closes behind you.

“There’s nobody else,” Johnny argues, “remember the questionnaire thing? Luther got some seventy-four percent with Farah.”

“Farah would never get in with someone less than eighty-five.”

Johnny shrugs. “To get into a Jaeger, I’d take anything.”

That makes you wonder who else Johnny could have possibly been paired up with. It makes you curious. “Okay,” you say, “what about other ‘combinations’? You just said you’d take anything. Who’d you take if we weren’t compatible?”

Johnny gives you a funny look. “Why would we talk about that?”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“Not since we got ninety-five on the questionnaire. The only thing we didn’t pair on is your god awful taste in music.”

You blink. “You still remember that shitty thing from day one?”

“You don’t?”

You do. You think about it all the time. You sometimes wonder at three am what would happen if the questionnaire didn’t exist, or if you hadn’t scored that high with the bright, blue-eyed Scot who had a smile too smooth to be a young military recruit. Would you still have fallen in love with him?

“I don’t have an awful taste in music,” you say, lamely, “and that wasn’t even a question on the questionnaire. You said you preferred hitting with your right when I said kicking instead.”

Johnny looks at you smugly. “See who else remembers that shitty questionnaire from day one?”

The engineer saves you from needing to respond, taking a sharp left. He doesn’t even check to make sure you and Johnny are following, swiftly swiping a pass to enter into a locked room. The lock beeps green, door groaning as it opens. 

What it reveals has your jaw almost dropping right down to the floor, but you’re got a bit more decorum than that. Johnny is full on drooling.

Inside is your prep room, where you’re to suit up into your Drivesuits. But past that, through a glass-paned window that stretched across the wall like a stripe of glass that revealed the world’s secrets, is your Jeager.

Castile Victor is painted a deep, deep navy. The only reason why you realise it isn’t black is because of all of the massive fluorescent lights that casts scattered light over the metal armour. It’s sleek, definitely new, and there’s a whirring core that’s just being closed off by a massive abdomen armour panel. 

It isn’t as tall as previous models, but it is sturdy. There’s a certain lithe quality to it that you know will pair well with your flexibility, but there’s also a bulkiness that is reminiscent of Johnny’s build.

It’s perfect for the two of you. 

God. This is really happening. You’re going to have your own Jaeger.

“Come on,” your guide urges, impatient. “Stop staring!”

Inside the room, there are other engineers and support staff milling about, moving different pieces of what seems to be your Drivesuit. The metal of the suit is a deep, navy blue that perfectly matches the shade of Castile Victor, and it almost shimmers at every angle it moves. The engineer who lead you here quickly ushers you in, forcing the two of you to stand a couple of arm widths apart so you don’t smack each other when you stretch, nodding to himself as he scans the two of you up and down.

A new face appears, this one more aged. He nods at the two of you, as if satisfied. “My name is Dr. Alex Keller,” he says, “and I’m in charge of the construction of Soap.”

You jolt back to attention, eyes finding difficulty in looking away from the magnificent piece of robotics. You nod at Dr. Keller in acknowledgement of his words, ready to heed his orders.

“Soap is not a cool nickname,” Johnny mutters to your side.

“Arms out, legs apart,” Dr. Keller orders, ignoring him. “We just need to get some final measurements before you head in. Hey, somebody, get them some underclothing! The thermals—yeah, yeah, that’s what we were working on, yeah, good—oh,” he eyes Johnny, “have you gained muscle mass since your last physical eval?”

“Uh,” Johnny glances over at you, “hopefully?”

You’re too busy being manhandled to reply, but you make a vague noise of affimation as your arms are yanked left and right to measure to the length and width against armour plates. It’s almost as if you’re an out-of-body experience; you’re being fitted against parts of your Drivesuit that are clearly made from your prior physical evaluation measurements a couple of weeks ago, but as your body is moved to compare against various parts of the Drivesuit, you feel as if you’re watching your own body instead of actually being the body moved.

It’s surreal. You knew that being a Jeager pilot was within your grasps as soon as you got into the Academy, but you hadn’t expected it to happen. People drop out, there are holes in compatibility, the competition is intense and there’s always someone better…fuck, you really didn’t realise that this was real until you feel the chill of the armour being pressed against your limbs.

Johnny seems to be much more comfortable in the situation, and your two outstretched fingers brushed against one another when both your arms are yanked to a full length to your side. He shoots you one of his boyish grins when you make eye contact. 

You smile back, calming your thrumming nerves. He always has always had this tranquil effect on your nerves.

Soon, all the armour is being placed to aside to be quickly assembled. A bundle of long johns are shoved into your hold, and with a quick approving nod from Dr. Keller, and you’re waved off to get changed. 

Johnny watches you as you close the door to the change room behind you, something anxious about the way his eyes track all your movements.

“I’ll be out in a sec,” you promise, and Johnny gives a curt nod. 

The door closes, and you turn around to see a massive full-length mirror mounted on the wall behind you. Taking in a deep breath, you prepare yourself to get out of the formal gear. It took you a solid few minutes to get into the gear earlier, and now, not even half an hour later, you were getting out of it. God, maybe you should’ve just worn sweats instead.

But then you remember Marshall Laswell’s sharp eyes, and you think you’d rather suffer through a few more minutes of inconvenience than stand before her in tracksuit pants and a sweater. And so you begrudgingly shrug off your dress uniform, remembering to fold it neatly before putting on your skin-tight suit.

It hugs your body in ways that you didn’t even know was possible, probably due to the terrifyingly accurate measurements taken of your body every physical eval. Once you manage to yank the side zip up, you look at yourself into the full-length mirror, and you almost don’t recognise yourself.

You have well-defined muscles and a specific set to the way your shoulders square themselves. You look like a pilot.

You swallow. The reflection swallows too. Before you can get too engrossed into the finer details of your appearance, you quickly scoop up your stray clothes and step out of the change room. You force confidence into your steps, grip tightening around your folded clothes as you swing the door open and shut behind you, catching a glance of Johnny who steps out of an opposite changeroom on the other side of the room.

He grins at you. You smile back, even though you don’t feel half as self-assured as he looks.

You’re a pilot now, you should act like one.

—

It’s like one of those moments when you know something you dread is happening, but you manage to push off all stress and anxiety until a few minutes before.

You even have the time to admire Soap’s interior—the engineering and design is insanely detailed, even with fifty years, you don’t think you’d have enough time to draw out every single intricacy—as you step into your position on the right, the clasps around your feet welcoming you with intimidating hisses. It’s only when Johnny does the same right beside you when everything comes at you with full force.

Honestly, it’s not that big of a deal—you’re just going to be stepping into the brain of a Godzilla-equivalent of a human-made robot, share all your closest memories and most intimate feelings with the man you’re in love with. Small details like that. Yeah.

Your fingers tremble by your side as your spinal clamp fastens into place, the impact making you shift forwards a little. “Hey,” Johnny says, “we’re gonna blow ‘em out of the water, alrigh’?”

“Yeah,” you say, only half listening to yourself, “yeah, definitely.”

He gives you a weird look, sensing your nerves, but you know he chalks it up to simple nervousness at actually being in your dream job. Still, it’s better than him knowing it’s because you’re about to fucking confess via sciency mindlink shit.

You have half a mind to tell him right now, because it should come from you. Your instructor would argue that there’s no difference since you’re technically you even when Drifting, but still, something about saying it aloud instead of letting it be discovered whilst simultaneously sharing thoughts is what propels you to call out his name.

“Johnny,” you say.

“I’m listenin’,” he replies, head on a swivel as he takes in the pod around you. He’s like a child in a toy store; eyes alight with something even more intense than passion, grin so wide unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. He hadn’t even looked like this when he first saw Simon Riley in the halls.

You can’t help but smile. Seeing Johnny doing what he does best, what he loves, well. That’s a gift in itself.

Then you remember. You need to tell him. “Johnny,” you try again, “there’s something I need to—”

“Pilots,” Marshall Laswell’s voice cuts across comms, filtering into your helmet. “Can you hear me?”

“Loud an’ clear,” Johnny chimes. He shoots you a look that says let’s talk later .

You’re slowly coming to the realisation that maybe you’re destined to be discovered in this way. In a horrible, horrible way, you kind of hope that you won’t even get to the neural handshake and that you’ll be able to hold out and bury your feelings forever, but you know as soon as you think the thought that that’s a dumb idea. 

You want this just as much as Johnny does. You want to be a pilot, you want to save lives, and if that means sacrificing some personal dignity, then fine. 

You just don’t want your awful feelings to affect all of…this. This chance you have to actually make a difference. To fight the monsters that have been taking away your life one piece at a time, and to finally engage in some combat to show them just how angry you are they’ve decided to invade your planet.

“We’ll begin soon,” Laswell is saying, “and I know this is something the two of you know well, but let me warn you once more: do not chase the rabbit. Just let the memories flow. Stay in the Drift; the Drift is silence.”

“Yes ma’am,” you and Johnny chorus. 

“Good luck,” she says, finally. “I have faith in the two of you.”

“We won’t disappoint, ma’am,” Johnny replies confidently, and you hum in agreement. Laswell clicks off as an engineer speaks to her in the background, and Johnny takes the chance to look over at you, grinning. 

“What?” you ask.

He shrugs, cables clinking down along his limbs. “Did I tell ya how yer lookin’ in that uniform?”

“No, Johnny,” you reply, humouring him. “How do I look?”

“Good.” His grin softens into a smile. “Real good.”

You swallow. “Thanks,” you say, clearing your throat, “that’s nice of you to say, Johnny.”

“Yeah well,” he looks away, rolling his shoulders backwards, “not much else I can say, ‘cause you’ll be in ma brain real soon. Anythin’ you wanna say to me before we become irreversibly linked?”

“That I love you Johnny,” you say, and it’s a surprise when it comes easily. “Thank you for being my partner,” you add.

“Oh.” Johnny coughs, taken off guard. “I thought—I thought you’d say somethin’ dumb like I look good too or somethin’—”

“The two of you ready?” This time it’s Dr. Keller who’s speaking. 

“Yes,” you reply, before Johnny can. He’s trying to catch your eye, but you stubbornly look forwards.

God. He’ll be in your brain within the next minute. This is going to be mortifying.

But hey. At least you said it aloud. It could be worse.

“Initiating link in T-minus ten seconds,” Dr. Keller reports. “Ten, nine…”

Okay, actually, maybe you should think about the repercussions. You probably should have done that before you decided to blurt out your confession, but you can’t take it back now. Maybe he took it as a platonic ‘I love you’? That would fix things.

“Eight, seven, six…”

But in the off chance he takes it in a romantic way, what if he doesn’t like you back? Okay, that’s fine, you can recover from that. It’s not like you enjoy his presence because you’re in love with him or anything, he’s still your best friend first, you suppose. That shouldn’t be effected. Probably.

“Five, four…”

Johnny’s still trying to catch your attention from the coner of your eye. Fuck. What if he hates you now? What if he thinks you’re a complete weirdo who fucked everything up when you confessed right before the biggest moments in both your lives?

“Three…”

Okay. Deep breaths. Just—

“Two…”

The machine whirs, starting. You inhale.

“One…”

Fuck it, you think, I’ll love you no matter what.

—

Neural link established.

—

I love you comes naturally even when your minds are linked. It’s the first thought you have, really, or is it the first thought you have together as co-pilots?

In the strangest sensation, you start to see both your life and Johnny’s whip by as if you’re watching a movie on two times speed. You see his sister, laughing at him when he lands face first in a mud puddle, and your father snickering when you smear ice-cream all over your face and not understand what’s so funny. Then it’s the first day at school, another first day at school, and then it’s you at high school graduation and Johnny joining the army. 

Your professor is warmly explaining to you how she marked your paper as Johnny’s captain shares a bad joke, both hands landing warmly on your shoulder. It’s simply bizarre, the way you live both lives at once. 

But it feel right. It feels as if you should’ve been like this the whole time.

Then the first Kaiju arrives, when the two of you are in your second year out of high school. Then the second, the third, and then comes the moment when you’re signing up for the Academy. 

Your pen is heavy in your hand, but Johnny’s is light. He signs rapidly, without hesitation, but you take your time dotting your Is and crossing your Ts, a certain pensive note to the memory. Your father is looking over your shoulder, and he says, “It’s dangerous.”

“I’ll be protecting people,” you say. 

“You could die out there,” Johnny’s mother says, unhappy.

“Not a risk I haven’t taken before,” Johnny replies, grinning cheekily. He stands, pressing a kiss to his mother’s cheek, and your father presses one to your forehead.

Your heart seizes at the sight of Johnny’s mother’s expression, the pure helplessness radiating from her posture. She looks as if she’s sending her child straight to an execution, and her hands tremble in the same way yours had when you stepped into Soap’s neural system, and you realise. 

You understand her. The fear of losing a loved one.

“Don’t cry,” Johnny says, and you don’t know if he’s talking to you or his mother. When he reaches out to wipe her tears, you feel his fingers on your cheeks too.

“It’s okay,” your father echoes, brushing away your tears, “I know you just want the best for everyone. You’re just a good kid like that.”

The scenery changes. Don’t chase the rabbit, you chant, over and over. 

Now you’re at the Academy, strolling through foreign hallways that to you now are like home, but the strange alien air surrounding the memory has you shivering as you relive it. It’s when you make a turn that you realise that this is not your memory, or a combination of memories—this is Johnny’s memory.

He steps through the halls with much more confidence than you had when you first entered, but you can feel the anticipation and the anxiety thrumming just under your fingertips. Johnny is a man who moves, always is moving, and you feel the urge to tap your foot as you wait in line to register as a new cadet.

He’s taller than you, and so the angle in which you take in everything is slightly different to what you’re used to. Luther isn’t as intimidating as you think he is, and Marie is even more cutesy from this angle.

But weirdly, all you feel is amusement at Marie’s short bob and nothing more. You can’t tell if the emotion is yours, Johnny’s, or both.

Laughter echoes down the hallways, and you—Johnny—turns around to see who it is. It’s another cadet, freshly in uniform, probably having got here early.

 She’s beautiful. Stunning. Absolutely breath-taking, literally. You can’t even find it in yourself to breathe, and it’s not even your own memory.

The way she walks is captivating. Every step, you think, could step on top of you and you’d thank her. She holds a door open for her friend, smiling brightly, and you think you couldn’t have seen a more perfect person.

For a split second, you think you see a vision of the woman at night time, legs swinging off the metal balcony of the Jaeger viewing area. She’s beautiful even in the dim light, even more so.

Her smile. Fuck. You can’t get enough of it. 

I love you, you think. Johnny thinks.

The memory flickers back to the hallway. The sign-up. The memory is starting to fade, and now you know. It’s Johnny’s memory. Not yours. 

I love you.

It’s you. You’re the one in the hallway, laughing, walking by.

You hadn’t even noticed him. He had just been a random face in a sea of random faces, lining up to join the Academy. You had arrived early that day, not wanting to push against every other excited new cadet, and you had met Farah there, just as early. The two of you were dormmates, and you spent days together exploring and laughing together, creating a bond.

He had seen you. You hadn’t seen him.

The memory ends. You hear, distantly in the background as the Drift fades, Neutral handshake complete.

—

The metallic smell of Soap’s interior is what alerts you to returning to the pod, and you spend a minute just focusing on your own breaths. Your physical body responds to every command you give it, but you still feel detached.

Your hand clenches, then unclenches. Then it clenches again, before it unclenches once more. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny mutters from beside you. He’s also clenching and unclenching his fist, but he’s also doing the same to your fist, and you watch in wonder as he moves both your bodies in tandem.

Or are you moving it? At this point, outside of the very separate physical bodies, there’s no line that differentiates the two of you anymore.

Dread trickles in. Where does that put your confession? Are your feelings so strong that it’s somehow blurred the lines between his platonic love for you as his best friend and now you’re reading into things? What’s you? What’s him? 

All co-pilots have always had vague answers whenever they were interviewed about Drifting with their partner, always coming up with some awkward answer of ‘we just became one’. Only Simon Riley had given a remotely different answer, raising an eyebrow as he replied, “There’s nothing different, really. He just becomes a part of me, I become a part of him, and we become a part of each other. It’s like having a voice inside your head but knowing that it’s you.”

You can still remember the brush of your father’s fingers, and the sobs of Johnny’s mother. You love them both so much—there’s no distinction.

“Look at the two of you,” Dr. Keller says, excitement in his voice, “that was the smoothest yet! Marshall?”

“Congratulations,” Marshall Laswell states with satisfaction. “That was impressive. It was the fastest Drifing of a new pair yet.”

You and Johnny don’t reply. You’re too busy staring down at your synced movements, with zero delay when Johnny swings an arm and when you swing an arm. When you take an experimental step forward, so does he.

“We’ll disconnect the two of you now,” Laswell continues, unperturbed by your silence, “and the two of you will undergo a session that outlines all of Soap’s functions. Then, the two of you can head back in and get into action, which, I’m sure you both are brimming with anticipation for.”

The machine whirs, and you’re suddenly afraid. There’s a certain warmth to the Drift—it might be silent now that it’s in equilibrium, but it’s comforting. It feels like home. You know Johnny’s there, but you’re not uncomfortable, and you wonder what it’ll be like once the sensation is gone. You’ve forgotten already.

There’s the moment when you know the disconnection comes next. Johnny finally looks at you, turning his head to meet your gaze. When your eyes lock, you know.

I love you. It’s a mutual thought.

—

“So that was kind of amazing but also kind of terrifying because you beat our record,” Kyle Garrick says once you’re out of your Drivesuit and back in Mission Control. “That’s freaky impressive.”

Price regards the two of you with newfound respect. “Maybe we should’ve gotten you two out earlier,” he muses.

Simon Riley doesn’t say anything. But he does watch the two of you from the background, and a new, smaller figure is beside him. His brother, probably.

“I, for one,” Marshall Laswell announces, stepping forwards, “am proud to declare the two of you our newest pilots of Castile Victor. Congratulations, once more, on your impressive Drifting together.”

You and Johnny stand next to each other before them, a panel of military officials and Rangers. You haven’t spoken yet, not since the two of you had broken out of your Drifting link, becaues then the two of you had been ushered into different directions to get your suit off. 

You’re still deciding if being apart from him is a good thing or bad. Still, the lingering remnants of your connection hum in the back of your mind, stronger than it was before. Maybe it’s because Johnny’s close.

Laswell glances between the two of you. “If there’s nothing anyone else wants to say, I think it’s a good idea to dismiss you two here. Get some rest; you’ll ramp up in terms of training under duress and with a Drifting link starting tomorrow.”

Price nods in agreement. “Gaz and I’ll watch over your Drift training, since we have the closest compatibility score. Simon and Tommy’ll do the physical conditioning.”

“Thank you, sir,” you say. Johnny is uncharacteristically silent.

Price seems amused. “Head off now, Rangers. We’ll see you tomorrow morning, 0600.”

“Sir, ma’am,” you salute. With a slight delay, Johnny copies. 

If anything, Price’s amusement increases. Tommy Riley snickers something to his older brother, who maintains a straight face, but the younger one giggles enough for both. You have a distinct feeling they’re talking about you two.

“Then,” you say, awkwardly, “we’ll be off.”

You have to tug of Johnny’s sleeve to remind him that you’re leaving, and he trails after you like a puppy as you lead the two of you out of Mission Control. Kyle Garrick gives you a fucking wink as you leave; are you sure you’re still in reality and not in a weird dream state?

When the airtight doors lock behind you, Johnny stops, pulling you to a stop with him with your grip on his sleeve. Turning around with a frown to face him, that’s when you notice the two of you are alone.

It’s the first time since the Drift. Your throat is suddenly dry.

“So.” Johnny clears his throat. “About the Drift.”

You babble, “Look, it’s nothing important—it’s just good to know that we’re both important to each other, you know? I didn’t—uh—I didn’t expect anything—so yeah, it was a pleasant surprise—uh—I hope you don’t feel any different now?”

“I still love you,” Johnny says calmly. Then he corrects himself, “I’m still in love with you, I guess. But, uh, I was talkin’ about the whole cryin’ before enterin’? I didn’t know you were so hesitant to sign up.”

“Oh.” You blink. “Wait, what?”

“I thought everyone was like me,” he admits, “eager an’ shit. Didn’t know that people had reservations or whatever, not until I arrived. You were the only other person who didn’t seem like they were having second thoughts, or even considered droppin’ out.”

“Johnny,” you say, bewildered, “everyone thinks about dropping out. Even you did, at one point, right?”

“Yeah, because I was terrified we’d end up Drifting and you’d find out I fancied you from a fuckin’ hivemind shit,” Johnny replies. “But—uh, yeah, what you said. I’m happy. Are you?”

“Happy?”

“That I’m in love with you,” he clarifies. God, the way he says it. You don’t think he could be even more endearing.

“Johnny,” you say seriously, making him stiffen with your firm tone, “ I am in love with you."

“Oh.” He inhales sharply. “You are?”

“Johnny,” you reply, frowning, “I told you that I loved you before we went into the Drift. I thought you’d be mad about that.”

“I could never get mad at you,” he responds automatically, and you believe him. When the two of you had Drifted, you had caught glimpses of the moments when you were sure he was mad at you. At most he was mildly annoyed, but he always forgave you far sooner than you ever thought he did. “No, I just—I just thought that it was just my emotions spreading into yer memories, you ken?”

“Johnny,” you say, “I love you.”

He pauses for a moment, before nodding his head jerkily. “Right.”

You start to smile. “Johnny, I’m in love with you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, still avoiding your eyes, “I get the fuckin’ picture—”

“Johnny,” you say louder, loud enough for it to bounce off the walls in a small echo, “I’m in love with you—”

He rushes forwards, wrapping his arms around your waist. His lips are pressed against yours in an effort to shut you up, but he’s smiling against you, and you’re laughing against him. Your hands wind around his shoulder and you pull him down towards you, kissing him like all the times you’ve imagined kissing him.

It’s better in person, you realise. Nothing can ever trump this.

His touch is warm, and his scent is familiar. There’s a chant of love love love and I love you that you don’t know who it comes from, but at that moment, it doesn’t matter. Because you’re saying it, and you know Johnny is saying it. It’s a mutual thought.

You’re in love with your best friend, and your best friend is in love with you. It’s the best possible feeling one can ever conceive.

“I love you,” Johnny says against your mouth when you pull away for air.

“I’m in love with you,” you reply.

“Fuck off,” he whispers, and then he kisses you again. You just laugh in between, and pull him infinitely closer.