Chapter Text
Jealousy is an ugly thing.
It burns and prickles and nags for attention. It sours and spoils, infects any warmth it touches and leaves you half-present, half-hollow in the forgotten corner of every room. You can’t focus when you’re jealous. Can’t feel pride, either. Someone else was given what you want, and it burns so fiercely. It’s humiliating.
It’s humiliating, which is why Kikoru would rather face No. 9 again than acknowledge it.
“Something’s off with you,” Kafka huffed, face deep red and sweating. “You’re quiet.”
Kikoru, barely out of breath, ignored him and pushed deeper into her stretch. Cooldowns were the most important part of your workout, Shinonome had said. Raw strength meant nothing without mobility.
“And you haven’t been mean to me all day,” Kafka continued. “Even when I dropped that barbel on my foot.”
“Right,” she muttered, switching to her other leg.
Kafka set down his kettlebell with a heavy thunk. “See! You’re ignoring easy prey! You didn’t notice me dribbling water down my shirt earlier either.”
Her thigh burned. Over-extending the limb would do more harm than good. “You embarrass yourself so often, I don’t need to point it out every time you do something stupid.” She tightened her stretch. Just a bit more. Just a bit longer.
Kafka grinned at her. “That’s more like it. And you’ve stretched enough. Come on, let’s go get dinner.”
With a heartfelt sigh, Kikoru released her leg, pushing herself to her feet and scooping up her pale blue towel. It was softer than the Division-issued ones, less aggressive on her skin. Shinonome might call her a princess for it, but Kikoru liked the finer things in life. So what if that made her a spoiled rich girl? Anyone who complained could suck it. Her rose-and-lavender shampoo and deluxe coconut body wash were also non-negotiable necessities, and Kikoru let the soft smells and warm shower water distract her from her burning, ugly jealousy until Kafka’s thumping on the women’s locker room door became too loud to ignore.
“Hurry up, Kikoru! We’re gonna miss dinner!”
“Shut it, Hibino Kafka! I’ll be out in a second.”
The cafeteria was packed, echoing with shouts and boos: officers challenging each other to arm wrestles, comparing training scores, boasting kill counts and negging each other. Kafka nudged Kikoru’s arm and nodded at the far table, where Tachibana and Shinonome seemed to be competing over who could eat the most chicken gyoza in one minute - without using their hands. Miyake sat watching them, timer in hand and eyebrows raised in bemusement.
“Looks like Vice-Captain Shinonome’s winning,” Kafka muttered.
Kikoru rolled her eyes. “Obviously. Since when does Tachibana beat her in anything?”
“Wow, harsh.”
“Not wrong though, am I?”
The gyoza looked good, kept warm under heat lamps and accompanied by rice and air-fried tofu. The vegetables looked a little sadder, wilted by the heat and how long they had been sitting out, but Kikoru piled them on her plate anyway. Vitamins, nutrients, proteins and calories - she needed as many as she could get. Muscles didn’t grow from nothing.
Kafka nudged her again. “Wanna eat on the roof? Doesn’t look like there’s much space in here.”
Oh god. She was being cornered. “Here is fine. I’m sure we can get someone to budge up.”
Kafka frowned. They played this game every couple of months. Kikoru would tense up, Kafka would probe. Kikoru would rebuff, Kafka would try again. Sometimes she would win and he would back off, let her stew for a bit before she came to him willingly. More often, he would somehow wheedle her thoughts out of her, pushing her to talk about feelings until her nerves were scraped raw. That kind of talk needed a good fight to follow, and Kikoru would track down Narumi and spar until her bones ached.
But she didn’t want to see Narumi right now.
“Come on, Kikoru”, Kafka pleaded. We can watch the sunset, maybe call Reno -”
“You literally live together,” Kikoru snapped.
“- and it’ll be nice to get some fresh air, right?”
“You travelled over an hour to get here! You don’t need fresh air.”
Kafka shrugged. “Sure, but the air’s nicer here than in Tachikawa. Only thing I miss about this place, really.” He grinned. “Except you, of course. You should come visit soon! The others miss you too, you know.”
“I’ve been meaning to,” Kikoru said honestly. “Hopefully before July. I want to see the place before all the icky new recruits come in.”
She would’ve laughed at the pout Kafka gave at that but, the moment she opened her mouth, Narumi strolled past, giving her a good-natured shoulder-bump on his way to his Vice-Captain’s table.
“You look stupid standing there, dumb disciple," he called over his shoulder. “Come sit with the cool kids.” His eyes drifted over to Kafka. “Hibino can come too, I guess.”
Kafka laughed. After waking from his coma and returning to the 3rd Division, he’d become a lot more relaxed around the man who’d advocated for killing him the first time they’d met. Kikoru still remembered the smirk on Narumi’s face, the tilt of his head as he’d casually told Kafka he’d be more useful dead than alive.
She wished that memory was the one making her gut churn and throat ache, but honestly, Narumi had had a point. They had known next to nothing about Kaiju no. 8, and it had been as much a potential threat, maybe a spy sent by no. 9., as it had a potential asset. If Kikoru hadn’t known Kafka personally, she might’ve called for his execution too. But the memory that stung and burned now was a far more recent one.
“Oi, my dear simple student. You got time for a game of chess?”
“Huh?” Kikoru blinked. “Sure, if you teach me. I’ve never played.”
Narumi stared. “For real? Mr. Isao didn’t teach you?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Kikoru croaked out. “Let’s go to the roof.”
She whipped around and marched from the cafeteria, Kafka stumbling after her. Once past the doors, she swung right rather than left.
“Wait!” Kafka called. “You’re not gonna take the elevator?”
“Nope,” she hissed, popping the ‘p’.
Though she would never admit it, Kikoru was grateful Kafka followed her up the fourteen flights of stairs without asking any more questions. He huffed and puffed annoyingly, still somehow not as in shape as Kikoru after a year in the Force, but it was…well, it was kind of him to give into her whims so easily. She supposed.
Damn it all, she thought. I can’t not let him corner me now.
She was going to have to spit it out.
The view from Ariake Base’s roof was probably Kikoru’s favourite thing in all of Tokyo. A dull, bruising purple flecked the sky, oozing into a creamy pink closer to the horizon. Evening had sharpened the sun’s hazy edges to a crisp burnt orange that sparkled prettily over the water.
It was beautiful.
It was where she had, for the first time, watched Narumi kill a Fortitude 7.2 kaiju without breaking a sweat, blood raining from the sky like some biblical omen.
She could do that too, now. If only her gut could realise that and stop squirming like it also had a bayonet lodged in it.
Maybe if I had learned a little quicker, gotten stronger just a little faster.
“Pretty, right?” Kafka panted, dinner tray wobbling slightly in his grip. “Aren’t you glad we came up here?”
Showed more potential earlier.
“I ran into Min- well, Captain Ashiro, up here once.” Kafka went on, sitting cross legged on one of the benches and placing his tray beside him. “While I was still stationed here. It was so awkward…”
“Don’t small-talk me, Hibino Kafka,” Kikoru sighed, joining him on the bench. “Just ask me what’s up, like I know you want to.”
The smile Kafka gave her was soft - slow and comfortable, not like the goofy, exaggerated grins that had always made the other recruits of the 3rd fall over themselves laughing. “Alright, Kikoru,” he said gently. “What’s up?”
“No…” Kikoru had said, heartbeat slowing in her chest. “Sebasu taught me shogi, though.”
“Not the same. Man, that’s crazy. It was, like, one of the earliest things he taught me.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “Did you, um, play a lot?”
Narumi scratched his head, messy bangs flopping over his eyes. “Well, no. Not super often. But if he had an evening free, usually, yeah.”
Why had he spent his free evenings with Narumi? Why hadn’t he rushed straight home to teach her? Narumi might be a prodigy, might be older than Kikoru, but she was his daughter - and just as much of a prodigy, she reminded herself. Had that not counted for something? Why did Narumi get to have her father’s free evenings while she practised and trained and did schoolwork alone at home?
Kafka was still looking at her, eyes wide and patient.
Kikoru cleared her throat. “It’s…humiliating.” When Kafka didn’t speak, she went on. “I was…talking…with Narumi. The other day. Maybe last week?” She fiddled with her chopsticks. “It’s so stupid, just something small, but. Well. He talked about my dad.”
“Ah,” Kafka said. “What did he say?”
Kikoru’s jaw was starting to hurt from how hard her teeth were clenched. Relax, she hissed at herself. If there’s anyone in the world you can talk to, it’s Hibino Kafka. “Nothing, really. Just that they used to play chess together. On his…free evenings.” Her throat burned. “I didn’t…I didn’t know Papa had free evenings.”
“Oh.”
Kikoru kept her eyes fixed on her gyoza. She did not want to see the pity in his gaze, did not want to watch as someone understood that, for some reason, Shinomiya Isao had left Kikoru unchosen. That someone else got to have her dad because she hadn’t earned him. In a contest she hadn’t even known she was competing in, she had lost.
“Oh, Kikoru, no,” Kafka sighed, hopping up from the bench and pulling her into his arms, warm and solid. “No, you can’t think about it like that, Kikoru.”
Hot tears slipped down Kikoru’s cheeks, embarrassingly sudden and impossible to stop. “How else am I supposed to think about it?” She choked. “Why didn’t he come home when he had the time to?”
Kafka held her tighter, pressing in as if he could squeeze the tears right out of her if he tried hard enough. “I don’t know, Kikoru, I really don’t. But no reason was good enough, and no part of it was your fault, ok?”
“How could you possibly know that, Hibino Kafka?” Kikoru choked, throat tearing on the words like it was lined with shrapnel, or the harsh metal flakes of gunshot residue.
“Breathe, Kikoru,” Kafka hummed, moving his arm to rub circles into her back.
I can’t, she tried to hiss. I can’t get the metal out. Rubble dust and gun smoke should be easier than air for her to breathe. It was in her blood, in every drop of sweat she had shed in a lifetime of training. Nothing should be difficult for her, least of all keeping her composure.
Her father’s composure had never wavered. Not in the days before the funeral, not when he stared down at the open casket Kikoru had been too short to see into and not for a single second since. Unshakeable. Perpetually disappointed and perpetually distant.
Is that what Narumi had seen? That heavy gaze that could press her three feet into the ground? Or had Shinomiya Isao spared a smile or two for his golden boy, the glowing prodigy and next captain of the 1st Division?
Maybe it was easier for him to smile at a face that didn’t look so much like…like hers.
Her chest hurt.
Breathe, idiot, just goddamn breathe!
A shock of deep cold sparked against her jaw. Kikoru flinched back with a yelp, lashing out and landing a punch square in Kafka’s stomach. The oaf stumbled back with a strained oof, dropping several ice cubes to the floor.
“What the hell was that for?” Kikoru gasped, staggering to stay on her feet.
“Technique I learned a while back,” Kafka groaned, pressing a hand over his abdomen. “Helps snap people out of a spiral.”
Kikoru scowled. “I was not spiralling?”
Kafka shrugged, pointing at the now half-empty glass on his tray. “S’fine if you were. I’ve got more ice and nowhere to be.”
Everything sounded so simple when he said it. Like the world really was all right.
That didn’t help the sour lump in her gut though, or the heat in her heart. Everything still burned. But she finally took a seat next to Kafka on the bench, reaching for her dinner. It had cooled by now, all its heat whipped away by the light breeze brushing the rooftop. Good thing she and Kafka had layered up. Going out into the wind after a workout was risky, and a Defence Force officer didn’t have the time to be sick.
Kikoru picked at her food, resolutely ignoring the way it slid in and out of focus as her eyes stung. “I just don’t see why else he wouldn’t bother with me,” she mumbled. “Clearly Narumi was worth his time, at least more than I was.”
She looked up at the sniff Kafka let out. Unbelievable. “Why the hell are you crying?” she snapped. “Those better not be pity-tears.”
“I cry easily, ok?” he mumbled, wiping his eyes. “And seeing you sad makes me sad.”
Kikoru rolled her eyes. Softie.
“But still,” Kafka said, straightening up. “You’ve gotta understand something, Kikoru. Ok?”
“If you’re about to spew some nonsense about not needing to be strong, I swear to God -”
“No, Kikoru, listen.” He turned to face her, gaze steady and jaw set. “It’s not a kid’s job to earn their parent’s time or care, Kikoru. It just isn’t.”
Kikoru gulped.
“If a parent doesn't give their kid that from the get-go,” he went on, “then nothing, no amount of success or talent, will make them do it. That’s a choice they made before you even had the chance to prove yourself. I don’t know why your dad didn’t come home to you, I really don’t, but I know his choices were based on anything but your skill. We’ll never know what he was trying to achieve, but it was never about you, Kikoru.”
I am never going to stop crying, Kikoru thought, crushing her palms against her eyes. She didn’t move when she felt Kafka’s hand press against her back again.
“Look, I’m the first in line to pay respect to your dad. The man was a hero and he saved my life.” He let out a little laugh. Peeking through her fingers, Kikoru saw Kafka’s tears had stopped. He was staring over into the sunset, a small smile on his scruffily shaven face. “But here’s a little something about adults that you kids don’t know yet: none of us know what the hell we’re doing. We make mistakes all the time, and we’re almost never sure if our choices are the right ones. Maybe your dad wasn’t as clear headed and put together as you think.”
Oh.
Kikoru sniffled. “You think? You and my dad are pretty different, you know?”
Kafka’s face was meant for smiling, she decided as he turned back to her, that soft grin undoing some of the lingering tension in her chest. “I think it’s hard to realise that your hero was just a person. And people make mistakes. You can be angry at him, you know. It wouldn’t be childish.”
Could she? Kikoru knew what her father had been trying to do. After the funeral, he’d been the only one left to train her. That wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t fair to be angry with him - he’d given her his best. But for the first time she wondered if maybe it was his best that hadn’t been good enough, not hers.
“I don’t think I can be angry with him,” she said. “Not properly, anyway. I’m just…angry that it all happened. Any of it.”
Kafka’s mouth twisted into a grim line. He knew she meant the funeral. “That’s very kind of you, Kikoru,” he said gently. “Are you…are you angry at Captain Narumi?”
She shifted. The hard lines of the bench were starting to make her sore. A glance at her still nearly full tray and she abandoned her chopsticks and shovelled the food into her mouth by hand. The quicker she stuffed her face, the quicker they could go back into the warm and sit on real chairs.
“What?” she snapped at Kafka’s raised eyebrows. “You’ve never eaten with your hands before?”
“No, I have,” he said bemusedly. “Just wasn’t expecting it from you. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“...I’m a little angry, I guess,” she grumbled. “And don’t tell me if that’s childish or not. I don’t want to hear it.”
Kafka shook his head. “I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say that you should talk to him. Air this all out. It’ll only get worse if you keep it bottled up.”
Oaf. He was probably right, though. Hibino Kafka might be a fool, but he was annoyingly wise, too. Kikoru had to admit that knowing him had made her better.
“Fine,” she huffed, popping the last gyoza into her mouth. “Not today, though.”
“Not today,” Kafka agreed, standing with his finished tray and reaching to take Kikoru’s. “Soon, though.”
“Soon,” she said, hopping to her feet and marching to the roof door. “Let’s put our trays back.”
“Can we please take the elevator this time?”
Kikoru rolled her eyes. “Fine. We can take the elevator. Wimp.”
Kafka laughed. “There you are.”