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Observations shape the world. Give it weight and anchor the details into place. Through observations, Soshiro can keep moving forwards. He has no other option but to be two steps ahead, caught on the edge of each moment.
Reality isn't made out of dreams and hopes and intangible whimsy things. It is not considerate and cares little for your trials. This world won’t think to spare you if, or when, you drop your guard.
Soshiro has observed that in order to live you must also know how to survive. It’s a private, constant ritual that thrums through his bones. To soak up the surroundings, to leave no stone unturned. No matter what the surface suggests, Soshiro never truly gives sharpness a rest.
He lives and breathes by the blade.
Sure, Soshiro knows how to kick back and have a good time. In a world like this, it’s imperative to get a little downtime, find glimmers of comedic relief. Some people might assume that his relaxed demeanour and affinity for joviality means the veil has fully lifted - well, they couldn’t be more wrong.
Soshiro would be a shoddy swordsman if he wasn’t capable of multitasking. One foot firmly planted in the present whilst another presses into the precision of his perceptions. For the most part, he has no problem fine-tuning that balance. The scale never tips. Foundations unshakeable, as solid as they are strong.
There is one exception, though.
One unspoken thing crosses each carefully drawn line, chips away at the stringent conditions keeping him rooted to what is and what isn’t. This one thing has the unfortunate power to trip Soshiro’s observations up and steer them alarmingly off course. This one thing can catch his undivided attention in an instant and hold all of him in place so completely.
That’s not the worst of it either - the fool responsible for such a rare feat isn’t even trying. Kafka does the unthinkable so effortlessly. He doesn’t seem to realise the power he wields.
It’s staggering.
“Hey.” Kafka pokes at the coins in his palm, as if expecting the action would magically change the situation. Spoiler alert: it doesn't. “I’m a few yen short. Can I borrow some money?”
Unbelievable.
So Soshiro will likely be paying for his own treat, then. This should be one of the lousiest first dates in history. And yet that is far from the word Soshiro would ever think to pick.
Lips twitching, he stifles the amusement climbing up his throat. Caving now would be too merciful. There must be a little squirming on Kafka’s part, no matter how much Soshiro is enjoying himself. With Kafka, everything is too simple. Easy. The weight on his shoulders lifts a fraction, his breath loosens up in his lungs and suddenly, Soshiro is wholly alive in a way he’s not experienced before.
Today is no different.
"Classy," Soshiro drawls, striving for a deadpan and failing. "Tell me, do you treat everyone you take out this way or am I just special?”
“Gah! I really thought I had enough spare change!” Kafka replies. He recounts the coins again frantically.
What a charming fool. He folds every time. This is just too easy. Soshiro prods at the words, eyes gleaming.
"Oho, is that all I’m worth to you?” He leans against the counter, a coy smile spread across his face. “Kafka, are you trying to call me a cheap date? How rude!”
“What- No?! Quit putting words in my mouth.”
The barista eyes them with a pinched expression. She's not the only one caught in the periphery of this mess either.
Soshiro has three observations to prove this. He’s clung onto them. Mostly to save face, placate the concern that loiters low and hisses through the hollow of his bones to get a grip because Soshiro, you’re yet to leave a single mark on this world. You don’t get to have this. Just give it up.
The man behind them is the first observation, he has coughed pointedly a total of eight times. Soshiro cast a cautionary look over his shoulder a while back, but the effect has since worn off. Now, the coughs are back in full force.
Two - the pair of watchful eyes in the corner of the cafe. Soshiro can’t quite get a read on them but the intensity seems disproportionate. As a member of the Defence Force, turning heads is hardly anything new. People are more open to staring at their heroes in public. Still, Soshiro keeps this observation on his radar.
Finally, there’s the woman further down the line who keeps sighing with far too much gusto. As if she has endured the hardest of trials by witnessing Kafka painstakingly count his change.
Okay. So Soshiro can admit this probably has gotten way out of hand, as usual. But he's not responsible for any of it obviously and he is certain there have been worse customers. It's supposed to be a slow Tuesday around here anyway - people could stand to be more patient.
Tapping his fingers against the counter, Soshiro quirks a brow. "Why didn’t you just bring your wallet?”
"Because I only ever need loose change around base so I left it in my room. I was worried if I went to get it you’d miss your train. Besides, this whole thing happened so fast. No offence, but you kind of sprung this on me out of nowhere.”
Well, Kafka isn’t wrong about that.
When he had goaded Kafka into the topic of dates, he had the endgame mapped out. From the start, Soshiro knew where he wanted their nonsense-of-the-day to go. A few not-so innocent pokes here, some sharper prods there.
Mission objective: get Kafka riled up on the subject, steer them in the direction which had the most desirable outcome.
Honestly, it had been a pretty seamless transition.
Meticulous in design.
First, Soshiro implied Kafka could not get a date. People still date in the Defence Force, you do know that right? Then in the heights of the glorious reaction, he took it a step further and teased Kafka about what a date with him would even look like.
Answering back so confidently like this , he'd said between peals of laughter. What would you do? Take someone out and just shout passionate declarations in their face? Not very attractive Kafka.
And finally, at the pivotal moment, Soshiro turned it all back on himself. Oho? You sound so sure of yourself. I kind of want to see this now - it would probably be boring. In five seconds flat, with one simple line, he expertly provoked Kafka into suggesting a date.
The only thing left to do was secure the landing with all the manner of a genius trickster gleefully getting their way. Then let's get going, no time like the present! You can wow me before my train arrives.
Boom.
Executed like a true professional, a master of their craft. Still, it had been a massive gamble. Soshiro had been pushing not only buttons but his luck. For the life of him, he never expected Kafka to actually double down and agree. Yet in a miraculous turn of events, Soshiro had left the Ariake Maritime base with Kafka hot on his heels. Eager and determined to prove his dating capabilities.
Now here they are. Descending into the kind of hilarious madness only Kafka's presence could perpetuate. This man brings out the worst in Soshiro in all the best ways. He swallows down the budding laugh, eyes crinkled in the corners.
How far Soshiro would go for this - it’s a little worrisome.
He swivels on his feet to face Kafka, the way a sunflower chases the sun. Full-on lounging against the counter, melted into the wood until he is virtually one with the surface.
“It’s not my fault you weren’t prepared for this.”
“How could I be prepared?!” Kafka exclaims, so animated and engaging to watch. His hands fly into the air and it’s a wonder he somehow hangs onto the coins. “I kind of assumed I had zero chance with you up until an hour ago. You’re…”
Cheeks burning, Kafka averts his gaze. The sentence is left to stew forever. Now that just won’t do. Soshiro wants to know. He presses on the lovely landmine immediately.
“I’m what.”
This time, Kafka does drop a few coins in his outburst.
“Stop distracting me and let me figure out how to pay already!”
“By all means,” Soshiro gestures toward the exasperated cashier. “Go ahead, Kafka. Count that spare change of yours some more. Show off how broke you are. I’m really so impressed.”
"Oh yeah? And what about me, huh?" Kafka snaps back, dilemma momentarily forgotten to raise his stubborn counterpoint stubbornly.
He does all this whilst searching the floor for his lost coins. Like they are sacred relics that could change the course of human history and cannot be forgotten about.
It’s absurd.
Head snapping up, Kafka scoops the coins up. He makes his stand, both literally and figuratively.
“This date stuff goes both ways, you know."
Date stuff. So eloquent.
"Hm. Do you not find me impressive, Kafka?” Soshiro coos, head cocked and voice dipped low. “I find that hard to believe…”
“Hey. Stop that.”
For good measure, Soshiro leans a little closer. Just enough to remain socially acceptable in their public surroundings, knee bumping Kafka's leg. Playful and potent all at once.
Shame, that Soshiro can’t push a little more. He should have suggested they went to the vending machines at the edge of the Ariake Base instead. He could have done whatever he wanted there without prying eyes or being disturbed.
"Seriously. I think people are watching us," Kafka manages barely.
Oh. How precious.
People are definitely watching. But not for the reason Kafka thinks. When the promise of caffeine is threatened or delayed for no good reason in such an establishment, moods quickly sour.
“Listen,” Soshiro starts, mirth betraying every word. “Don’t offer to pay if you’re going to pull a stunt like this. Incompetence isn’t cute.”
That may be so. But Soshiro is sadly so into Kafka that even this unfolding disaster seems appealing. The best thing he's ever experienced, in fact. They should probably both get some standards.
“I can definitely still pay!" Kafka slams the change down on the counter to the surprise of the poor cashier. She jolts on the spot. "I’ll just take my order off-”
Soshiro narrows his eyes at that. With the stupidly excited way Kafka had looked at that cake at the counter - not a chance. There is no universe where Kafka isn’t getting what he wants.
At least, not one where Soshiro exists.
The man behind them coughs for the ninth time. Right. That settles it. Nobody gets to be that passive aggressive in Soshiro’s presence. Before the lady can heave a laborious lament on cue, he makes his move.
Soshiro fishes out his wallet, nudges Kafka out of the way to slap enough bills down for three times worth their order.
It’s a good thing that Soshiro is wearing his Defence Force jacket. That gives him an edge in times of need. Like now, holding up the line by dancing silly little circles around Kafka's composure just because he can.
Nobody can really begrudge the people putting their life on the line. They hardly have the right. But to appease any disgruntled customers, Soshiro addresses the public.
"We're done!" he calls over his shoulder brightly, a touch facetious. “Sorry to everyone for the wait!"
The myriad of reactions is curious. The man behind them almost drops his phone in surprise, the lady akin to sighing appears to lose her footing. To their right, a child starts crying. To the left, well. Soshiro has no idea why that happens.
“Hey,” Kafka mumbles, leaning deliciously close to keep the words private. “Tone it down, maybe. I think you’re scaring people.”
“Me? No way!” Soshiro is a little offended by that outrageous suggestion. As a Vice-Captain he should be conjuring feelings of safety and security in civilians. “It’s probably you.”
“Yeah, no.”
Kafka snorts, as if something is funny about that. He begins the art of balancing the drinks and treats in his arms. The option of a tray is right there, but he’s firmly set against using it. What a strange man.
“Hoshina, it’s definitely you.”
For this, Kafka gets an elbow to the ribs. He stumbles and proceeds to lose his grip on the items. Soshiro sweeps to the rescue, grabs a tray from the counter. He catches everything with ease. There’s not a single thing out of place, which is a pleasing result.
Yes, Soshiro might be showing off. Dates are places you can do that.
“Oi,” Kafka points, openly fascinated. Frustration quickly furrows his brow, clearly not wanting to be bested. “How’d you do that?”
Soshiro shrugs, steering them through the cluster of people who all collectively decide it's best to back away from them.
“Instinct.”
“No, really. Listen. That was cool!” Kafka bounds after him, falling into step. “Have you ever tried magic before? I think you’d be good at it.”
Soshiro laughs at that unexpected suggestion, fond. “What are you, twelve?”
The vacant table by the window is the most inviting. There, they’ll have a view of the world outside and their full surroundings. That includes the large wooden clock on the wall. Soshiro has roughly twenty minutes until he needs to head to the station. If he’s not too careful, he’ll be inclined to linger here. Push against the seconds and force them to stop in their tracks.
Great.
So Soshiro is amenable to fighting time now.
"Thanks by the way… I'll pay next time," Kafka mumbles.
Never one to miss an opportunity, Soshiro prods at the mont blanc on his plate. He’s not sure which is sweeter - the treat or Kafka.
"Next time?" Soshiro is delighted but determined to act entirely unaffected by the bold remark. It’s a fine line, he walks it well. "That's presumptuous of you."
Perfect - that word is such a curse. Soshiro has long given up chasing that poison. More, he actively rejects the concept of perfection these days.
Not to say he is defeated or downtrodden. Far from it. Soshiro is built in the ashes of perfection, the dissipating tail of a wishing star. He’ll never be perfect, but he will persist. Because he can always be better, strive for more.
Perfect, perfect, perfect. Soshiro never expected to hear that kind of symphony singing a storm up in his bones. But there it is - tucked into a growing smile, filling up his lungs until a ghastly sound spills out.
Perfect.
Somehow, that's exactly what this is.
Soshiro can't even be mad about it. How could he when the man beside him is so unfathomably good. Kafka is a beacon, his innate warmth and care is the kind you never outright ask for because nobody deserves a light that enduring. Least of all Soshiro. Yet still, he chases after that blazing sun and assures himself he will reach that horizon.
It’s always been this way. So much to prove, even more to gain. No surprise that matters of the heart would be the same.
“Damn it!” Grabbing a napkin, Kafka wipes at the stain on his t-shirt.
Oh dear. Like clockwork, the knot of tension melts. Soshiro careens into all they are and all they are yet to be. The feeling reels him in - it’s a hook, line, sinker kind of deal.
“How did you even manage that?” Soshiro teases. “Were you staring at me?”
“Ah. No!”
“You were,” Soshiro counters. “I felt your eyes on me.”
At that, Kafka pauses his frantic scrubbing to cast judgement. His face scrunches up, and Soshiro soaks up each tiny intricacy of that funny expression. The truth is, he stares just as much. The only difference is he’s far more discreet about it.
“That’s a creepy thing to say, Hoshina.”
Maybe so. But it’s true.
Soshiro knows when he is being watched. He makes a point to keep track of such things, however harmless. Kafka has not been the only person paying him attention. Yet when he looks over to confirm his suspicions, those watchful eyes in the corner are gone.
Soshiro falters at that because he never noticed them leave. Skimming over details that detract away from his time with Kafka, however trivial and inconsequential - that’s really not how this is supposed to go. Observations shape the world, observations shouldn't fizzle out so fast.
“What are you looking at?” Kafka peeks over his shoulder with all the subtlety of a bull clanging around in a china shop.
Soshiro turns back to his drink. The taste is far more bitter than he expects.
“Nothing, I guess.”
An unsteady beat passes.
Unwilling to drag down the date or Kafka’s wondrous spirit over a case of wounded pride, Soshiro presses on. He can deal with his own observations - or lack-thereof - later.
He gestures to the chocolate stain on Kafka’s t-shirt. Steps back into their easy rhythm.
“You had to wear white, didn’t you? Couldn’t even change out of your training clothes.”
Soshiro is really in no position to comment but he does. And just like that, the strange weight lifts.
“I would’ve dressed up a bit for this if you gave me some warning!” Kafka protests.
“That so?” Well now Soshiro is curious. Chin in his hands, he pushes. “Tell me, then. What would you wear?”
“Well.” Kafka scratches the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the floor. “Maybe it’s not appropriate for somewhere like this but I do have a tux.”
Soshiro surrenders to the wild wave of laughter breaking over him. There is no in-between with Kafka. He exists in extremes. Tracksuit or a tux - evidently, those are the only options. It’s a hilarious image.
“You- you can’t be serious!” he wheezes.
“Oi. What’s funny about that?”
Many things. Spurred on, Soshiro nudges Kafka’s foot with his own beneath the table.
“What colour is it?”
Reluctantly, Kafka gives his answer. As if he already knows the die is cast and there is no way out of the hole he is digging himself into.
“…Red.”
That sets Soshiro off again. Of course the tux is red. Probably the garish, obnoxious colour that belongs on race cars or junk food packaging. It’s just too much. Incredible.
“Kafka,” Soshiro sucks in a shaky breath. He hangs on the precarious balance between composed and utterly unhinged. “Why is it red?”
“Why not? I figured I could just pick whatever colour I thought was cool.”
Oh god. Soshiro holds onto the table for dear life. Succumbs to the violent riptide of laughter dragging him under. Now he’s drowning in his amusement, there’s no hope of catching his breath anytime soon.
“Keep it down!” Kafka says, desperately trying to placate the group of disgruntled salary men at the table beside them.
Well. It’s a slow Tuesday.
Everybody in this district knows that. They should take their breaks elsewhere if they can’t handle being in the vicinity of two people trying to have a good time.
Soshiro snaps his head up from the table to stare them down. Kafka is flustered - that is his jurisdiction to handle, nobody else’s. The salary men scatter in a heartbeat. One even leaves his briefcase, forgoing the contents in hopes of making it out unscathed.
“Stop scaring people,” Kafka leans across the table, points pointedly with his dessert spoon. “You’re gonna get us kicked out!”
That’s quite a bold statement to make. Soshiro is not the one causing a scene around here.
“Says the guy who held the line up for fifteen minutes just so he could count spare change.”
Kafka almost drops the spoon in his rife indignation.
“You’re exaggerating - no way was it that long!”
Inside the cafe, the world is a little too perfect. Outside, Soshiro knows it is only a matter of time before it all goes to hell. The Defence Force is caught in a sinister stalemate. That makes living in each moment all the more important. So in the spirit of that, Soshiro shoves his foot forwards again. He can’t see where it lands, but it feels like he makes contact with a shin. The response is brilliant, Soshiro truly had no idea Kafka could make such a hilarious sound.
“Hey.” Kafka’s foot fights back. Determined to win. “You’re being really childish.”
A playful nudge beneath the table secures Soshiro the tactical advantage. “Have you met yourself?”
“Technically, that’s impossible.”
“Oh my,” Soshiro breathes, hopelessly endeared. “You’re so profound. I had no idea.”
For that flippant comment, Kafka pushes back with newfound force summoned from seemingly nowhere. Keyword: seemingly. As Soshiro's chair screeches along the floor, he knows better. The chair stops, a few inches shy of knocking into an unsuspecting man reading and minding their own business behind them.
“Are you out of your mind?” Soshiro hisses across the table, voice pitched low. “Anyone could’ve seen that.”
Kafka finally sets the spoon down with a dull clink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
How the most sincere person on the planet can feign innocence so well is shocking. A twist Soshiro never expected.
Across from them, the sighing lady resumes voicing her disapproval at their theatrics.
“I’m watching you,” Soshiro vows, eyes trained on Kafka with fierce intent.
Lips twitching, Kafka takes a sip of his weirdly fluorescent drink. Quiet, amused knowing is never a comforting look to catch rolling over that face. Because for the most part it means Soshiro’s silly little schemes have backfired big time.
“That’s hardly anything new,” Kafka teases behind his glass, shoulders shaking as he tries to keep his voice even.
Case in point.
Sometimes, Soshiro forgets Kafka can give just as good as he gets. It’s a warning he’ll never heed: watch out, show some restraint.
“Don’t worry,” Kafka lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, winks. Like that’s a completely normal thing for him to do on a slow Tuesday. “I’ll be watching you too.”
Soshiro swivels in his seat, mostly to try and hide the stupid smile he can feel spiralling way out of control.
“You better be.”
Soshiro makes a point to be grounded in what is, not delusion. He is bitingly present because he has no other choice.
After all, observations shape the world. The devil’s in the details, as the saying goes. Soshiro is fully aware why he relies on the power of observation so much. His observations not only shape the world, they shape the shaking shell that gives him definition. He has always been tethered to the fight, so dedicated that he risks becoming it.
Beneath the surface, reason and logic have always had a searing inferno to contend with. Molten heat gnaws at his bones and snaps its teeth. The smoke coils and smoulders, billowing out in rough bursts. Soshiro blazes the trail. In his wake are cinders.
One day, that fire is bound to take him.
For now, observation is the best deterrent. A trusted method to douse those flames before they climb too high up his spine. Observation, much like the blade, requires routine and discipline. It also breeds careful distance. Puts a firm line of space between Soshiro and his surroundings.
Up until Kafka, this approach had never failed him.
Soshiro quickens his pace on the street. God. It’s so alarming, that the absence of the man aches to such an extent. Pointedly, he ignores the perpetual longing. Not even ten minutes has passed since they went their separate ways. Soshiro needs to be more cautious, chasten his heart. With each step, he turns his focus away from the mess beneath skin.
A sea of faces ebb in and out of view, their expressions range from thoughtful to exasperated. Tuesdays appear to be a problem for most of these people. Soshiro is glad to be removed from that picture.
The thrum of passing cars settles into the backdrop. A throng of grey clouds hang low and loom more than necessary, their presence a stark contrast against the cerulean sky. How curious. There had been no mention of rain in the morning forecast. But Soshiro knows observations made in the past are always subject to change.
The pressure drops, then.
Unfortunately, the cause is far too sudden to be the weather.
Soshiro hones in on the unpleasant sensation. That gut instinct shakes awake and urgency climbs. It’s never wrong. He slows his pace. Eyes drag along the periphery as he searches for signs.
Look closer. Carve away at the clues.
On a nearby bench, an abandoned bag goes unnoticed by passersby. Across the road, a crowd forms around a flash sale. The confident dog up ahead that once bounded along abruptly pins back its ears and lowers its tail. Soshiro flits between these observations, pulse jumping into his throat.
A student races to the bag, their relief is palpable as they pick it up. The crowd disperses once the disgruntled owner comes out with a broom to ferry people away. Terse words are exchanged.
Apparently, the dog gets nervous around bicycles.
Okay. Soshiro scraps those observations and starts over. He veers to the side of the pavement to get a better position. Around him, the traffic flows by. Nothing really changes. To most, the shift goes unnoticed.
All the more reason to figure this out. Fast.
“Help. Someone - please!”
The voice is almost lost, a small crest of sound swallowed up by the city noise. Soshiro comes to a rapid halt. There. To his right - a closed-off construction site, sealed with yellow safety barriers.
It definitely came from there.
Soshiro steps out of the sweeping current of people. Regular Kaiju attacks mean there are always scenes like this scattered around every district, mangled landscapes with missing internal parts. It’s impossible to tackle everything the aftermath brings at the same time, yet alone fund it all.
The clean-up never ends. Places like this can slip through the system and wind up stuck on the back-burner.
Despite the blatant sign telling people to keep out, Soshiro isn't too surprised. Herding kaiju to a less populated area often entails a hefty effort by the evac team to liaise with the public. Some people take personal offence to instructions.
Soshiro manoeuvres around the barricade, enters the construction zone. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if the person is some kind of delinquent, an urban thrill-seeker or a wayward explorer. He has no right to call himself a Vice-Captain if he can’t help people in their time of need.
The sun shirks behind the clouds, and the further Soshiro goes, the quiet grows. The city fizzles slowly out of focus as he is swallowed down by the dull, inspiring mass of grey.
Soshiro remembers this building. A kaiju knocked it down nine months ago. Fortunately, the place was evacuated just in time. The architecture had been interesting, jutting out against competing skyscrapers with real rare flair and personality. Now not even the foundations of the place remain. Deep scars are etched into the ground, the only indication that something once stood here.
There’s been some headway on the rebuild. But not much. Scaffolding supports the bare bones of the postponed work. Sheets drape down to cover the bottom half of what should be a flashy new office. Corroded steel beams and columns are neatly stacked up in various places around the clearing, reddened from the onset of rust. In the far corner of the site, the machinery is grimy.
That’s confirmation. This place has been out of action for a while.
"Hello?" Soshiro climbs up a pile of abandoned building materials for a better vantage point. "This is Vice-Captain Hoshina of the Defence Force, I’m here to help. Can you hear me?"
His voice rings through the clearing, ebbing back into obscurity. Chased by nothing.
A beat passes.
"Yes. Please, help. I think I- I’m trapped."
The pang of dread in Soshiro’s chest implodes at those words. Damn it. So much for a slow Tuesday. The syllables are shaky, tight around the corners. Distressed. It sounds like this could be a genuine incident.
Soshiro tracks the source of the voice intently. Every second counts in times like this, as does every observation. He can’t afford to miss anything. He twists on his feet to scan the construction site. The benefit is that despite the large area, most of it is nothing more than a concrete wasteland. That leaves a handful of potential spots worth exploring - the half-finished structure wrapped in scaffolding is the most likely candidate.
Soshiro hops off his perch, heads in that direction.
“Keep talking,” he calls out. “I’ll find you. Can you tell me what you see?”
“It’s dark where I am. I’m not sure.” The response is near immediate. They must be close, within earshot. “…I’m scared.”
Behind the scaffolding sheet, Soshiro catches a faint silhouette. The wind whips past his face, billowing through the sheets. As they rustle, the detail deteriorates. It’s a fleeting clue. Just tangible enough to follow in these circumstances.
“Okonogi,” Soshiro says into his earpiece, clicking the comms on. He approaches the scaffolding structure. “I’ll be back later than planned, there’s something I need to deal with here.”
"I’m going to need more information than that, Vice-Captain,” Okonogi replies, astute and diligent as ever. But despite her best efforts, the exasperation dripping through the words is palpable.
“I'm not detecting anything strange at the minute. There’s been no alerts for kaiju or… oh!” Of all things, Okonogi stifles a laugh. “Are you trying to be cryptic about your date with Kafka?”
Hang on. Soshiro hasn’t told anyone about that. It happened less than an hour ago. There’s no way she should know. When he speaks, he aims to keep his voice neutral.
“Date? Ha. That’s news to me.”
“It shouldn’t be, Vice-Captain. You’ve been preparing for this outcome all week.” Merciless in her analysis, Okonogi ploughs on. “I’m led to believe your plan was finally a success.”
How the hell does she do it. Soshiro could gladly try - and fail- to turn her insights around, but he doesn’t have time to indulge their rapport right now. He’ll continue the path of plausible deniability later.
"You’re way off base,” he replies smoothly. “This is actually a civilian matter. Once I have more information, I'll call it in and be on my way."
"Okay.” Okonogi’s mood sobers, leaving no room for protest. “Be careful, Vice-Captain."
"Yup. Always am, aren’t I?"
Before Okonogi can respond with very specific examples that could contradict those words, Soshiro clicks off the comms. Tuned into the matter at hand, he slips under the sheet and enters the innards of the scaffolding. Into the unknown he goes. The lighting is poor, just as described by the trapped civilian. It takes a few moments to adjust to the dingy scene.
“Hello?” Soshiro asks amidst the heavy, grating silence. He darts to where he glimpsed the shadow. Comes up empty.
Soshiro spins on his heel to survey the whole area. The situation doesn't change, no matter where he looks. Nobody is in here. It makes no sense. The voice came from this direction, yet he can’t find the source.
Something is off. This isn’t right.
The feeling - the one that is never wrong - returns tenfold.
“Okonogi-!”
Too late. The comms crackle out in his ear. Soshiro is left in the dark. His eyes widen as realisation barrels into him. This exact scenario has happened before. Way back in Sagamihara on the neutralisation mission, when Reno and Furuhashi had been ambushed by-
“Oh, that was much easier than I expected. I’m a little disappointed, Vice-Captain.”
Well, shit.
Soshiro reaches for the blades strapped to his belt, takes a defensive stance. All in all, this abandoned construction site is the perfect place for an ambush. The thick sheet wrapped around the scaffolding is a convenient veil from the outside world. It makes details hazy and difficult to discern.
The more Soshiro considers the situation, the more dire things appear. He’s still close enough to civilians to put them at risk if he goes all-out, but far enough to contain the threat at his own expense. And given this is supposed to be a slow Tuesday, Soshiro is without his main combat suit. Donned only in his oversized uniform jacket and the necessary off-mission gear for training with Kafka.
Worse - observations are not on his side anymore either. Whatever Soshiro does in this moment, Number 9 will retain that information and pass it down to his creations later. The grim reality is, there is nothing to fallback on.
Number 9 is the Defence Force’s most formidable foe. Showing up here is completely unexpected. This isn’t how the final grand stand would look - it’s too localised and lowkey. That can only mean one thing.
Number 9 wants something and he’s prepared to get up close and personal. Prepared to play games. Heartstrings plucked to precision, good nature manipulated.
Now Soshiro is really irritated.
“Come on out and show yourself,” he spits. “I want to see the look on your face when I’m carving you up.”
He’ll work with what he knows. Number 9 likes to talk, apparently - so Soshiro will get him monologuing. Just long enough to land a strike. One clean hit is all it would take.
Combat suit or not, Soshiro is part of an ancient legacy. He won’t falter. He won't go down.
“No, no, no. That’s not right.” For the life of him, Soshiro can’t find the source of that vacuous voice. “I didn’t bring you here to fight. That’s not what this is about.”
Stunned, Soshiro’s mind scrambles for answers. Putting a lid on this encounter and getting out of here is a top priority. The sheet rustles against the scaffolding. A shadow looms in his periphery. Soshiro twists. Each time he turns, begins to get a sense of where the voice comes from, emptiness greets him.
Soshiro is being toyed with and he doesn’t care for it.
“Everything is going to plan,” Number 9 says. The human voice he’s welding sounds pleased about that. “All the pieces are on the board. This is a personal interest of mine.”
Soshiro clenches a fist around his blade, teeth grit. His first personal encounter with Number 9 and he’s racing to keep up. He can’t say he’s a fan of any of this. No amount of observing the data could have prepared him.
As much as Soshiro loathes to admit it to even himself, this is cat and mouse to a whole different level.
No way can Soshiro let even a slither of the dread coursing in his veins show. He steels himself, holds his nerve. This is not the first kaiju he’s spoken to directly, he won’t be rattled so easily.
The sheet whistles in the wind. Soshiro tracks the motion. Nothing. It’s starting to become tiresome.
Unzipping his jacket, Soshiro tosses it aside. Time to get serious.
“I haven’t got all day to hang around. Get to the point, would you?”
The voice creeps closer this time. Soshiro swings to the left sharply. Nothing.
“I want to know more about the lives you lead,” Number 9 explains. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately. On the device you watch those made-up stories on, something I didn’t understand came up over and over again.”
There. On his right. Soshiro spins, blades poised and ready. He moves deftly. Once again, nothing.
“It makes humans do extraordinary things. The phenomenon greatly confused me. Love, they kept calling it.”
What on earth is Number 9 going on about. Soshiro can’t get a solid read on where this is going anymore. Each time he thinks he has some clue, he’s thrown off.
Soshiro’s mind draws a blank. His heart, however, sinks in his chest. Picks up its pulse and promptly plummets. It knows with certainty what Soshiro dares not voice. It knows where he can’t afford to go.
Plausible deniability. That’s the best way forward.
“Didn’t have you down as a rom-com fan,” Soshiro remarks coolly.
Undeterred, Number 9 presses on.
“Humans, you feel many things. But you go so far for this ‘love’. It makes little sense to me.”
God. Even the way Number 9 says it, like this is truly some far-off intangible concept. An unknown specimen worth studying. To pick and pull apart with all the enthusiasm of a scientist in a lab.
It’s disturbing.
“The bonds you form are strange. Still, I don’t think it would be wise to underestimate them when the time comes. I’d like to know how far this feeling can go. Can it be crushed with force or will it endure?”
A beat passes. Soshiro hitches a breath, less steady than he hoped. Around the blade, his hands are taut with tension.
“You, Hoshina Soshiro, are going to show me.”
“That so?”
Number 9 steps into view, revealing the human form he is currently occupying. The person who has been ripped from this world without a care, a tall slender man dressed in typical office wear. The grey suit with a white undershirt is worn around the cuffs. Part of the sleeve is missing. Late thirties at best. Soshiro spots the lanyard dangling off the suit pocket.
Uchida Ryu. Associate. Harimoto Industries, Ariake.
Soshiro’s train to Tachikawa goes past those same offices. It’s an everyday tech company, about a block from here. Not far. The man, Uchida, must’ve worked there. He appears rough around the edges yet gentle on the eyes. Easy to overlook in a sea of faces. Plump cheekbones, dark hair circling a round face with sunken tired eyes that-
Soshiro bristles. The thin thread of composure holding him together frays. Those watchful eyes. He’s seen them before. It's the observation he let slip at the cafe, the one he lost sight of.
“Oh, so you’ve figured it out already.”
Number 9 brings his hands together in slow taunting applause. The gesture is galling and stilted. An innocent bystander is being paraded around, their voice and likeness stolen. Life cut short for the whims of a sick monster.
That’s not right. None of this is.
“Most humans aren’t so observant, but you are sharp. Just like I’ve heard about.”
Not sharp enough, it seems. That stings. Kafka remains a glaring blind spot in his field of vision. Always has been. Number 9 shouldn’t be privy to that.
“I wondered where I would find a good specimen to study for this little project. Imagine my surprise when I saw it on your face. The same look in all those stories you humans like to tell each other. I could hardly believe my luck.”
“Stalking doesn’t count as a hobby,” Soshiro counters, reeling yet refusing to fold. “You should probably find better ways to spend your downtime. Consider reading, maybe.”
“Ah.” Number 9 shakes his head, dismayed. “You’re talking too much.”
There it is. Shinomiya, Reno and Furuhashi all described this same action in their reports. It’s been logged countless times. Soshiro tracks the faint movement of the finger pointed in his direction, readies himself to move. In three. Two.
“Could say the same to you,” he says.
One.
The first attack comes. Soshiro dodges, barely. The projectile scrapes over his shoulder and tears at the fabric. It’s a strange place to aim - far from a fatal blow, even if it had made contact.
Number 9 said he wasn’t here to fight. That must be true - for now. The next few are in the same vein. Soshiro has little choice but to participate. Evasion first. He’ll soon turn the tables and find an opening.
“You should keep still. You’re less likely to die that way,” Number 9 remarks, sounding bored of the chase already.
Soshiro hates how that riles him up further. He’s jumping through hoops by the skin of his teeth and it’s all for nothing. Some twisted fancy to entertain an unhinged mastermind who really enjoys running their mouth.
“I‘m not aiming for your organs yet. I just want to leave a little mark.”
“Mighty considerate of you,” Soshiro drawls.
He ducks. Smoothly sidesteps another blow. Those words are hardly any consolation. Without a combat suit, direct hits pose a massive threat. Soshiro needs to remain vigilant.
Number 9 outstretches both hands, stepping up the effort. The borrowed human face is pinched around the edges. A vein throbs a little too prominently against skin, reminders of who Soshiro is dealing with.
Good.
About time Number 9 started taking this so-called game more seriously. Soshiro isn’t to be trifled with. He won’t be a pawn shoved around the board. They’re either doing this or they’re not. Pick a mood and roll with it already.
“Humans are not meant to move this fast.”
“I’m the Vice-Captain,” Soshiro retorts, blade slicing clean through the next barrage. All without using any official style moves Number 9 could learn from. This is pure searing instinct, wrapped up in a lifetime of discipline. Pushing harder. Going further.
Soshiro pivots on his heel, keeps Number 9 on the back foot. If he can keep this up a bit longer, he’ll be in range. Between each attack has been a strategic dance, woven intricately and with unwavering patience. Soshiro is getting closer.
Number 9 is only using a mere fraction of his power. That arrogance will be a costly mistake.
“Ah. Stop moving. Come on.” Number 9 twitches in simmering frustration. His left side erupts with all the force of a rupturing volcano, a mess of mutated cells spewing and bubbling into grotesque shapes.
“Take one hit. Then we can move to the next stage.”
The distorted mass hurtles towards Soshiro. At the same time, Number 9 decides to play dirty. Crank it all up a notch.
“Hibino Kafka.”
Soshiro falters at that. Just for a split second. Eyes snap open wide. Realisation ricochets through his ribcage.
This is a trap, not only for him.
“Leave him out of this!” His voice is an inferno, blazing fierce and fervent through the clearing.
“Why would I do that?” Number 9 leans, the weight of the mutations twisting the human form in unnatural ways. “If I want to learn more about these human feelings, it’s the best place to start.”
Like hell Soshiro is going to let that happen.
“The only thing you’ll be learning today is not to underestimate me.”
This will be over before Kafka so much gets wind of what's going on. Mark his words. Soshiro dives forwards, blades at the ready. If Number 9 wanted to spur him on, well. He’s gone and done it now. Soshiro will blaze the trail and he will leave only cinders. He lives and breathes the blade. He is forged from the fight. He swings, sharp and strong.
This ends. Now.
The face Number 9 is wearing cracks into a chilling smile.
“Got you.”
The dual-attack comes out of nowhere. A steel beam levitated out of thin air versus another head-on assault. Of course, Number 9 would have something new up his sleeve. Reveal it at the pivotal moment. With heavy resignation, Soshiro knows. He can’t possibly dodge both at once. There’s not enough time. He needs to decide which one to bear the brunt of.
Pick the one he’ll survive. Be snappy about it. Time is not his ally.
Eyes flit between his options. Both offer a world of pain, but the choice is simple. Note: simple, not easy. Soshiro is getting hit either way. He cements his choice with action, narrowly avoiding Number 9. The steel beam crashes into orbit. Soshiro braces himself, crosses his blades in front of his body. They’re far stronger than steel. But the force and speed of the impact is going to make things tricky.
Soshiro holds tightly to his blades like a lifetime. His saving grace. In this moment, they quite literally are. He pushes his feet into the ground, centres his weight. This unleashed power is solely his own. No support or backup.
It will have to be enough.
The beam slams against the blades. He’s shoved back. There’s a terrible crack, a sharp pang explodes down his shoulder. Soshiro keeps pushing. For a moment, it works. Until the blades creak against the pressure, losing friction. Until his shoulder gives way and pops out of its socket. Until the beam breaks through his makeshift shield, flings him back towards the pile of construction materials.
Soshiro leans into the fall. He rolls. Hopes to slow the motion. He lands with a loud crash. Soshiro hisses at the impact, but he can’t let the pain cloud his reflexes. He’s in a bad spot and urgently needs to move. The beam’s trajectory is damning.
It’s headed right for him.
Soshiro pushes against the heaviness in his body. He’s a fraction too slow. The beam slams against him, pinning him in place. The force knocks the breath from his lungs.
Caught between a rock and a hard place - Soshiro can now say he understands that expression far more intimately than before. He definitely has a dislocated shoulder. Multiple fractures. A cracked rib or two is likely. The unforgiving weight on his torso can’t be good either. There’s a splatter of blood across his clothes - he can’t be sure where it came from.
Hardly reassuring.
His blades are intact. But they’re too far to reach from this position. That’s a recurring theme here - being out of reach and out of time. Irony has not lost its edge, it seems.
Soshiro puts his hands under the beam, strains against it. His legs kick out, a useless flail that is nothing short of pitiful. Soshiro grunts, tries again. Desperation a devouring, dreadful thing.
“Don’t move around so much. I need you conscious when he gets here.”
Number 9 crouches down beside Soshiro, reaches into the Defence Force jacket that had been shrugged off earlier. He pulls out the phone. A dull flash stings at Soshiro’s eyes, the sound of a camera shutter blares through his ears. His senses are ramped up to extremes, on overload.
The rampant desire to change his fate whirrs up a frenzy. To pen his own story, give his voice a chamber to speak above the noise - Soshiro has never known how to quit that long-standing obsession.
No wonder he can’t accept this.
It’s insulting. A butchering of all the searing intent beneath skin. He’s exposed and out in the open for an audience all too keen to lap it up for their own self-interest.
God. Soshiro wants nothing more than to tear Number 9 to shreds. Rip him to pieces. For all the carnage and pain that has been dealt to his comrades - but especially for this.
What Number 9 intends to do with Kafka's generous, giving heart is heinous. Soshiro is ablaze with a righteous kind of fury at the mere thought. He realises now, as that consumes him, that he only ever touched the surface of the fire roaring inside.
What Kafka ignites in Soshiro, it burns beyond the point of oblivion.
“Hm.”
Number 9 stares at the screen. He taps his chin, mulling the photo over with twisted interest. Those soulless eyes lock onto Soshiro. As Number 9 turns the screen in his direction, Soshiro steels himself.
“Do you think this will be enough?”
The text message is short. Cold-blooded.
We're waiting for you. Come alone Number 8.
The photo attached is terrible. Soshiro looks pretty battered, to be honest. Out of sorts. A far cry from the untouchable stronghold he has strived to become. The rusting beam is bent from the collision, wedged right against him. There’s a gash to his cheek he doesn’t remember getting. It trails blood down his face needlessly.
The red is vibrant and violent, a splash of colour against the construction site and his pallid complexion.
From this position, Soshiro can confirm he’s also sustained some damage to his upper right thigh. The angle of his knee doesn’t look quite right either. That explains the irritating lack of coordination alongside all the pain circling his frayed nerves.
There is one redeeming quality, though. Soshiro can see the fight radiating off him. A tangible thing that cannot be ignored. His expression is seething, eyes wild and teeth bared. Like a caged animal just biding their time to get back on the hunt.
To Kafka, that ought to be a meagre comfort. Or maybe the fool won’t notice that detail, too swept up in worry.
Soshiro’s heart jolts at that. He wishes the damn picture didn’t exist at all. That alone reveals the gravity of the situation and just how troublesome things are.
Wishing - it’s not what Soshiro does.
No amount of wishing makes any difference to reality. Yet the thought of Kafka opening his phone, all unsuspecting and hopeful in the face of their last meeting - well, it’s devastating. So Soshiro invites the wretched quiet wish into his bloodstream. Let it seep into his bones, unfurl with biting tenderness.
“There. All done.” Number 9 clicks the send button with far too much enthusiasm.
The fire rages. Wrathful, vengeful. Soshiro snaps into jagged motion. He strives to lift the stupid beam pinning him to the ground with all the ferocity he can. Be done with this once and for all.
Number 9 takes a huge disliking to that. He brings down the heel of Uchida’s fancy work shoes, right over Soshiro’s trembling hand. There’s an audible crack as the bones shatter.
“No, no. You stay down.” Number 9 steps back, surveying his work the way a painter studies a budding masterpiece. It’s repulsive. “Yes. Like that.”
Soshiro bites down his anguished cry. He refuses to make a sound. Teeth break through skin at the sheer force of holding back. But he won’t give Number 9 the satisfaction of hearing him suffer.
This is nothing a trip to the medbay won’t fix. Soshiro will be good as new in a few weeks tops. He’ll be fine. Any other outcome is simply not worth entertaining.
Glancing down at his crumpled hand, he surveys the damage. Oh dear. Soshiro can’t pretend it doesn’t look bad. Still, this steady track of his stinging eyes along skin calms the alarm bells.
If Soshiro can keep his hold on observations, then he hasn’t lost.
“Oh. You’re very resilient,” Number 9 remarks in open fascination. “I wonder whether I should do the other hand too…”
“Be my guest - so long as it shuts your trap. I’m getting sick of hearing you talk,” Soshiro manages, barely. He’s bluffing through his chattering teeth and doesn’t have the sense left to stop poking. Fighting back however he can.
Soshiro is not some fragile thing. Bones might be broken, but he won’t break. Not here. Not with Kafka on the way. He has to hold his ground, keep it together. Become the stronghold he has always yearned to be for those he cares about. Leave a mark, carve his name into the fire at any cost. Love might be somewhat new to the equation but it's no less potent. Soshiro watches Number 9, vision blurring round the corners. He persists. He is bitingly present because he has no other choice.
And this, this is how far he will go.
Soshiro is used to waiting.
Before the Third Division, his time had begun to expire. Waiting was all he seemed to do. Sit this one out, Hoshina. Please reconsider, Soshiro. Wait, wait, wait. Wait some more. Soshiro has spent a lifetime carefully biding his time, chasing down opportunities to show his worth, forcing open doors that remained firmly shut. Waiting - it can be unbearable even at the best of times.
But this isn’t waiting. This is a slow, baleful form of torture.
Perched on the edge of Soshiro's vision, Number 9 rocks on his heels. Like a demented creature who has no sense of decorum or capacity for looking further than their own needs. Well, that would be an apt description. The insatiable desire for knowledge fuels every action. Curiosity at the expense of any and all things.
Their eyes catch.
Soshiro stares deep into the vast expanse of nothingness. Once, those were human eyes. The least Soshiro can do is try to honour the soul stripped away.
Uchida Ryu - what kind of person had he been? Perhaps one of those hard, unflinching types with a deceptively gentle face. Or maybe a family man with a photo on his desk for motivation. For Number 9 to select him specifically, Soshiro comes to a bleak conclusion.
This man, he must’ve been ordinary.
Unremarkable to most. Plain enough to slip into obscurity without people calling anything into question. The details grow less important because whoever they were, what happened to this person matters. They were here and then suddenly they were not. That can’t be made right. But Soshiro will bring justice to this story cut short as best he can.
“Vice-Captain. How far do you think Hibino Kafka will go?” Number 9 asks into the terse quiet.
The question tugs at the gaping crater in Soshiro’s chest. But the answer feels far worse as it rattles through him. Kafka would readily give everything if it meant others could smile another day and the world would keep turning. No force on earth could stop him. He’s truly that selfless, that loyal.
“You’re wasting your time,” Soshiro hisses, a final bluff. “He isn’t coming.”
Helpless is not a thing Soshiro will ever admit being. But powerless - oh, he's been there before. Many times.
On his knees in the temple, staring down at the blade that had yet to truly belong to him. Stood on the sidelines of his own splintering future, as the words of discouragement washed over his ringing ears. Ensnared into a world where the assumptions of others were louder than his rattling convictions.
Powerless.
How Soshiro detests that feeling. He vowed to barricade that door firmly shut. And yet. The hinges beneath his bones are pried apart with a sickening creak. He's cleaved wide open.
Damn this.
Soshiro blinks back the traitorous moisture prickling his eyes. Forced into a stasis he can never reconcile, it frustrates the hell out of him. Now he is the caging, cataclysmic thing he pointedly avoids.
Without momentum, the frantic thrum of energy has nowhere else to go but inwards now. It gnaws at anything it can find.
Soshiro thinks about the face Kafka might have made when receiving that awful message, about the shattering of that wonderful heart. He considers the consequences for the affection they've poured endlessly into each other. How their connection has been trampled over for sport.
Maybe this was always going to be their most beautiful mistake.
“Oh - I think I touched a nerve. Is that how you humans say it?”
Soshiro presses his eyes shut. Begs to a god he doesn’t really believe in for Kafka to be spared from this. To stay away.
Kafka is too good for this world, stardust incarnate. His light is too bright to be dimmed by this twisted story. Soshiro can shoulder the responsibility if he has to. He'll go down into the pit and crawl back out with the remnants of his charred pages.
But Kafka - no. Never. That isn’t acceptable. Soshiro will not allow it.
Silence swallows the clearing whole. Grating and gruelling. It sets the stage for Kafka’s entrance well. Soshiro waits with bated breath as the inevitable unfolds around him. To be denied the anchor of action in this moment has him reeling. He's thoroughly undone.
The scaffolding sheet rustles outside, creasing under the weight of trembling fingers. Soshiro looks over, just in time to watch Kafka cross the threshold in a determined yet gloomy procession.
There he stands. Bound up like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Brave and bold in the face of an impossible situation. He's visibly shaken, still wearing the chocolate stained t-shirt. The ridiculous observation tugs at Soshiro's aching heart. Despite the protests of his wretched body, all he wants to do is reassure. Reignite the spark that has fractured.
Number 9 gets back onto his feet, faces Kafka with gleaming interest.
“Here already? Oh. That was fast.”
With a wince, Soshiro strives to sit up. Look a little less like a breathing bruise.
“This is nothing, okay? I’m fine. It looks worse than it is." His voice cracks, throws every good intention promptly out the window.
Kafka startles, as if not expecting he would get the chance to hear Soshiro's voice ever again. Like the words are barely tangible amidst the internal carnage warring within. It's deeply concerning. Soshiro tries again.
“Listen, Kafka-” a pang of pain cuts the words off.
And that's it. The catalyst.
Kafka approaches with urgency. He doesn’t get very far, held off by a half-hearted yet insistent attack from Number 9. It’s a narrow miss. Kafka spins on his heel, dives back out of orbit.
“No.” Number 9 lifts a palm as further warning. “I decide when you move. Stay put.”
Kafka clenches a fist, teeth grit. His posture grows taut and rigid. Struck into place whilst on the verge of collapse. An unstable star on the edge of supernova. Number 9 sheds the human form as a translucent dome forms around the scaffolding. The material crystallises and slowly hardens.
"I've been meaning to test this out,” he explains, pointing to the dome. “Nothing can get in or out without my permission. You'll be here until I get my answers."
The words are sobering.
"Kafka,” Soshiro starts, dread setting in. “Tell me you had the sense to call this in before racing over to my rescue."
The lost expression says everything.
Okay. The die is cast, but it doesn't need to be a shared fate. Soshiro studies the barrier. It must be a prototype. There are several weak spots, pieces clamber to close only to snap open again. Each time, the effect lessens a little more and it becomes sturdier. One area, to the far left, looks large enough to squeeze through.
They’re running out of time. But Kafka could still make it.
Soshiro, a call from his past. Returned and ready to inflict more torment. How far are you willing to go? How far do you think this can possibly take you?
Time to find out.
"Get out of here, Kafka.” Soshiro raises a shaking hand, gestures vaguely in the direction of their only escape route. “That’s an order."
He speaks firmly, voice hardened. Brittle and pushed towards a territory he seldom goes. For Kafka, he’d go there. Of course he would. There’s no place Soshiro wouldn’t go if it meant Kafka could be safe.
Soshiro turns to Number 9. The sharp movement sends shockwaves down his spine. He persists, burns, blazes. Because that is what he does, that is how he leaves his mark.
"If I told you the truth about this feeling - you’d let him go, right?”
As expected, Number 9 is too curious to ignore a tangent in this quest for deeper understanding.
"What truth?"
"Answer me first."
The response is immediate. But it comes from Kafka, more outraged than Soshiro has ever seen him. That’s to be expected given the situation. Still, the magnitude of it is staggering.
"Be serious,” Kafka growls, syllables clipped and caught on the edge of molten fury. “Like I'm leaving you here with this asshole!"
If Kafka thinks such raging determination will deter Soshiro, he's plain wrong. He should know better than to fight fire with fire.
“As Vice-Captain, you’ll do what I tell you.”
Kafka visibly recoils at that. He bounces back in a heartbeat, stubborn to a fault.
“Hoshina. I’m not going anywhere.”
The defiance burnishing in those eyes is wondrous. Pity Soshiro is about to stamp it out for the fool’s own good.
Number 9 watches the exchange like it’s something to savour, intrigue growing. Soshiro steels himself. Ready to do the worst thing he's ever done. Kafka will leave to get help, the cavalry will arrive. And when the dust settles, he won’t be forgiven for this.
Well, that's just fine. Soshiro isn’t looking for salvation.
Love isn't always a tender, wondrous thing. There's love in sacrifice. There's love in letting go of what you want most in the world and making hard choices. Surrendering up a wistful dream, crushing it for all the wrong reasons.
This is how far he’ll go, how far the feeling will take him.
"I can handle myself. I don't need you butting in." Soshiro musters all the resolve he can to make this as biting and blistering as possible. Make it hurt. "Kafka, I- "
Damn this. So much for holding his ground. He tries again.
"I don't need you. I never have."
"What…? Wait. This isn't how the stories go-" Number 9 starts, craning off the edge of his invisible seat. Confused yet oddly crestfallen about the turn of events.
In any other situation, that would be obscene and also a little funny. Now it's a fierce reminder of why Soshiro can't afford to back down.
To be human is to endure.
"Hoshina…" Kafka breathes and it sounds sacred, holy. A revered word worth treating with the utmost care. Soshiro has never heard his name sound that way before, like the silver lining that brings hope on even the darkest horizon. It's magnetic, magnificent-
No.
Kafka doesn't get to derail this. If he so much as looks at Soshiro that warm, unbidden way he usually does then it'll be over. He needs to see this through.
Eyes fixed on the overcast sky, Soshiro purses his lips. The blood tastes sharp and bitter on his tongue. He works that into his voice.
"To be honest, I never meant for things to go this far. I was too curious for my own good. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression about things between us."
Clenching his good fist, Soshiro laughs. It comes out messy and strangled, a sound so far removed from joy. Pain erupts through his ribs at the sensation.
"But now you know, I guess. I don't need you. I don't want you that way. I never will. So just - be a good officer and do your job. Go."
Soshiro closes his eyes, bracing. Pushes past the agonising ache that climbs up his chest. God. He can't get choked up about this. Come on.
"See? That feeling-"
Shit. He’s really about to say the quiet part out loud. Here, of all places. Before he ever got to give those budding embers to Kafka directly. Soshiro has little options left.
Despite a lifetime of fiercely choosing, choice itself has rarely been available to him.
That changes now.
"You got it wrong, Number Nine. There's no love here."
The ensuing silence is rife with tension. A weighted pause sinks over them, broken by Kafka. Soshiro hears a messy breath punch out of rattling lungs, too close to despair. It's a sound that Soshiro can never reconcile because he put it there. He made that happen.
Resigned, keeps his eyes clamped shut. He owes Kafka that much in the fallout of all they have yet to be.
"Hoshina," Kafka starts with searing conviction.
Just like before, invoking Soshiro's name alone appears to summon such immeasurable strength. Unyielding and unwavering. Kafka sounds so tangled up in all the things Soshiro has abandoned in his pursuit of protecting this miracle of a man.
"Everyone knows your power, but that’s not your only strength. You had faith in my one percent. You’ve always supported me on this path and I’m grateful for that. Sorry, for not telling you sooner. You’re an amazing Vice-Captain and an even better man.”
Disbelieving eyes snap open. Soshiro sucks in a ragged breath, rapt attention snagged on every word.
“You’re the kindest person I know. So don’t ever try to be cruel for my sake. I won't accept it."
The words are a revelation.
Of course, Kafka would see straight through the ruse. Know just what it all really meant and hear the devastating truth tucked away beneath. Soshiro is on the brink, desperate enough to bargain with everything he has. That includes the yearning of his shattering heart.
Kafka clenches his fists. Soshiro can't see from this angle, but he's certain the expression tightens. Brow furrowed and pursed lips. Kafka is acting the same foreboding way he does when he’s about to say or do something reckless that he cannot come back from. But he does it anyway. Because he is goodness in its most concentrated form, the most remarkable person on this earth.
The air grows charged. Sparks whir around Kafka's shifting form. When he speaks, his voice is galvanising.
“Let the Vice-Captain go. I’ll do whatever you want.”
What an idiot of epic proportions.
Soshiro cannot believe the absolute madness coming out of that mouth. After all that effort to make this easier on Kafka, he blows it all out of the water.
“Kafka?!” Soshiro hisses, seethes. He claws at the blasted beam pinning him down, writhing in place. "Stop. Now's not the time to be noble."
"Hoshina."
Kafka glances over his shoulder. His presence is anchoring, the calm centre in the wake of this storm. Soshiro traces the glimmers of a smile along the curve of serrated teeth. Those glowing eyes are steadfast in their intent. And as the next words come, Soshiro is floored by the certainty that rings through each syllable. By how much Kafka is willing to give to keep them afloat.
How far he would go, it’s staggering.
"I’m not being noble. Do you need me to spell it out for you? I thought you were supposed to be smart or something."
Unbelievable.
Trust Kafka to spin the world off its axis in one swift motion. How dare he pull a stunt of this magnitude and find the best words at the worst time.
Clearly, all is not fair in love and war.
The laugh that squeezes out of Soshiro is shapeless. Clarity returns and carves a path through the murky mist engulfing his body. Hope is what he feels, of all things. Surely, they can use that. Stand as one united force.
“If you really think you can spell it, go ahead. I’m listening.”
Soshiro shoves at the beam and for the first time it moves. A mere inch at most. It’s worth pursuing. Exhilarating and excruciating all at once.
“Just don’t -” Grunt. Another shove. “Don’t expect me to let you have all the glory."
"But -” Kafka’s voice is strained, pinched in the corners. The vulnerability on display stings. Soshiro just wants to wrap this wonder up and keep him safe, sheltered from the bite of reality. “You're hurt."
"I can still back you up." Soshiro stifles the groan as he moves. He arches a brow. "Do you doubt my capabilities as Vice-Captain?"
"No, never!” is the enthused response.
God. Soshiro can practically see the admiration sparkling in Kafka’s eyes. Such an unshaken loyalty and faith. Later, he will prod at that admission until the dam breaks. Because there is going to be a later.
They won't dwindle out like this. No way.
"Then trust me to know when I'm at my limit. Give me a hand with this."
Kafka doesn’t need to be told twice. He races toward Soshiro’s side in a hurried heartbeat. They exchange charged glances. Soshiro summons up whatever meagre reassurance he can. His lips curve around an indistinct smile. That seems enough to console Kafka. In seamless tandem, they move. The way they’ve always done. Kafka lifts and Soshiro pushes with all his might. Thanks to the enhanced strength of Number 8, the beam finally gives way.
Soshiro rolls onto his side, heaves the air back into his lungs. A full breath is racking and raw but so much better than being caught in a torturous stasis. Each twinge is a reminder he is free. With his good hand, Soshiro reaches for one of his blades. He counts himself lucky that the dislocated shoulder is on his other side.
The grip is too tenuous for a real attack. He’ll be working with the whispers of his true power.
Soshiro will focus on what he can do - clear the path. With an alarming amount of effort, he hauls himself upright. Kafka steadies him, hovering in concern. That won't do. He needs to pay attention to what really matters.
Soshiro refuses to be a liability here.
"You have to get close. Just like we've practiced," he instructs, eyes darkening. "Leave out any specifics - you'll need those moves later."
The words rekindle Kafka's resolve. In the ultimate show of respect and trust, he steps out of orbit and gives Soshiro the chance to hold his own ground. Beside him. Not as a burden to keep track of, as the ultimate ally.
Good. Soshiro will accept nothing less, even in these circumstances.
He shifts his weight to compensate for the injuries. The dizziness wracking through him is hard to push down. But decades of training under his belt will buy Soshiro a little bit more time.
Enough to see this through.
"Remember your surroundings!" he hollers as Kafka takes position. "We don't know how much this barrier can withstand. So keep it in range, okay? We can't have civilians caught in the crossfire."
"Anything else, Vice-Captain?" Kafka asks, a little flippant in the heat of anticipation and at being told what to do. Soshiro will scold him for being so snippy later. They have more important matters at hand now.
"Glad you asked - one more thing." Soshiro stares down a bewildered Number 9. "Make it out from the both of us, won't you?"
"Yeah." Kafka pulls back his glowing fist, the air crackles and snaps with budding tension. "Sounds good to me."
Here it comes. Their reckoning.
Consider this compensation for their troubles. Deliverance of their own design. A parting gift for Number 9, in honour of all the unnecessary shit that just went down on what was meant to be a slow Tuesday.
Really, Soshiro is never trusting the days of the week again.
Number 9 glances between them, oddly unmoored.
"Ah. I did not foresee this development.” A spindly finger points towards Soshiro. "You shouldn't be conscious anymore. Is this feeling so motivating that the human body will exceed its limits?"
See, the problem with running your mouth is time is bound to catch up. Kafka swings his fist and lands a direct hit. Number 9 staggers backwards, crashing into the barrier. The impact doesn’t keep the bastard down for long. The place Kafka hit rapidly regenerates, pulsating with growth to create a gruesome shield of mangled corpses.
To succeed, they need an opportunity for multiple hits at once.
Number 9 strikes back. The shield doubles as a disturbing series of convulsing limbs which move at lightning speed in multiple directions. If Kafka has any chance at getting back on the offensive, Soshiro needs to step it up.
What he lacks in this frustrating condition, he makes up for with sharp observations. If he directs Kafka forward, they can back Number 9 into a corner. They fall into an erratic rhythm. Give and take. Near misses, threading through the onslaught. All to secure another hit. The problem is that where Soshiro goes, Kafka follows without question. He takes the extra brunt of attacks Soshiro can’t deflect and bats them back. He grows focused on securing a safe perimeter for the both of them. As a result, Kafka quickly steps off the path Soshiro has been carving out for him.
They can't beat Number 9 like this.
“I can take another hit!" Soshiro insists, voice rattling and rasped around the edges. "Stop blocking me and focus on what matters."
Each syllable feels like a sucker-punch to the ribs as it rings through his aching body. The seconds are getting harder to cling onto.
Needless to say, Kafka's concern is warranted. But this isn't over until the very last breath. Going out on the whims of Number 9 - not even an all-out battle - is completely unacceptable. Soshiro will not stand for such an underwhelming curtain call.
They're going to survive. More, they're going to live. As fully and freely as they dare in such a world.
Number 9 is rapidly losing patience now. The tower of curiosity has toppled, resulting in a landslide of confusion. What was once an asset has now become destructive. The attacks hurtled their way devolve. Far more volatile and unstable.
The scaffolding shakes from the force. Soshiro eyes the handful of support columns, the weakening scaffolding holding things together. How interesting. Number 9 created the dome a fraction too wide - he didn't seem to factor in situational awareness. Soshiro can work with that.
One final burst of speed is all he needs. One final push against all odds - one chance to bring it down.
Soshiro could definitely do it.
"Keep him busy!" he calls in Kafka’s direction.
There's no time to wait for a response, snapped into motion. Soshiro darts towards the perimeter of their precarious cage. As he approaches, his muscles scream and shriek in protest. His body won't enjoy this next part one bit. Tough. He's doing it anyway.
Just as expected, the scaffolding tubes are lightweight. Durable - to a degree. They are no match for his blade. Soshiro slashes along the structure with muted strength. He doesn't worry about that part, trusts wholly in the weapon crafted meticulously for him.
How could he not - he has forged his life upon the blade.
Slice. Sever. Slice some more.
It happens fast.
Right on cue, the scaffolding collapses. With a thundering creak, it careens down in their direction. Soshiro made sure to cut them cleanly. But even so, escaping the metal avalanche is unlikely. He drops to a crouch, ducks his head. A firm weight engulfs him. Kafka. Soshiro doesn't have to look to confirm that much.
The scaffolding clangs and crashes as it falls. Kafka presses them down against the ground, shielding Soshiro from the impact.
A beat passes.
Kafka releases his hold a fraction, enough for Soshiro to get a glimpse of their surroundings. Around them, the gravel whips up a cloud of dust. Shards of scaffolding are scattered around them. For a brief moment, the quiet is not foreboding.
Then the dust settles. And there, out of the rubble, Number 9 emerges. Despite the piece of scaffolding piercing through his torso, he appears entirely unscathed.
No.
That took the last of Soshiro’s strength and it barely made a damn dent. He was hoping it would at least give them a few minutes to figure out their next move. Number 9 grabs the scaffolding impaling him. Slowly, he tugs it out with a morbid sense of wonder.
“Kafka. New strategy,” Soshiro barks as Kafka guides him upright. “You focus on th-”
Pain ruptures through him and knocks the words violently off course. It takes everything to keep himself standing. Soshiro hisses. The sharp sensation cleaves him wide open.
"That was clever. Oh, dear. Vice-Captain, Hoshina - I’m beginning to think you could be a problem later. Change of plans."
Kafka sweeps Soshiro up, sets him down at the edge of the barrier. Out of harm's way. And powerless is a thing Soshiro has felt before, but now he feels helpless. For the first time.
Breath hitched, Soshiro finds what remains of his voice. “Kafka-”
"Let me take it from here.” Turning to Number 9, Kafka snarls. "You want him? You'll have to go through me first, asshole!"
Sentimental fool. This escalation, this grand climax - it's exactly what Number 9 wants.
Soshiro is compelled to get the hell up. To bounce back onto his feet. Stop this madness. Every fibre of his being begs for the comfort of action. He is built from fiery momentum and fierce motion.
To be still is to surrender.
Yet Soshiro finds himself sluggish. His muscles are unfathomably heavy. No matter how he tries, he can't get a grip on that fire licking up his skin.
It's unbearable. He has become the one thing he feared most: a burden.
"This was meant to be my game, not yours." Number 9 scratches at his face absently. “I’ll have to take the both of you out early. It's a shame, but I have little more to learn about this feeling. I see that love can be dangerous. It must be destroyed.”
His body twists and distorts, swallowed up by a growing cosmic nightmare hard to comprehend. It defies what should be possible. Compared to what they’ve seen before, it's shocking. Overpowering. Number 9 opens up like a twisted gateway. Hinges of a body split under the pressure, a house of horrors unleashed. And it’s coming fast, coming right for them.
Kafka stands in front of Soshiro. A shield and a sword all at once. That's unacceptable. Soshiro heaves a ragged breath, clutches his blade with a trembling hand that can barely make a fist. Kafka is not taking the brunt of this on his own. No way.
Soshiro crawls toward Kafka. He clambers up to press against him. By sheer determination alone, he stands. Haggard and ravaged, slumped against Kafka's side for support.
Time stretches out around them. Drawn to a slow, splintering moment.
Their eyes meet. And it's everything. Worth fighting for, to the bitter end. Soshiro juts up his chin, nods weakly. The blade clatters out of his hand against his will. It's not a defeat. He tucks his aching hand into the crook between Kafka's claws, holds tight.
This is his pledge, his declaration. This is how far he will go.
Nobody can say they didn't go down swinging.
Stood tall. Pride shaken but not broken. By Kafka’s side, blazing and brilliant, there’s no better way to go. No place Soshiro would rather be. Seen in turn, devoted and dedicated without question.
Funny. Soshiro always knew one day the fight would take him. Nothing else would tear him off the battlefield. He just thought he’d have more time before the snapping jaws of fate devoured him whole. But the story is always the same. He should've known better than to believe he could change the parameters.
Time waits for no-one.
It happens, then.
Bright blaring headlights pierce through their surroundings. The whirring of helicopters grows louder overhead. Full-scale commotion comes into the fray. The abrupt distraction is enough for Number 9 to falter.
And that's it. The opening. Their last chance. Kafka surges forwards. Soshiro dives for his blade and pushes.
Outside, Shinomiya doesn't hesitate. She lunges at the dome barrier. Illuminated and shining vibrantly like the rising legend she is. Remarkable. Soshiro heard she got the Numbers Weapon suit. He had yet to see it in action. Shinomiya hacks away at the barrier with relentless ferocity. She'll be in soon, there's no doubt about it.
Stunned, Number 9 recoils and retracts the attack. As he goes back on the defensive, he's a fraction too late. Kafka punches through the armour of corpses. Soshiro is satisfied to say he got a few jabs in there somewhere, before his body called it quits.
“How…?” Number 9 trails off, mystified.
The barrier jostles with each strike. A breathless sigh of relief surges through Soshiro as Number 9 retreats. Okonogi. It has to be. She must have noticed his comms glitch out and gone from there. Soshiro will have to find a way to repay her. A mystery novel or two isn't going to be enough.
Despite his injuries, Soshiro doesn't crumble. Maybe it's petty, but he refuses to give Number 9 the satisfaction of putting him on the ground again.
“Looks like we got you beat. How many times is that now?" Soshiro holds out his good hand, counts off the encounters with his fingers. "Huh, that can't be great for your reputation."
"Hey, don't piss this guy off when he's about to leave!" Kafka insists. "I don't think we can take whatever that was for real at the moment."
Undeterred, Soshiro stumbles forward. Knees buckle, his foot snags on the gravel. But as expected, Kafka braces his fall so it isn't completely graceless. Soshiro will put the fleeing Number 9 in his place whilst he has the chance.
Nobody messes with what he loves and gets away with it.
"Sure you want to go through with your master plan? It could be embarrassing for you."
“Such spirit. Even now," Number 9 muses, head cocked in curiosity. As jarring as it is to be under such relentless scrutiny, Soshiro doesn't dare look away. "You humans… you continue to surprise me."
Glancing at the weakening barrier, Number 9 shakes his head in dismay. He brings a hand to his forehead, form slowly dissolving.
"It was a very good game, at least. You've given me much to think about."
Number 9 fades from view.
Wary, Soshiro counts to five. Kafka holds his ground a beat longer, scans the area for any signs of a resurgence. Another five seconds pass. That confirms it. Soshiro releases the shaky breath he's been holding. Kafka exhales in tangible relief, transforming back from Number 8.
They made it. Number 9 is gone.
Good riddance.
Soshiro wavers on his feet as exhaustion slams into him. It does so with all the force of a hundred sledgehammers. Relentless and raging. His head throbs, vision blurred. The rest of his experience evades description.
Pain - that’s not even the word for it.
Kafka catches him as he falls, right on cue. They melt into an undignified yet comfortable heap on the ground. It feels nice to be held. To be this close. Soshiro sags against the arms wrapped gently around him.
Love, what a thing to almost die for. Maybe, if they’re lucky, they’ll get a chance to live for it instead.
“Hoshina,” Kafka starts, overcome. Tears roll down his face. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”
As the corners of his vision kaleidoscope, Soshiro utters the most reassuring words he can find. The syllables are slurred together, tongue heavy in his mouth.
“Easy there, Kafka. Now you really do sound noble.”
The world spins. And in one swift motion, it all cuts to black.
Hushed voices slowly seep into focus, washing over Soshiro as he stirs awake. Whilst he struggles to make out the words, senses sluggish, it doesn't take long to identify the people with him. Soshiro hears the gentle tap of a keypad, the delicate yet steady press of a pen to paper. That’s all he needs to be sure of who is in the room.
The bright clinical lights are too much to face right now, singed like a brand behind his stinging eyelids. Soshiro keeps his eyes pressed firmly shut to combat this. His face feels heavy, he’s not sure he could actually open his eyes anyway.
All around, reality sinks into aching skin without any urgency. No amount of pushback seems to change a thing. Soshiro is a few steps ahead of his body. Until it catches up, he will have to linger in this gradual escape from dormancy.
The majority of his injuries seem mostly healed. Breathing isn't so laborious anymore. He can move his fingers on both hands again, which is a massive relief. Rather than a loud all-encompassing thing that demands constant attention, pain is a dull echo.
Judging from these simple observations, a few days must have passed since the encounter with Number 9.
"I'm thinking of cutting my hair short again. The dome style is currently in fashion, I've heard."
Soshiro hones in on Mina's bizarre words. He catches on quickly. That's an easy one - dome.
Third Division Word Jenga.
It's a silly nonsensical game they invented one evening in the office. With the paperwork piling high, the boredom and monotony had become too much. Soshiro had actually started it, mostly for his own entertainment. He picked a random word from the paperwork he could no longer bring himself to read properly, crammed it into their conversation as much as possible. He had been curious to see if either of them noticed.
By his third sentence, they'd both turned their full attention to him in confusion and concern for his sanity.
The rules are simple. Use the selected word in mindless conversation until someone notices. Once the ruse is over, pick another one. Whoever goes the longest without being caught wins the round. Soshiro made the game up on the spot, explaining it to them as if it were an ancient tradition passed down through generations instead of something created on a whim.
Nonetheless, they both became far too invested. Mina picked up the game quickly. She soon developed a knack for saying absurd things and somehow making it sound normal. Her poker face is truly remarkable. And whilst Okonogi's enthusiasm cannot be matched, she often picks words that are far too specific.
"Hm," Okonogi mulls the nonsense over as she taps away at the keypad. "That would definitely neutralise the need for a ponytail, Captain."
Case in point.
Okonogi struggles with the principle of this game. Later, Soshiro will give her some pointers. Amusement unfurls gently. It’s not often Okonogi needs help with anything. This is a rare exception.
"Neutralise," Mina affirms, the papers rustle as she shuffles through them.
Their current round is settled. Soshiro waits for the next one to begin. The art of Third Division Word Jenga is to make the conversation feel as seamless as possible despite pointed abnormalities. The real winner is the person who can pull off such a feat.
For a little while longer, Soshiro can only bask in this tangible familiarity. The heaviness pressed against his eyes keeps him hovering on the cusp of full consciousness. So he turns to the sense that is most reliable, listens.
"Looking at everything we have on file about Number 9, Kafka's latest report provides some interesting new details."
The mere mention of Kafka has Soshiro's pulse rocketing and stomach lurching. It should be silly, how a name can evoke such a strong reaction. And yet. Here he is, yearning and aching for Kafka’s presence.
"It does. We even have insights into previously undocumented powers.”
"Yes," Mina agrees. "Kafka did well. I think the report made by Kafka will prove useful."
Now hold on a minute.
"Captain! That's cheating," Okonogi remarks sternly. "Names don't count in the game."
She's absolutely right to call that out. Names were the first thing Soshiro banned from Word Jenga. Not only because they can be slipped into conversation without much effort, but because this name in particular was being used to deliberately trip Soshiro up mid-conversation.
A beat passes. The peaceful backdrop of idle movement and paperwork threatens to lull Soshiro back to sleep.
From the sounds of things, Kafka has done everything possible in his absence to fill the Defence Force in. Soshiro really hopes the wonderful fool had the sense to omit the stuff about their relationship. There is such a thing as being too forthcoming. The last thing Soshiro needs is an official report documenting matters of the heart.
Please. God. Let the report be normal.
"I can't stop thinking about that barrier." Okonogi sets a file down on the table, sighs in frustration. Always wanting to be a step ahead of every situation. "I'd really like to know more about how it worked."
"We'll have answers soon," Mina replies, abandoning their game for the sake of consoling her comrade. "The residue left on Shinomiya's weapon is currently being studied by Izumo Tech."
That is promising news.
Soshiro can think of many helpful possibilities that could come from it. A barrier like that on their side would be good for containing Kaiju in populated areas. Or even trapping smaller swarms to ensure they don't miss any. Maybe this encounter reaped some benefits after all.
"Oh, the sample got there already? That -" Okonogi musters her brightest tone. It's a little too much, unconvincing. "That's good!"
Mina hums. Pointed and probing around the corners. Ah. She must hear the strain in Okonogi's voice too, the insistence to be overly cheerful.
"You have something else on your mind."
Soshiro hears the pen hit the table with a light thud. Proof that Mina has grown tired of circling around whatever they've been avoiding. Word Jenga is really good for that - evasion. But Mina prefers to be direct and face things head-on. No matter how delicate the subject, she'll blast through the pretences.
"Okonogi, you did everything you could. We wouldn't have known something was wrong if you hadn't pushed the matter."
"I just wish I had figured it out sooner," Okonogi admits and Soshiro hates that he can hear the tears clogging up her words. "The Vice-Captain is strong, but I was still so worried about him."
Okay. Nevermind. Operation: Pretend To Be Asleep is officially over.
Soshiro blinks open an eye. As expected, the intrusive light stings. Details of the room swirl and swim into place at a sluggish speed. Soshiro offers what he hopes is a winning smile in their general direction. He holds up a hand to make his trademark sign for good measure.
"Please don't cry, Okonogi-chan." Fortunately, his voice sounds rested. No longer ragged and rough. "I'm fine, really."
"You're awake!" Okonogi chimes, hands clasped together.
The tablet she's holding is abruptly forgotten in her sheer relief. Mina catches the device smoothly, puts it on the table. She glances over to Soshiro, a small smile tucked into the curve of her mouth. It can never be proven, but there is definitely a hint of mischief lingering in the corner of that expression.
"Nice of you to join us, Hoshina. I see you've decided to stop pretending you're asleep."
Soshiro balks at that. He really thought he'd gotten away with it. Like clockwork, Okonogi goes from chiming in joy to striking out in irritation.
"You - that's so sneaky of you!" She cries, exasperation trickling into each word. "You should've let us know the second you woke up. It's rude to keep your visitors waiting."
Soshiro thinks they hardly count as visitors here, more like residents. Mina and Okonogi have pushed two bedside tables together from the nearby ward to create a temporary office.
“I haven’t been awake that long - really,” he insists, hands raised in placation.
It's the truth. That hardly appeases Okonogi. Eyes narrowed, she points an accusatory finger. Her wobbly smile and gleaming eyes make it far less intimidating.
"You were trying to score secret points in Word Jenga, weren't you?"
Soshiro shrugs, relieved to find his shoulder no longer popped out of place. It feels so unfathomably good to move without heaps of resistance. His body aches all over but it’s a small price to pay.
"Neutralise was an obvious choice," he counters.
Mina stifles a strange sound as Okonogi deflates at the desk. "I thought it was a good one!"
Soshiro sits up in the bed, wincing as he moves. Now everything finally slips into focus, his observations regain clarity. Soshiro definitely in Tachikawa. He would know these walls anywhere. Not to mention, Okonogi is here in person. Given where the encounter with Number 9 took place, Ariake is much closer.
"How come I'm here?" he asks.
Okonogi adjusts her glasses, a tad prideful. “We may have many parts of the base out of operation, but the Third Division still has some of the best medical facilities in the country.”
Mina nods, arms folded across her chest. She keeps her eyes fixed on the table despite not pursuing the pile stacked up in front of her. Interesting.
“I also suggested that it would be unwise to leave the Third Division without a Captain or Vice-Captain."
Soshiro mulls that over. His absence, he can understand that. But why would they be without a Captain?
One look at the poorly assembled makeshift desk reveals the story he has carved out for himself at the Third Division. The belonging. Mina appears more weathered than usual yet no less determined. Soshiro hears what goes unvoiced. If their situations were reversed, he would also refuse to let anything stand in his way. He'd want to ensure the Captain's safety. They're a formidable team. The loyalty between them runs deeper than rank or order.
As Soshiro drinks the water pointedly thrust in his direction, Okonogi diligently fills in the gaps for him. Mina goes back to her paperwork at their portable office. Occasionally, the pen slows along the paper, indication she is listening closely to every word.
Okonogi explains how parts of the Third and First Division came together for a joint mission, how she’d come to the conclusion something had been amiss with the situation. More, how getting authorisation took longer than necessary due to the lack of kaiju readings or any real tangible evidence.
It seems Okonogi had little to go on, no more than a vague hunch. Yet she didn’t back down. That tenacity is admirable.
Soshiro hears the simmering frustration in Okonogi’s voice, the desire for a better outcome. As if her work had not been enough. Her eyes are cast downward, fist clenched tight. She’s being far too hard on herself. Without her sharp instincts and insistence to see it through, things could have been far worse.
No amount of placations or encouraging words will make a difference here because Okonogi isn’t looking to be reassured. The best Soshiro can do is gently steer the conversation along, draw her attention elsewhere. Give her something new to chip away at.
Those empty eyes that didn’t belong to Number 9 are still bothering Soshiro. Haunting. With each blink, the stolen face comes into biting focus. A person whose life was snuffed out too soon, who couldn’t be saved. It stings.
Uchida Ryu.
Soshiro vowed to bring the man justice in any way that he could. Now the dust has settled, Number 9 is unlikely to use that disguise again. Unfortunately, that means someone else may be on the chopping block. But to follow that bleak observation now would lead nowhere. Soshiro will have to do the next best thing.
There is a high chance Uchida can well and truly be put to rest with the respect and dignity he deserved from the beginning yet never received. So Soshiro relays everything he can to Okonogi. If anyone collate the information together and capture the essence of a person it would be her.
Mina sets down her pen, a silent mark of remembrance to the civilian lost. A gutting reminder of all they’re fighting for. To bring about a peaceful sunrise that lasts. This fight has spanned centuries. As it stands, the Defence Force has carved out glimpses of normality for the citizens of this country. Now Number 9 threatens to throw this delicate balance into total disarray.
They fall into pensive quiet, then. Conversation creeps away as the weight of an uncertain future becomes a tangible presence, pushing and prodding at their shoulders.
Soshiro lays back on the bed, surveys the dreary ceiling tiles. Whatever happens next, he will be ready to face Number 9. This recent encounter had not only been a riptide of potent emotions, it revealed a lot about Number 9’s motivations and modus operandi.
Humanity - Number 9 claims to want a better understanding of all the facets that make up a single person, a society, a civilisation. As if there is some unspoken blueprint that can be replicated and meticulously studied. Not even mankind can settle for one definitive answer to the great mystery of life.
Number 9 is not some higher power. Believing he’s better or above humanity, observing from a throne of corpses, is a mistake. It could even be the key to his undoing. That curiosity is too distorted to be sincere and ultimately it will end up as a destructive ravaging force.
If Number 9 cannot have humanity, then nothing can. There lies the root that festers into a throng of thorns, that is the core to neutralise.
Soshiro rolls onto his side, facing the wall he has ignored in favour of Okonogi and Mina’s presence. The sight he’s greeted with promptly jolts him out of these observations.
There, on the beside table, sits a water jug haphazardly transformed into a vase. A large collection of vibrant flowers have been stubbornly crammed into place. The arrangement is mismatched and rough. The colours clash completely, the flowers are trimmed at different heights, some of the petals are squashed - it’s an assault to his eyes.
Yet Soshiro cannot look away. He’s mesmerised. It’s so earnest and heartfelt, so agonisingly sincere. Consideration has nothing to do with it. This is a gesture born from biting tenderness, from the budding feeling they have cultivated. Warmth pools in Soshiro’s chest and it’s a rapid downward spiral from there into all the messy, miraculous things Kafka stirs up beneath skin. The dam in his heart bursts. A sudden surge of pure unbridled affection whips through him.
Soshiro never stood a chance. When it comes to Kafka, he’s always going to fold like a house of cards.
“Mm. They’re nice aren’t they?”
Mina is being overly generous in her assessment purely because it’s Kafka and because, for some awful reason, she knows Soshiro is charmed.
“Nice is not the word I would use, Captain.”
Sweet, maybe. That’s a better fit.
“He’s barely left your side,” she adds, a rare lilt to her voice that gives each word buoyancy. Fondness that cannot be stifled.
Soshiro startles. He swivels round quicker than he intends, the urgency to his movements betray any attempts at seeming calm and collected.
"Kafka,” Soshiro manages, breathless and barely keeping the desperation at bay. The name is a lifeline and a lighthouse all at once. “He’s… here?"
Mina nods.
“Kafka is just down the hall,” Okonogi says with a knowing smile. “He refused to go any further.”
“That’s right. I ordered him to get some rest a few hours ago." Before Soshiro can prod for more information, Mina elaborates. "I was able to authorise a temporary visit under the condition that he remained in my charge. I cited section Seventeen B of the welfare legislation for members of the Defence Force."
It’s an impressive strategy. But way too bold for these circumstances. Soshiro frowns. “That can’t have gone down well.”
“What matters is we succeeded. Okonogi was able to assist me in presenting the case for keeping you together whilst you recovered,” Mina explains.
“Hm.”
Soshiro gets the distinct sense she is deliberately downplaying this. For his sake. From the sound of things, Mina has been toeing a very precarious line. Whilst he’s beyond grateful, he must take responsibility for these burdens. They are his own and it’s not right for anybody else to spare him from the repercussions.
“Captain," Soshiro bows his head, purses his lips. "It seems like this situation has caused you a world of trouble these past few days. I understand if this means you’ll want to reconsider your decision in making me-”
The words are cut off abruptly. Mina thumps him on the head.
“No,” she says sternly. “The day you exhaust your full potential is the only day I would even consider relieving you from being my Vice-Captain.”
Well. That’s quite brutal but Soshiro is glad for her honesty, it’s refreshing. Mina casts him an expectant look, brow quirked.
“Unless you want to quit?”
Soshiro sits up. His blades are out of reach, but he can still carve this question up into tiny pieces.
“Never,” he affirms sharply. “I have no intention of quitting.”
Mina nods, refusing to entertain the discussion any further. “Good.”
Her demeanour softens around the edges, in a way so few get the opportunity to ever see.
“I’m glad I chose you, Hoshina.” A small smile catches on the corner of her mouth. “You’ve never let me down, you’ve always trusted in me. So please understand, making these arrangements, however difficult - it was the least I could do.”
Beside her, Okonogi can no longer hold in her ardent words. She accentuates them with her hands, animated in her outburst.
"You’re an amazing Vice-Captain. I’ll always do my best to support you on and off mission!” she declares.
Soshiro curls his fingers into a fist, turns away to face the flowers on the table. This way, neither of them can see his unguarded expression before his face shutters. He blames it all on Number 9. Of course. His body has been put through the wringer thanks to that bastard. Surely, Soshiro is entitled to a private lapse of judgement. A little meltdown.
“Are you okay?” Okonogi asks, concern palpable.
“Fine!” Soshiro says hastily over his shoulder before she gets any ideas about investigating or leaving her seat. “Don’t mind me, I just need a quick moment.”
He swallows around the uncomfortable lump in his throat. It’s a good thing the room is so dry, a poor climate for stinging eyes to truly betray him. Oh boy. Whatever Soshiro has done to earn such unshakeable loyalty from all those in orbit, he better keep it up.
To be believed in, it means everything. Maybe this is how he leaves his mark. Not only through the blade, through the people who depend on him.
“I am curious, though. What was Number 9 after?" Mina hums thoughtfully as she ponders on the question. "The official report Kafka turned in doesn't say."
Thank god. The man has tact, it seems.
"No, it doesn't say anything about that," Okonogi agrees, a beat too fast to not be suspicious. "I'd very much like to know."
Composure restored and interest piqued, Soshiro rolls back over to face them. As he does, he’s met with expressions of extreme interest. Expectant for more information. It’s unnerving.
Best wrap this tangent up immediately. Things are getting dangerous.
"I have no idea what Number 9 wanted.” Soshiro is pleased his voice remains steady, fully committed to nonchalance. “Whatever it was, I guess it will remain a mystery."
"Vice-Captain." Okonogi adjusts her glasses. Never a good omen in times like these. "When you lie, your right eye twitches."
What.
"That- it does not!"
Sure enough, just as he protests, Soshiro feels his right eye twitch. This is a traitorous tell he had no clue about until now.
"It does. I noticed it that time you told me my knife skills were getting better," Mina admits.
Unbelievable.
How long has she been waiting to throw that back at him. Really, that happened months ago. Soshiro had assumed it wouldn't hurt to encourage the Captain’s efforts during a cooking session, even if she showed little promise in picking it up. Clearly, he was wrong.
Defeated, Soshiro eyes the pair cautiously. He needs to be very careful how much he tells them. Okonogi already guessed about the date and-
Wait a minute.
Soshiro flits his attention between them. Catches their silent, near imperceptible exchange. Realisation hits then. They're messing with him. On purpose.
"Alright. You got me." Soshiro drags a hand down his face. There's no escaping the inevitable teasing. Might as well speed things up. "How much do you know."
Hopefully, very little.
"Kafka's original report looked very different," Mina says. Her words are rife with poorly concealed amusement.
"Yes. It was-" Okonogi stifles a laugh behind her hand. "It was very thorough."
Great. So they know everything, then.
Soshiro can imagine them, huddled around the file and relishing in all the thrilling details. What the hell Kafka has written. That man is simply too earnest for his own good sometimes.
Okonogi holds out the infamous file. From this distance, Soshiro can see there are parts highlighted and annotated. It's bad news.
"I took the liberty to omit anything I felt was unnecessary before submitting it to HQ. But I kept a copy of the original.” Okonogi passes the file to Mina who struggles to school her expression into a blank unreadable void before handing it over.
“For your eyes only, Vice-Captain."
How can that possibly be true when they’ve both obviously scoured the pages. Amendment: Okonogi kept the file purely so they could poke fun for the next century.
Soshiro takes the file, he’s reluctant and morbidly curious to get a peek at the contents. He gets as far as the first few lines before abruptly slamming it down.
Vice-Captain Hoshina and I had been on a date - our first one - when the encounter started. I understand that may be a surprise to some people to read, but I think we've been building up to that for some time so I was really happy when it happened. Number 9 seemed to think so too because-
For god's sake. Who even writes reports like that. This isn’t a private diary entry.
Soshiro is so lucky to have Okonogi on his side. If this ever got out, he would be doomed for life.
“Kafka is a good storyteller, isn't he? It reads so well.”
“He used to tell stories at lunchtime,” Mina says, voice is hushed as she recalls the childhood memory. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ears, eyes warm and fond. “Everybody at school always enjoyed them.”
Okay. That’s a cute scene to imagine. But Soshiro is adamant to hold his ground.
"We're not at school."
His addition to the conversation is completely ignored.
“I’ve no doubt about that!” Okonogi exclaims over him, a little awed. She's always admired writers who can pluck words from the depths of their imagination. “I’ve never read such a detailed yet entertaining account of events. My favourite part was-”
No. Stop this.
Soshiro shoves the file under his pillow, as if hiding it would somehow erase it from existence.
“My favourite part was when we never mentioned any of this again!” he interjects because he really does not want to hear whatever terrible thing Okonogi is about to say.
Fortunately, they seem to both agree to take it a little easier on him and tone things down. Maybe the fact he’s currently covered in bandages and in a hospital bed has something to do with it. Hard to say.
Soshiro sighs, enjoys the small glimmer of peace. A beat passes.
“I knew your plan would work.”
At this point, Soshiro doesn’t even want to know how Mina figured that out. He kept that plan tightly under wraps. Part of him suspects he is more transparent than he wants to be about his Kafka Agenda.
It’s a problem.
As if sensing the thoughts, Mina ploughs ahead.
"Only you would come up with a scheme so elaborate." She sounds a little disapproving about that. "You made Kafka believe that asking you on a date was his own idea, just because you wanted to be asked first. You've been preparing the groundwork for weeks instead of getting straight to the point. Sometimes, I think you enjoy tricking people into doing things far too much."
"Who, me?" Soshiro cocks his head, musters a relaxed smile designed to disarm every human opponent. "Oh no, Captain. I'd never do that. I'm a very honest person."
He is an honest person, and a lie is more convincing when presented with a truth anyway. So it's the best answer to give.
Ever willing to counter, Okonogi presents her reams of evidence.
"What about the Roof Fiasco of last year? Or when you 'offhandedly'-"
Okay. There's no need for air quotations to emphasise his apparent deception. That's just rude.
"-mentioned to Reno about the leak in the basement because you knew he'd be the most capable person to finally solve the problem despite nobody wanting to ever set foot in there because it's allegedly haunted?"
Not allegedly. And neither of those things count actually. Soshiro voices as much. For that, Okonogi decides to up her game.
"You - don't even get me started on the Crab Incident!"
The Crab Incident was a masterpiece and Soshiro will not take any criticism on that. It played out beautifully.
"I don't see what the problem is," he admits before another can of worms is needlessly opened. "All of those situations turned out just fine."
Better than fine, in fact. They were also extremely fun to orchestrate, he cannot deny it. After all, a good scheme keeps the world chugging along. Ensures the gears are still turning and the cogs are whirring. How else are people supposed to keep on their toes if things are always so straight-forward?
Fights can be wildly unpredictable. Kaiju attacks are sporadic and often appear out of nowhere. You need to be ready for anything in this field of work.
Soshiro is merely providing more learning opportunities. They should all be thanking him.
"What's your next move?" Mina asks, so casually it is staggering. As if they're discussing a strategy for another mission and not personal relations.
Feigning innocence, Soshiro blinks. "Hm?"
"With Kafka," she clarifies despite really not needing to. "I'm certain you have something up your sleeve."
Soshiro glances over to the flowers, an endeared smile curling into the corner of his mouth. The truth is, Kafka is a whole different story. Sure, Soshiro has ideas brewing. There are meagre annoyances, ways to push more buttons, silly little schemes to enact. But in general, what unfolds between them has been entirely out of his hands. All Soshiro can really do is buckle up and hold on for the bumpy, brilliant ride.
"Not this time," he admits, wistful. "I'm willing to wait and see what happens next."
"Oh, I knew it!" Okonogi gasps, eyes gleaming. "You are a romantic person at heart."
Soshiro bristles at that, jolts upright in the bed. "Name-calling is unnecessary, Okonogi-chan!"
"But she's right.” Mina is oddly eager to weigh in on the matter. "We spotted countless examples of this throughout Kafka's original report."
Right. That explains the highlighted parts. Soshiro will destroy that file the second he is reunited with his trusty blades.
"You've got no real evidence to back up such a bold claim," he says and it's the truth. "I'm the only one who can authenticate Kafka's account of what happened, you know."
Unfazed by the counterargument, Mina shuffles closer on her seat. Her expression grows sombre, as if delivering dire news.
"Hoshina, denial is futile."
"Even without the report," Okonogi chimes in, far too cheerful. "Our findings are conclusive. Right, Captain?"
She swiftly bats back to Mina with ease. Honestly. What kind of double-team is this. It's too immaculate to not be rehearsed or at least somewhat planned prior to this moment. Is it possible they’ve been scheming too?
No. That can’t be. Soshiro is the master of schemes, they can't defeat him so easily.
“Correct. Kafka could arrive at any second."
Mina gestures to the empty doorway. She doesn't need to draw his attention there, but she seems to relish in making Soshiro look over like the lovestruck loser he's pretending not to be. Satisfied with the reaction, she continues.
"When he does, your mood will lift even more."
Okonogi nods. "You'll find it hard to focus on anything else."
"You'll try to act as cool as possible."
"You'll be smiling the whole time."
What is this - some bizarre attempt at hypnotism or the presenting of supposed evidence. Soshiro would like to know.
"I'm hearing voices!" an all-too familiar voice cries out down the hallway. "Is Hoshina awake?!"
Right on cue, Kafka skids into view. But to everyone's surprise, including his own apparently given the strange noise he makes whilst whizzing past, he doesn't stop there. He slides by the doorway, a few feet off landing where he wants to. There he goes in a blur, slipping out of view like some wild passing fever-dream.
The fool has gone and missed his mark. Somehow, he is all the more endearing for such a stupid non-entrance.
Soshiro hates to admit that Mina and Okonogi were right on money. But god, they really saw straight through every ruse. His mood has lifted exponentially, veering close to giddy. Already, he's incapable of focusing on anything else but the doorway, waiting with bated breath for Kafka to get it together and enter the room like a normal person.
After a few agonising seconds pass, Kafka finally reappears. He clutches the doorway for support, chest heaving from his frantic dash down the hallway. He looks remarkably out of sorts, even by his standards. Lit up and crackling with all the energy of a loose livewire. His hair is more ruffled than usual, tired eyes wide and disbelieving as they settle on Soshiro.
The burning intensity merely grows as their gazes catch across the room. Kafka stares in open unabashed awe, like he's witnessing a shooting star race across the night sky, like he's just discovered the eighth wonder of the world.
Needless to say, it's a lot.
“H-Hey,” Kafka breathes.
Soshiro's heart jumps into his throat, beats rapidly out of rhythm at an erratic rate. It's hard to speak around the shockwaves rippling through his body, the sheer thrill of Kafka being here and safe and looking at him so intently. Soshiro strives to find his voice, form words that measure up in the aftermath of all they’ve been through.
“So you're hearing voices now,” is what comes out, a pitiful attempt to poke fun at the centrepiece of this charged moment.
Kafka blinks, steps into the room. Why on earth he's walking like suddenly let loose on an ice rink without skates is beyond Soshiro's comprehension. He has no idea. But in Kafka's defence, they're both fumbling through this rather gracelessly.
"Huh?"
The opening for a joke has passed, now they're just beating the drum too hard in a song that shouldn't even have percussion. This is meant to be a mellow melody, not an elaborate misplaced melisma.
And yet.
Honestly, Soshiro finds himself a little lost without the anchor of a well-timed quip. This isn't how they do things.
"That's what you said."
"Oh."
Kafka cranes closer. He hovers at the table where Okonogi and Mina are trying very hard to look extremely busy all of a sudden. His hands become bizarrely fascinated with the files he knows nothing about, tracing over the piles. He even picks one up from the stack, waves it in Okonogi's vague direction. He does all this whilst not taking his eyes off Soshiro once.
"Yeah," Kafka starts absently. Okonogi takes the random file before it pelts her in the face. She's bemused but decides to keep any comments to herself. "Um, well. I meant your voices?"
Soshiro nods because that is a reasonable gesture he can still manage. He fears he is about to become monosyllabic any second.
"Right," slips out of his mouth without permission.
Wow.
What an eloquent, breathtaking reunion. They’re doing such a good job of navigating this.
An indiscreet snort comes from the table, masked only by the convenient crinkling of paper. Soshiro would look to see which one of the traitors he once trusted finds this mess funny, but unfortunately he can't stop watching Kafka. He's transfixed, totally sucked into orbit, into everything they glimpsed on the edge of absolution.
Kafka's presence is totally derailing. The biggest distraction and it's delightful, an absolute disaster for whatever is left of Soshiro's frayed composure.
Thankfully, the problem appears to be mutual.
Okonogi stands then, with far too much vigour. She grabs her tablet and aimlessly plucks a stack of paperwork from the pile. Mina prepares herself to follow suit.
If Soshiro is lucky, he might be able to coax Kafka into getting out of here once they're alone. This room must be cursed or something, it is ruining them.
“I - I’ll be back later!” Halfway out the door, Okonogi comes to a rapid halt. She narrows her eyes in suspicion. “Don’t even think about leaving that bed. Kafka!” She gestures with her free hand towards Soshiro. “Make sure the Vice-Captain rests.”
Kafka nods dutifully, he even goes as far to offer a playful salute. That’s suspicious - a new and frightening development. Since when were those two so familiar. Soshiro glances over to Mina, who is slowly shimmying backwards with as much of the temporary office bundled into her arms as possible.
Somehow, she remains the epitome of elegance whilst eclipsed in paperwork.
“Kafka,” Mina starts firmly, head poking over the top of the files. “Your transport back to Ariake departs in two hours. Make sure you're ready to leave.” Her voice softens a fraction as her eyes flit between them. “I'll leave you both to catch up.”
With that, Mina has no qualms taking her leave. She may as well be throwing Soshiro to the wolves at this point. Here he is, at the mercy of his hammering heart - the most raw and real and ridiculous he's ever been. An incoherent mess split open with nowhere to hide or run. He realises now, that in the end, Kafka might just be what gets him.
There are definitely worse ways to go.
Thoroughly alone, the atmosphere shifts between them. Anticipation twists and coils in Soshiro’s gut. His eyes meet Kafka’s across the room and the tension sizzles in the heat of the pressing moment. Suddenly, words lose their weight. Desperation and devotion collide and it’s crushing. Too much yet somehow not enough.
Maybe it will never be enough, maybe they’ll never be sated. Here, on the edge, they’re locked in and loaded. Caught up in a long, lingering stalemate that stretches on and maddeningly on.
Soshiro lives and breathes by the blade. Whatever it takes, he’ll carve a path back to where they belong. With a shuddery breath, he steels himself.
Okay. Time to find their lost rhythm, retrace their usual seamless steps.
Time to face the music and make it their own.
Time runs differently in the medical ward. Something about being tethered to your limits and facing them whilst you recover - it changes things. The first time Soshiro noticed, it made him uneasy. The seconds don’t match up the way they’re meant to, the minutes span and glitch into hours. It can feel like a lifetime and a heartbeat all at once.
Kafka lingers in the periphery, like he can think of nowhere else to go. He skirts along a threshold they crossed miles ago, far too unsure of himself in this moment to do it again. Soshiro notes the dark circles hanging beneath those bloodshot eyes, the shallow breaths Kafka takes, the sickly complexion that the clinical lighting is not responsible for, the bead of sweat tracking down his face.
He looks dreadful. Unanchored. A grounding force ripped violently from their roots. He needs rescuing from the turmoil that has ravaged him these past few days. That propels Soshiro into action. Kafka always makes things simple, he deserves to be extended that same grace. Treated with tenderness.
When Soshiro speaks, the words are effortless and easy.
"Get over here."
Kafka doesn't need to be told twice. He's set alight by the request, thawed out of the freeze. Kafka barrels into him, squeezing tight yet so gently, careful not to press upon the bandages.
Arms wrapped around this wonderful man, Soshiro tugs him onto the bed properly. There's barely enough room for the both of them, Kafka sprawls over him like a warm weighted blanket, but it really doesn't matter. They made it here. That counts.
"You're really feeling okay?" Kafka murmurs against a pale neck, voice muffled and buzzing along Soshiro's skin.
"Sure am. As you can see, they did a good job patching me up."
Truth be told, Soshiro feels even better now that Kafka is here beside him. Pressed hip to hip and heart to heart. Unfathomably close, no inch of space left unchallenged and unclaimed. It's a little too good. Soshiro can feel himself floating out of focus, surrendering to their little sanctuary. The corners of his vision grow heavier with each blink.
Kafka is in a similar predicament. He is virtually melting into the steadfast embrace. Flopped against Soshiro's chest, breath fanning out in slow, relaxed cycles. The tension drains out of his body more by the minute. For a moment, they simply exist in this quiet tandem. No rush to race ahead, no need to push conversation.
Soshiro ruffles his hair, overcome by the swell of fierce affection. Kafka pushes into the touch, laps up the attention like he is starved for it. How interesting. Soshiro playfully pulls back, just to see if Kafka will be shameless enough to chase his hand. Sure enough, the lovely fool does. Their shoulders bump as he wiggles around.
"Oh yeah. I submitted my report to HQ about the encounter," Kafka explains, lifting his head to meet Soshiro's eyes. "The only thing you need to focus on is getting back to full strength."
How thoughtful. He's really just so sweet. Goodness incarnate. There’s just one thing about those words Soshiro must challenge.
“Mm. About that report."
Soshiro rummages under the pillow to retrieve the pesky file.
"I had no idea you were such a talented writer," he drawls, swatting Kafka on the head with it. “Tell me, Kafka, when’s the book deal coming?”
“Argh, not this again!” Kafka grumbles, he headbutts Soshiro's chest in dismay. Ah. So Mina and Okonogi have been on his case too. That’s a mild comfort. “Hey - it's not my fault, okay? I was told to include everything relevant that I could remember so that's what I did!”
Key word: relevant.
Nobody at HQ needs to know Number 9 targeted them specifically because apparently their budding romance had been obvious even to a kaiju. Nobody needs the transcript of their most heartfelt words to each other in a charged series of events.
But the damage is already done, Soshiro will be losing Word Jenga for life. His winning streak is over. Okonogi and Mina will cite only this report in the game from now on.
Nice going Kafka.
"You'll be doing forty extra push-ups tomorrow for sharing our private business so freely," Soshiro pokes at his side.
"But Okonogi fixed it for me," Kafka challenges. He pouts, cheeks puffed out and all the more irresistible to prod.
Soshiro clears his throat, reads aloud the first few lines of the utter madness. He gets no further than the second sentence before devolving into unhinged laughter.
Really. What possessed Kafka to write this down in such an open, unfiltered way.
Sitting up, Kafka snatches the file from Soshiro's hands. He clutches the damn thing to his chest protectively, like this is a sacred holy text that should not be forsaken or taken lightly. Soshiro admires that flustered expression, cheeks flushed and lips skewed into a strange shape.
How silly.
"Laugh all you want," Kafka snaps, tetchy. His haughty indignant tone dislodges a stupid sound from Soshiro's chest. "I thought it was a really good report."
Oh Lord. The man is beyond help.
"What planet are you on?" Soshiro wheezes. "How can you think that?!"
In a final peal of laughter, he slumps back on the bed for a brief moment of respite. It wouldn't do well to pass out from the hilarity that is Hibino Kafka when they only have a few hours left together. He needs to pace himself, go steady. Even more so if he wants to steer them in a certain direction. A plan is brewing.
“Okay, alright. No more. I’m done.”
Soshiro claps his hands together promptly, sits up. Their chests smack together in the speedy motion. Kafka's eyes triple in size. It would be so easy to indulge the moment, push a little further and lean in to capture that lovely mouth off-guard. But they deserve a better backdrop than this stifling room.
“Come on, up you get.”
Soshiro climbs out of the bed and Kafka has no choice but to go along with him, unless he wants to find himself acquainted with the floor. It’s a solid, steely landing, for one of them at least. Soshiro stretches out his aching muscles whilst Kafka pretends not to ogle his form.
All it would take is one coy remark to send Kafka reeling, it would be simple. But the poor man has only just regathered his footing. Soshiro should probably cut him some slack.
Overall, the medbay has done its job. Soshiro is stiff and a little sore in places, but those complaints are meagre. His condition is a far cry from the brutal battering he took at the construction site. Still, it takes a few more seconds than desired to reach the doorway. Reaching the threshold of this place is a relief.
Soshiro gladly crosses over every sensible line. Swiftly, he makes his exit. Being cooped up in one place is unbearable. He's had enough of that.
"Let's go."
“Hey, wait! You’re supposed to be resting!” Kafka clambers after him. “Okonogi said-”
Oh dear. Is he really going to be a little tattletale about this. Soshiro is mostly doing this so they can have a quiet undisturbed moment together in a less mind-numbing environment. Kafka should be grateful.
“Relax,” Soshiro says, waving a placating hand in Kafka’s direction. “I just need a little change of scenery."
A glance out the window reveals it is in fact late afternoon. The sun is orange and sits low in the sky, preparing for slumber. Soshiro was hoping for moonlight to swathe over their silvery silhouettes, for the stars to shine overhead, but this will have to do.
Some people find sunsets romantic, maybe Kafka does. Who knows.
They'll soon find out.
Kafka scoffs, quickens his pace. They slip into tandem. Walking side by side. Pressed shoulder to shoulder. And just like that, Soshiro feels his bones snap into place, his heart cracked open. Every fibre of his being spun to gold as the feeling circles them. All of him set to rights with one simple act.
Reality softens in their wake, no longer so biting.
"I'm telling you, this is a really stupid idea! You shouldn't be moving around yet," Kafka hisses, voice hushed as if expecting someone to jump out at any minute and reprimand them, like they're children sneaking around after the school has closed or something equally as daft.
"Quit fretting. We’ll be back before anyone even knows we’re gone." Soshiro nudges into Kafka's side, eyes gleaming with mirth and mischief all at once. "But if you're worried about getting in trouble, you're welcome to try and put me back in that bed."
Try is the operative word. Kafka seems to understand that too, he sighs wearily.
They reach the narrow stairway to the roof, marked clearly as out of use. Part of the stairs had been an unfortunate casualty in the attack on Tachikawa. But Soshiro managed it just fine in the past no problem, so he isn't concerned. Besides, this will be a good way to gauge how much time he really needs to spend recovering in a hospital bed.
Once the stairs lose their shape and get dicey, there’s plenty of things to use as a solid foothold. The climb is straightforward, it barely counts as vertical.
Soshiro starts the ascent. Despite previous protests, Kafka follows him without hesitation. The determination only wavers as they reach the spot where the stairway has been gouged out. Undeterred, Soshiro makes the modest jump to the stable side of the wall. He glides through the air, agile and poised. The landing is smooth, thrilling in the aftermath of Number 9's twisted game.
To be thrust back into motion, to have sharp reflexes back on his side - it's a good feeling. Soshiro would gladly exist this way for the rest of his days. An accelerating force that never wanes, a blade forever unsheathed.
“Oi. Why are you like this…” Kafka groans, gripping the railings for dear life as he considers where to go next to catch up. He settles for slinking along the pieces of jagged cement carved open.
Jabbing an accusatory finger in Soshiro's direction, he frowns.
"You're a bad influence, look what you're making me do! I seriously hate climbing - it's one of my weakest points in general training.”
Soshiro is well aware of that. He's witnessed Kafka scale walls at a pitiful speed without the use of his powers several times. But alas, it's the fastest way to their destination.
If Kafka perseveres, he’s sure to get a reward. Soshiro is running out of patience now, Number 9 tipped him over the edge.
Kafka is getting kissed senseless today. By Soshiro. It will happen and it will be earth-shattering. Or else.
They've earned this.
Lips twitching, Soshiro glances over his shoulder.
“Oho, bad influence you say? I thought I was an amazing Vice-Captain." Reciting the words he will treasure for a lifetime, he quirks a brow. "An even better man.”
Kafka sighs, deflates against the last of the railings. “Don’t use my own words against me like that.”
“Are you embarrassed?” Soshiro teases.
Sadly, he finds he can only run that tangent for so long in this moment. The urge to slather endless affection on Kafka is growing at an alarming rate. His voice dips low, quiet enough for the slightest breeze to blow it away.
“You shouldn’t be, Kafka. Really. They were perfect words.”
Kafka almost loses his footing. He yelps in surprise, scrambling to regain security. Clinging to the wall that used to support a full stairway, he ducks his head. Soshiro halts the climb, hovering close by in unfurling amusement.
“Hoshina." A frustrated huff. "I think you’re trying to kill me.”
Charmed, Soshiro leans down to meet Kafka’s eyes. The angle is wonky and wrong, he’s virtually dangling upside down from his hold on the damaged wall just to make the connection happen. But it’s no less magnetic, no less enchanting.
“You’d know by now if that were the case…”
“Right.” Kafka grins shakily, a breathless laugh escapes him. Their eyes catch, fondness bubbling up between them. “I actually have experience of that, huh.”
If Soshiro weren't so dizzy from this awkward position, if he could be certain the wall would support both their weight for an extended period of time, he would swoop down and seize the moment now. But to crumble at the final hurdle would be in poor taste after everything. So he expertly ferries Kafka along the rest of the climb, instructing him forward.
They reach the roof in good time.
The view spans far out into the distance, cascading city lines pulled thin and wispy across the horizon, bathed in the gentle glow of the orange sun. Up here, there are no distractions or imminent threats to face. Up here, the bustle of the world fades into obscurity, bows and bends to their will.
In this unhurried moment, they are tethered only to themselves and each other. Timeless. Unbound pages splayed out, story set aside to breathe. To simply be.
Soshiro perches on the edge of the roof, on the edge of everything they've been before. He peeks over at Kafka from his position, admires the languid smile painted across that relaxed face. Bringing Kafka here was a good call, he's entirely swept up by their surroundings. All of him unravelled and coaxed into the languid landscape as warmth pours over him.
The sun appears to have a favourite person as well. Soshiro can't fault it for that. Kafka is so beloved, cared for by so many. Yet as the sun illuminates Kafka, Soshiro yearns to inch closer. He wants to be part of that somehow. Because watching Kafka shine from afar will never be enough.
Soshiro needs to be right there at the forefront, taking whatever he can get. Basking in the brilliance of it. He has never been so effortlessly radiant, Soshiro had to flay himself alive just to keep burning all these years. His light has never been that blatant, that inherent. Kafka is pure rapture to witness. He doesn't even seem to know how much his presence can swiftly turn the toughest of tides.
"Woah…" Kafka breathes.
Soshiro rests his head against his propped up knee. From here, he can indulge soaking every detail of Kafka into his veins.
"Not a bad spot for a second date, wouldn’t you say?"
At that, Kafka jolts out of the reverie. He turns to Soshiro, visibly stunned and conflicted in a way that is wholly out of place.
“Y- you mean you…?” he trails off, unable to say the words.
Faltering here of all places, it just won't do.
Soshiro would think given what they’ve been through that this fool would be sure of where exactly they stand. Perhaps Kafka needs better words, needs a direct firm approach so there can be room for ridiculous interpretations of what it is that they're supposedly doing. Soshiro can do that. He'll incinerate the final dregs of doubt, set them ablaze in the process.
It's been established that for Kafka, Soshiro would do whatever is required. How far he'd go, there's no known limit. The encounter with Number 9 proved as much.
“Kafka."
Soshiro beckons him over with a helpless gesture born of desperation, not remotely suave. But it does the trick. Kafka shuffles over, takes a seat on the edge of the roof beside him. Their fingers brush, thighs firmly pressed together. Soshiro studies the honeyed horizon, skates his hand over Kafka's as he speaks.
"I’m completely gone for you. In way over my head. However you want to put it, the answer is the same.”
The answer is the most resounding, resilient yes on the planet. Always. Forever. Beyond the forces that govern time, past whatever spins the web of fate and threads destiny. Until the final star in the sky stops burning. Until the last spec of light in the universe goes out. Even then, that would still be putting it mildly. Words don't quite cut it here. Kafka has to know that. There's no way Soshiro has been subtle about the depth of his devotion lately.
“If you think you can shake me off now, you're sorely mistaken."
Their eyes meet then.
Soshiro hitches a breath, dares Kafka to look away as the agonising tension simmers and crackles between them. He does no such thing. Deeper they go.
"I’m with you for good," Soshiro affirms, insists, demands. He clambers into the slither of space between them, carving out the path to completion. "That better not be a problem."
Kafka grins down at their clasped hands, a breathless laugh punched out of his chest.
"Hoshina, no way is that a problem. Only you could make something so amazing sound like a threat."
And that's it. The catalyst.
Before Soshiro has the chance to come up with something witty, Kafka surges forward with unshakeable conviction. He frames Soshiro's face with trembling, tender hands. And as their lips crash together, the juxtaposition of it all - the sincerity, the softness, the searing intent, the slow sinuous slide of his tongue - is wholly maddening.
Kafka plucks the budding words right out of his open mouth without a shred of shame, shakes the breath out from rattling lungs, squeezes a shattered sound from his throat. He has turned the world around. He has stolen this moment and made it his own. He has Soshiro primed and right where he wants him.
What the kiss lacks in finesse, Kafka makes up for with determination that has never been so devouring. All the things that make him so compelling are poured into this. His unrefined yet potent charm, his stubborn streak, his unyielding loyalty. The rhythm is fast, borderline frantic. Soshiro scrambles to keep up, to give as good as he gets. Maybe he’s the one getting kissed senseless today. And as thrilling as it is, things won’t stay this way much longer.
After all, it takes two.
Soshiro has a plan and he’s committed to seeing it through. He teases Kafka’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugs at the plump skin, revels in the answering gasp and delicious shiver. That gives ample opportunity to recalibrate the pace, mould the tone. Rather than spiral further into the molten heat, he lures Kafka out into the deep end. Plunging through open water, wading for the sake of whipping up every tendril of anticipation.
The current is steady, slow. Each lazy wave sets frayed nerve endings abuzz. It becomes an agonising, ardent thing worth getting lost in. Filled with the promise of more yet never quite delivering, intentionally avoiding the obvious peaks. Maybe it’s a little mean to make Kafka squirm so much, work a little to step it up, but he seems to enjoy being at the mercy of this.
No harm, no foul.
Soon enough, they’re pried apart by the unfortunate pressing need to catch a full breath. Soshiro begrudgingly accepts this as Kafka pants against his shoulder. It’s gratifying, to be the cause for this undoing.
“Well. Now I’m sure,” Kafka starts, voice rasped and beautifully strained. He pointedly pushes his flushed face out of view. “You’re definitely trying to kill me.”
God. What a ridiculous thing to say.
Soshiro only wants to carve Kafka up with his hands, break him down thoroughly and put the pieces back together. Hardly counts. Craning close, he presses a chaste bruising kiss right on the corner of Kafka’s mouth.
“I’d much rather keep you alive, fool.”
“Me too!” Kafka agrees, voice wobbling as he speaks and trips over the passionate declaration. “I mean, uh - same here. For you, that is. Staying alive. Yeah.”
A startled laugh escapes Soshiro at the silly words. He slings an arm around Kafka, unable to taper down his growing smile as he crushes the small slither of space between them.
“You’re so smooth,” he quips, squeezing gently.
Kafka tries to break free but this is a lasso made from love, there’s no escaping it. Caught in a chasm between frustration and weariness, he sighs. Sinking into the hold, surrendering to his fate as he should.
“Hey. Do you ever stop?”
Soshiro doesn’t need to voice his blatant answer, Kafka hears it plain as day as their eyes meet. A playful fondness unfurls between them. Soshiro loosens his grip, enough so Kafka can catch a break if he really wants to. Remarkably, Kafka decides not to move a muscle.
They’re magnetised, no force could pry them apart.
“I’m pretty sure you brought me up here to watch the sunset.” Kafka huffs in amusement, shuffling to get more comfortable. “Yeah. It’s kind of obvious actually. So settle down now, maybe.”
There’s no need for Kafka to pat Soshiro’s head like that. But he goes and does it anyway. As if his life depends on committing to the action. It’s stupid.
Settle down, Kafka has the audacity to say. Like he truly believes he is the mature one here. Unbelievable.
For that, Soshiro pokes at Kafka’s face. “How can you be sure that’s what I had in mind?”
Too late, Soshiro realises he’s prodded too far. The knowing look he’s greeted with is quite frankly horrible. Kafka twists, every fibre of his being turned towards Soshiro. And of all times, that’s when it hits. The earth-shattering revelation - Soshiro really gets to have this, he really has nothing left to prove. Somehow, he’s left his mark on that lovely heart. The sun isn’t just looking back anymore, that light willingly sees all of him and still decides to pour into his veins.
“Well. Alongside all the, you know. That.”
Kafka gestures haphazardly, apparently at a loss for words. Oh. So his mere presence can render Kafka speechless, then. That’s interesting. Good to know. Honestly, there can be no higher praise. Soshiro preens, waits for more.
“You’re kind of like super keen, the romantic type.”
Right. Nevermind. How dare Kafka say that and look so pleased with himself. The audacity.
“Hold on,” Soshiro protests because he isn’t having any of it, not today. “You’re way worse. You brought me flowers.” Jabbing Kafka in the chest, he elaborates. “Ugly ones.”
Sorry. There’s just no other way to describe the abomination. No self-respecting florist would ever let something like that leave their shop. Kafka pouts, refusing to accept the truth.
“Don’t be so judgemental. How they look isn’t important, anyway.” Voice dipped low, he averts his gaze to the horizon. “They have meaning, you know...”
Oh, do they now. Intrigued, Soshiro probes for more information. He defies physics, somehow snaking even closer. Figures. For Kafka, he’d defy just about anything. Break boundaries and push every parameters in existence.
“That so?”
Kafka nods. “Yeah. I did research and everything.”
A beat passes.
The orange sun creeps further down the sky. Soshiro counts to twenty-five before he caves, it’s an admirable effort. But Kafka doesn’t get to be tight-lipped about the details all of a sudden. He’s not supposed to be capable of keeping a lid on things. There is no mystery to him, only magic.
“Tell me,” Soshiro snaps, impatient and insistent. “I want to know.”
Eyes gleaming with mischief, Kafka bumps their shoulders. His legs swing lazily over the ledge of the roof, heels tapping out a breezy rhythm.
“I don’t think we should rush into anything. If you want to know, you’ll have to wait until our third date,” he explains sagely.
Soshiro bumps back, plays along.
“But Kafka,” he says, syllables cracking open as the threat of laughter grows. “We’ve been taking things so slowly up til now. Didn’t you notice?”
Their eyes catch and in sync they fold. It’s just too much. Kafka’s resolve crumbles so animatedly, he throws his head back in the throes of his amusement, grinning wide as the silliness rips right through him. Soshiro loses balance, practically falling into Kafka’s lap as he struggles to regain his breath.
“Hoshina,” Kafka gasps, those pretty eyes undulating such warmth. He hoists Hoshina up by the waist determinedly. “I’m gonna kiss you again now.”
My god. Kafka doesn’t have to announce it like that. Soshiro is out here trying to exist. Declarations like that are making it very difficult to regather composure. Refusing to be bested, he reels off the best line he can summon in the burgeoning moment. Because Soshiro needs to have the last word, needs to remind Kafka exactly who he’s dealing with.
“Thought you wanted to watch the sunset.”
Kafka shrugs, tightens his hold. It’s dizzying. Worth pursuing.
“If I had to choose, I’d rather watch you,” he says, voice a low smoulder that is borderline seductive. Not remotely sweet. It takes Soshiro completely by surprise, knocks every clever coy phrase dancing on his tongue right off-kilter.
“Hmmrpgh,” Soshiro manages, skin tingling.
Well.
Whatever that atrocity of a sound just was, he’s never going to make it again. A strange feeling flutters in his chest. His pulse races. No. Stop. Soshiro can’t be the one getting flustered and unravelled. This is unfair. It’s not meant to be that way. Adamant to hold his ground, he paws at Kafka’s face and pinches his cheek harder than necessary.
“How long did it take for you to come up with that one, hm?”
Kafka groans. He speaks against skin, adoring and agitated and amused all at once. Quite the combination.
“Please, please, pleaaaaase Hoshina - stop talking.”
Sliding his hands down to drape over Kafka’s neck, Soshiro plants a teasing kiss. On purpose, he misses the mark. Forces Kafka to fold first and set things right.
And observations shape the world, give it weight and anchor the details into place. Here, in this moment, Soshiro has just one.
“Well, alright. Since you asked so nicely…”
The devotion etched into their story could never be a weakness. It’s their greatest strength.