Chapter Text
Nanami breathes in the stench of Hong Kong and tries not to think too hard about the sweat already beading on his brow. His heavy wool dress pants and blazer, while perfectly suitable for Vladivostok’s rather brisk summers, was practically boiling him alive on the coast of the South China sea, where even the ocean breezes were hot and humid. It had been six years - not long enough for him to have forgotten the heat - but definitely long enough for him to have no clothes suitable to combat it. You didn’t need a linen pantsuit in Russia, and the Vladivostok Shatterdome, as if reflecting the frozen landscape it had been situated in, also ran cold. And so he’d invested in cashmere and wool and focused on the account books, certain that he would never set foot in Hong Kong again, much less have a need for any summer fabrics.
Of course, like all of Kento’s resolutions, it did not come pass for no fault of his own. He had watched, jaw clenched and shoulders straight, alongside everyone in Vladivostok, from J-tech to pilot to janitor, as Star Plasma, the strongest team piloting the strongest Jaeger, had fallen to Zenin, the first Category 5 Kaiju. He had watched as Star Plasma’s Conn-Pod was smashed open by a massive talon, had heard the gut-wrenching screams that reverberated down to his bones right before comms cut off, and had known, just by looking at the damage, that it was over, that they needed another Jaeger deployed as soon as possible - before miraculously, somehow - Star Plasma had gotten back up. And finished the job, firing the arm cannon on its right shoulder one last time, straight into Zenin’s chest and piercing its heart. He had watched, as Star Plasma limped to the nearest shore, before collapsing like a deck of cards, never to rise again. The end of a legend, and Kento had gone right back to work after the stream had finished.
After all, these spreadsheets needed to be submitted today, if they wanted more funding. War was a machine that ran on the lives of good men - and money.
He had heard the rest of the news from Ino Takuma, one of the cadets in the class on hand-to-hand combat that he taught, mainly to keep himself in shape. His class was voluntary, for both the cadets and himself, so he often held them during the evenings, post-dinner rush. Kento had debated canceling, just for today, but he needed an outlet to express his jittery energy, and sparring with Takuma worked to release most of his restlessness. They were finishing up, Takuma rolling up the mats and Kento unwinding his hand wraps when Takuma had said, in an unsure voice, “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”
“Hm?”
“Um, for today, sir.” The kid looked confused, and Kento was sure he matched the puzzled expression on Takuma’s face.
“Takuma, what are you talking about?”
“You know, about Star Plasma?”
“Yes, I watched the battle. I’m assuming everyone in the entire world did.”
“Yes, but,” Takuma met his eyes, before awkwardly looking down. “I had heard that you trained with the Star Plasma pilots?”
“Yes?” Kento felt a chill creeping up his spine. He swallowed, and dismissed it - Vladivostok was known for its icy drafts, the Russian winds permeating every inch of the Shatterdome, except for Mission Control, where it was always a bit too stifling.
“Well…that’s why I wanted to offer my condolences, sir.” Takuma swallowed, the sound echoing. No. No way. Takuma looked up, eyes somber. “Geto Suguru…well, sir, he passed away during the fight. We got the news a couple hours ago.”
Geto. Fuck.
“I didn’t know.” He had been filling out inventory reports, running a couple financial models to project next quarter’s expenses, when Geto was. Dead. “Thank you for telling me, Takuma.” The words feel empty, wooden, and it’s clear that Takuma doesn’t know what to do. Kento doesn’t either, even though he’s the adult here, and he needs to know. He clasps the kid on the shoulder, gives him a nod, and takes the mat from Takuma’s hands. “Go to sleep, Ino. I can finish up here.”
He had cleaned up, he had gone back to his quarters and opened a good bottle of wine, and he had grieved, and Kento had, mistakenly, thought that to be the end of it.
That had been a week ago.
Now, he’s standing in front of the Hong Kong Shatterdome, taxi long gone, staring up at the imposing facade of a place he had sworn never to step foot in again, sweat staining the back of his heavy cotton dress shirt and seeping into his wool blazer.
He sighs, exhausted not only from the flight, but from the thought of what’s, or rather who, is waiting for him inside.
As always, Kento does not get to keep his resolutions because of the whims of one Gojo Satoru.
He wheels his suitcase inside.
↹↹↹
Masamichi Yaga’s office had remained the same as in Kento’s memories, crammed with too many filing cabinets and dominated by a heavy oak desk, behind which sat the Marshal himself, busy with paperwork. Kento deeply emphasizes, in a way he wouldn’t have been able to six years prior, and settles into the same uncomfortable chair placed in front of the desk, content to wait until Yaga was done.
He takes this time to study the Marshal. Six years was a long time, and it showed in the silver dusting Yaga’s temples, and the deep lines carved into his face, liver spots dotting his skin from too much time out in the Hong Kong sun. He looked older than his age, but Kento figured that was likely due to the stress of having the weight of the world on your shoulders.
Yaga finishes signing one more sheet before placing the stack to one side, clearing his throat before looking up at Kento. He smiles, folding his hands together on top of his desk. “Nanami, you look terrible.”
“How rude.” He smiles.
Yaga snorts, before leaning forward, inspecting Kento in much the same way that he had analyzed the Marshal earlier. “You finally grew into that frame, huh? Bulked up quite a bit - what did Russia feed you?”
“It’s been six years, sir. I’m no longer a teenager.”
“Six years…” The older man sighs, shaking his head. “That long, huh?” Yaga leans back into his chair, absentmindedly stroking his goatee. “So, Nanami, how was Russia?”
Kento raises an eyebrow, confused. “I enjoyed the opportunity to expand my horizons, sir.” He had never been close with Yaga back when he was still piloting, the man being too busy managing his rowdy, headstrong seniors to ever pay serious attention to Kento, who was also naturally quite reserved. He’d often been told that he was a joy to have in class growing up, serious and quiet and studious, which was really code for “easy to deal with”. Of course, that was why it had been such a shock to his parents when he had informed them of his intentions to enroll as a cadet in the Academy, who had expected him to go to university, then climb the corporate ladder.
As if promotions and pretentious titles mattered, when the world was ending.
“How was the weather?” Yaga probed, looking distinctly uncomfortable at the stilted conversation.
“It was fine, sir.” Kento waited, perfectly still, as the silence dragged on. The analog clock ticked on the wall, a quiet, monotonous sound, and he amused himself with counting the seconds until the Marshal would break.
Yaga signed, long and heavy, before massaging his temples. “Nanami, you’re probably wondering why you were summoned back to Hong Kong.” 342 seconds.
“My brief stated that I would be serving as Fightmaster for the new class of cadets, sir.”
“Yes, of course, but as you’ve probably come to realize, that is not the only reason.” Suddenly, the Marshal looked every one of his years and then some, his strong shoulders bowing under the crushing weight of command. “Geto Suguru is dead.”
“My condolences, sir.” And he does mean it, truly. Despite his own reservations, he had known just how close Yaga had been with Geto and Gojo, and he pities the man who had just lost a son - no, the man who had had to send off his own son to his death.
“Yes…” Yaga inhales, then exhales. “Thank you. But unfortunately, his death has ensured that the strongest Jaeger is now…non-operational. Utahime and Mei Mei are capable pilots, of course, and Okkotsu and Inumaki have potential, but we need a way to compensate for the loss of Star Plasma. We have cadets, of course, but they lack practical battle experience, and, well…” He hesitates, before continuing.
“Gojo Satoru refuses to work with any of them.”
Kento absorbs this new information, unwilling to answer the unasked question laid out in front of him. “I will train the cadets to the best of my ability, sir.”
Yaga tries again, tone pleading. “We need someone capable - someone with experience and willpower to stand up to Gojo’s…strong personality. Nanami, we need you here, not rotting away in Russia doing who knows what-”
“I was the Chief Financial Officer for the Vladivostok Shatterdome, sir. I don’t believe I was rotting away, and as soon as I have finished my assignment here, I plan to go back and resume my duties.” Any lingering feelings of pity have long vanished, with the reality of what Yaga was attempting to coax him into setting in. His tone is cutting and cold, like the Russian winds he’d spent six long years learning to combat, and Yaga startles, surprised at what would be, in his eyes, unexpected insubordination.
Again, they had never been that close. The only person who had known Kento well enough to uncover his stubborn, headstrong nature, hidden under polite manners and a bland exterior was dead , and Kento had spent six years trying to get over it, as if it was a cold or a headache that could get better with a little bit of time and medicine.
Yaga closes his eyes. He sighs. The Marshal opens his eyes and orders him to test his Drift Compatibility with one Gojo Satoru, as soon as possible.
Kento listens, calm and resolute, until the Marshal is finished, before he gets up from the uncomfortable chair, bows respectfully, and declines, ignoring Yaga’s protests. He closes the door behind him, the snick of the lock engaging echoing in the long silent corridor, before heading to the cafeteria.
He orders the pork belly curry set, and carries his tray to the corner of the mess hall, claiming a table for himself. He eats, savoring the food. This was one aspect of Hong Kong that he had dearly missed - it was difficult to find some of the ingredients needed to make Asian cuisine in Russia, and sometimes he simply didn’t have the time to cook, and had to settle for meals that were simply not to his tastes. And so, he makes sure to thoroughly enjoy the succulent, fatty pork coated in the rich golden curry, tinged with just a hint of spice. The rice is fluffy and subtly sweet, pairing perfectly with the rich sauce and the crispy pork, and he’s dangerously close to disregarding any sense of decorum and just shoveling down the food, table manners be damned.
When he sets down his bowl of rice, Gojo Satoru is sitting in front of him.
Kento sighs, deeply.
↹↹↹
There was a time when Kento would have never even thought to sigh in the presence of Gojo Satoru, much less roll his eyes, but that time has long since passed. Now, he’s older and jaded, and even as the legendary pilot sits and pouts in front of him, he can’t help but see him as nothing more than a man, albeit a capable one.
Gojo looks good, surprisingly so, for someone who had only been recuperating in a hospital ward for a mere week. His shoulder is held in a sling, and Kento can see bandages peeking out from under Gojo’s t-shirt, but there’s color in his cheeks and his eyes are glittering, full of mischief.
Deep down, Kento feels something knotted within his chest relax.
“Done checking me out?” The man himself asks, amused. Kento doesn’t bother answering, preferring instead to scrap the last few grains of rice out of his bowl. It’s apparent that Gojo’s personality, unfortunately, also hadn’t undergone any drastic changes - no, he’s just as petty and self-absorbed as Kento remembered.
As if sensing Kento’s train of thought, Gojo rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue. “That was a joke, Nanami. God, did you get even more boring after you ran off to Russia? I honestly didn’t think that was even possible, but maybe Vladivostok froze what little sense of humor you had left-”
Ignoring Gojo comes back naturally, like relearning how to ride a bike, as Kento neatly stacks his rice bowl onto his plate before placing his used dishes on his tray, along with his chopsticks and spoon. He stands, cutting off Gojo’s rambling, before bowing politely to his senior and carrying his tray to the bins marked for the dishwasher. He attempts to rearrange the haphazard, leaning stack of plates and bowls and cups, but quickly gives up when his efforts threaten the structural integrity of the tower, and instead stacks his dishes in a neat little pile, making sure to place the dishes into their respective marked containers.
Finished with his dishes, he turns to head back to his room, only to come face to face with a serious Gojo, blocking his path.
“Nanami.” He says, eyes sober. “We need to talk.”
He sighs, dreading this conversation. “Listen, Gojo, you don’t need to worry about it. I said no.” He says, placating, hoping to show the man that he had no intention of even attempting to replace the irreplaceable.
“That’s the problem. Why the fuck would you say no?”
He stills, surprised by Gojo’s unexpected reaction. “What?” He had expected rage, for attempting to replace Geto, disdain, for thinking that he could even succeed, grief, for an unimaginable loss - but not whatever this was. After all, he was intimately familiar with all the ways a Jaeger pilot coped after the death of their partner.
They’re blocking the path, and Kento can feel curious eyes on them, wondering what the two men were discussing so passionately. Given Gojo’s propensity for noise, and judging by the unforeseen turn this conversation had taken, it was best to discuss such sensitive matters in a more discreet location. “I think we do need to talk,” He says, cutting off Gojo’s rude scoff. “Somewhere else .”