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Nanami looks at the file, a blank expression etched across his face.
He is exhausted from traveling and even his commanding officer can’t blame him for it. Traveling all the way from New York to Tokyo with several connecting flights across Europe had been daunting. The man had undertaken traveling for practically a whole day before, and of course it was work related.
Damn , he thinks to himself he glances over at the clipboard that was also given to him to review. I really was looking forward to that vacation . And if he’s being honest with himself, there is no chance in hell that he’ll be having a vacation any time soon. At least, not with how the world is going to hell in a handbasket.
“Well, well, well.”
Nanami’s brows crease together, pinky finger twitching where he’s holding the paperwork. He doesn’t bother to look up from the information on where the boomerang pilot had been for the last year and a half.
Gojo Satoru, twenty-eight years old. A child prodigy back in the day and a realized dream pilot in his late teens. He and his former co-pilot, Geto Suguru, managed the Uzumaki Maximum , a glorious thing of steel that housed ambition and glory in the cockpit.
At least, until Uzumaki Maximum had the misfortune of coming across a flying kaiju . The unnaturally gigantic kaiju , Toji, had ripped Geto Suguru directly out of the cockpit while still connected in the neural drift. While Gojo had managed to defeat Toji with just one arm on Uzumaki Maximum , the mental trauma had left him unable to return to the battle fray. So with the blessing of their commanding officer, he had returned instead to mainland Tokyo to teach in the pilot school.
The white-haired man was and is considered a national hero, the one that fought the unending fight. He was just transferred into a classroom, but the Japanese people still considered him a god.
(Just a man in front of a chalkboard, with a piece of chalk that should have been used to outline his body on the pavement.)
For at least just two years.
At least until today.
Losing someone is a common theme in life.
Friends come and go as you grow. Parents are buried, hopefully before their children. Siblings move across the country to go to college and remain there for work. Lovers slip through fingers because of misunderstandings, conflict, and– well. Everyone knows it.
But for two jaeger pilots to lose their co-pilots in a similar way?
Fate is a funny thing, but life is a comedic break in the sitcom of the divine.
If Nanami believed in heaven, then he would have said that at least Suguru and Haibara are together now.
Nanami exhales quietly, setting down the folder on top of the clipboard. He looks over to where Gojo Satoru has taken a seat across from him. The artificial light in the room makes his hair look a strange greenish-yellow glow, the shadows on his face looking more angular than it is.
“Long time no see, Kento. It’s been like what. Two years? Three ?” Gojo asks him, bright smile as platinum as his hair. “It’s honestly nice to see ya again. Don’t remember the last time we got paired up for anythin’. Probably when we were still in pilot school, wasn’t it?”
In the back of his head, Nanami wonders how the man manages to look so young still. He practically looks the same since pilot school, all skeevy grins and boyish good looks. For someone who has gone through a lot, he looks untouched by time and trauma. Nanami knows for a fact that he himself does not look the way that Gojo Satoru does, that for only twenty-seven years old he looks significantly older than he actually is.
Nanami has always been quiet, sullen. He does think he’s grown less sullen over the years but more quiet. More firm, calculative of individuals that wish to take up his time.
Gojo Satoru, former pilot of Uzumaki Maximum , is the exact type of person who wishes not only to take up that time, but also waste it.
“Truthfully, I’m surprised you showed up,” Gojo continues. “I’m surprised I showed up. The fact that Marshal Yaga called us back into service simply means the world is going to shit. Even more so that he’s decided to pair us together.”
Nanami can’t find anything to disagree with, so he nods morosely.
They had been partnered up, many years when they were both young kids in the pilot school. A neural connection had occurred the one time that Geto was out sick for quite some time, and Nanami had been the only one in the year below Gojo’s who was capable enough to pair. Granted, things were a little shaky at the time, it worked out.
It would likely be the same for the both of them – both men in their late twenties, rusty at what the academy had brought them up to become. Dust settled on both their licenses, but as the white-haired man stated, the world is going to hell in a handbasket.
Beggars can’t be choosers, and the pacific front needed every jaeger manned five years ago.
Nothing really matters, anyway.
—--
The hand-to-hand combat overseen by Ijichi turns out to be a success. Kinetically, they are compatible, bodies in sync with no blows actually landing. The neural training refresher, which mostly consisted of a test run with Marshal Yaga overseeing it all, turned out to be even more of a success.
Nanami wasn’t sure what he’d see when the handshake was conducted, but he wasn’t expecting it to be bright white. Platinum and shining like Gojo’s smile. He doesn’t really see anything there, the expanse nearly like a void, oddly visceral and thick on his tongue like a film.
They do it a few more times and Nanami finds himself once more in his cubicle, plotting the stock market and watching it plummet some hundred or so points as a kaiju destroys a building. He’s easily pulled out of the rabbit hole with a hand on his shoulder and a laugh.
—-
They are given a jaeger, brand new on the average taxpayer’s coin.
Shiny, glossy like a midnight sky. Nanami could almost swear he could see crystals on the sheen, but the material had simply been polished to perfection. It wouldn’t matter when it would end up getting scuffed, but it is still pretty.
Black Flash.
An interesting name, since it spat out gigantic bolts of purple energy, but it made sense.
Black Flash, piloted by Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento, protect the mid region of the coast. In the south. Down in the Kansai region of Honshu, the father-son Zen’in duo deal with the kaiju .
Gojo and Nanami take down one on the fifth of October. It’s a gross one with two heads, one that Gojo tells him looks like him when he wakes up. Nanami doesn’t say anything, because there isn’t anything to talk about regarding it. He doesn’t have two wings or two faces.
(“You do,” Gojo tells him with a snort over his apple turnover.)
—-
It isn’t until he sees Gojo with red eyes that he understands a little about the blank white of his canvas when they have their neural connection. He doesn’t want to pry, doesn’t want to know the answer that the strongest man in all of Japan, the one who can save the world, is a man.
He’s any regular man searching for redemption along with whatever medication Dr. Ieiri is willing to smuggle him from the laboratory. It explains his platinum smiles after everything that has happened, after watching the love of his life and family be destroyed, after being the only one left.
Both of them are just ghosts inhabiting bodies. They both are tethered to their responsibilities to protect and to save.
Somewhere, Nanami has the urge to tell Gojo that he isn’t alone but–
–but that would be hypocritical.
Nanami stares at the bottom of his liquor bottle, searching for a slumber that would paint him in a dreamless canvas. He prays the pain simmers into a dull throb, at least for the strongest man who is desperately trying to hold on.
—
It isn’t until they have to deal with a pyrokinetic kaiju that the trauma hits his copilot the hardest, the man freezing up in the cockpit.
Nanami has to practically manage the attack himself, Gojo absolutely deadlining. His eyes seem so blank, but from their connection, Nanami can tell that the man is still alive. Just shell-shocked, unable to move. A panic attack, feet and arms stuck where they are.
It isn’t until Nanami manages to destroy the fire-breathing kaiju by himself that Gojo shudders out of his trance. Back at their HQ, their marshal gives Gojo the worst verbal hide-tanning that Nanami has ever had the misfortune of witnessing. They don’t have time for this. They have more coming in soon, they’ve mapped it out with the data that Shoko has been giving them.
By Halloween, they’d be getting their own horror coming in through the sea channels.
“It looked like him, like that fuckin’ piece of shit–” is all Gojo tells Nanami after, who had suffered a concussion when the kaiju ripped out a portion of Black Flash. Sure, he had downed the pyrokinetic monster, but a beam fell on Nanami’s head. Luckily, he had a helmet on to mitigate the impact.
Nanami punches Gojo in the face after he comes out of the medical bay with instructions for physical and mental rest.
“It looked like him,” is what Gojo tells him as Nanami pushes him into his bedroom, the heavy steel door closing behind him. “Like the one who killed my–”
Nanami pulls him in, kisses him hard, tastes salt.
—
“Fuck, fuck, fuck–” Gojo hisses, fingers bunching into the scratchy fabric of his blanket. When he inhales sharply, a large hand is clapped over his mouth, preventing him from letting out a loud sound that Nanami is certain will escape.
It’s not like anyone would hear, anyway. The dormitory wings are nearly soundproof, as many of the rooms are anyway. It wasn’t intentionally built in that fashion, but many areas are made of steel beams that are half a foot thick. Certain spots are noisy to begin with, and many sounds get drowned out. Several office areas and rooms have some noise machines to muffle the auditory garbage of mechanical whizzes and buzzes.
Back when Nanami was paired with Yu Haibara and Gojo with Geto Suguru, their rooms had been next to each other.
The rooms are mostly soundproofed, but Gojo is loud in bed and Geto knew how to pull the unholiest sounds out of him.
So for now, Nanami just enjoys covering up the man’s mouth, being the one in charge of the noises the loud mouthed pilot makes.
“That’s it,” Nanami mutters, pulling out an inch of himself and pushing three more in.
Gojo’s eyes practically roll to the back of his head, nostrils flaring as he breathes heavily through them. The blonde can almost feel dampness on the palm that’s covering his mouth, and he can’t blame him. He’s aware that he’s large, and even though it’s public knowledge that Gojo is public property, what’s between Nanami’s legs (and in between Gojo’s now) isn’t exactly easy to take.
But.
“You’re taking me so well,” Nanami tells him, voice low as he begins to fuck Gojo with what he has inside. It’s just barely halfway and the white-haired man is panting through his nose, eyes glossy and half-lidded as he stares at him.
To be honest, he can’t believe that he has Gojo underneath him right now. National hero and literally the best jaeger pilot on this shithole of a planet, actual genius and madman, resident playboy. Nanami curses under his breath when a particularly sharp thrust has Gojo clenching around him so hard he sees speckles in his vision. Trimmed nails dig into his sides, the blonde flinching just a little as the tiny pinpricks of pain anchor him back to earth.
After a little while of him sliding in and out of Gojo’s lubed-up hole, he decides to push in all the way.
The tears that glossed up those blue eyes spill over as he stares up at Nanami, a strangled noise muffled behind his hand. Gojo’s chest rises and falls quickly, his hands resting on Nanami’s toned stomach as though he’s about to push him off. The blonde reads his movements, ready to pull away if the older man makes any further nod towards actual discomfort. But as Gojo’s breathing calms down, he gives the older man a bit more.
It’s such a long, laborious process of him opening the man up, body tight and clamping around him.
As much as he wishes himself to be patient, people like Gojo and Nanami are pilots in the cockpit of ruins, like dual orators in the senate. They fight for their lives, for the lives of the people. They do not have it in themselves to be patient, so whether or not the platinum haired man is ready, Nanami sinks his way to the hilt.
There’s a choked noise that leaves his copilot, raw and needy at the feeling of being so filled.
It is not anywhere near fucking that of the fairer sex. It is a whole man, like him. This isn’t some type of experimentation with sexuality like back in the academy, when they were practically boys. He isn’t a boy fucking a boy. He’s a man fucking a man. It isn’t when he’s fucking his fist with lubricant, pretending to not imagine the platinum hero.
It is someone who is flesh and blood, someone he has a viscerally trusting relationship with. All hard lines and muscles, carved out like alabaster from Michaelangelo’s fingers.
Gojo Satoru, national broken hero, he-who-returned, writhing underneath him and begging for him with those pretty eyes.
It’s one that he’s only ever needed to remain professional, one that resulted from humanity needing another pair of saviors for protection. It’s one that he’s wanted for a while, and if he were to say he’s never thought of this in hushed whispers, his hand slick around his cock, he’d be a liar.
Then again , he thinks to himself as he fucks Gojo in deep, languid strokes. He’s always lied to himself about Gojo Satoru, twenty-eight year old, a menace, a savior. Maybe in all his harsh angles and cold shoulders to the older man, he secretly wanted (wants) this, playing hard-to-get because he had been so afraid of how all-consuming Gojo is.
Maybe he was jealous of Geto, his suave and calm charm, his ability to balance out the polarity of his copilot. Maybe he was jealous of how Gojo mourned for his deceased copilot.
After all, even though the sleeping quarters are practically soundproof, nothing truly is fallible.
And after all, their rooms were always next to each other. He had heard the muffled sobs Gojo had gasped into the very same pillows that Geto had likely fucked him into.
To be honest, he wants to hear that again in this context. He wants Gojo to not know the difference between pain and pleasure, trapped between the firmness of the mattress and Nanami’s own vulnerability. Even now, as Gojo looks at him with his misty eyes, Nanami still feels even more bare than the man beneath him, on edge with how he’s thrusting.
“Can I trust you to be quiet?” Nanami says, hips moving evenly.
Gojo’s eyes close for a moment, the left before the right one when the bulbous tip of the blonde’s cock rubs just a bit too perfectly. Then he nods. Nanami doesn’t really trust him to be quiet, but it’s all part of the fun anyway.
Nanami’s hand moves away from Gojo’s mouth and the latter heaves a little, breathing in a mouthful of air and exhaling the flavor of sweet bergamot tea. The younger man leans in, licking into his mouth, kissing and swallowing down the needy grunts. When he pulls away, saliva connects their lips together, Gojo’s glossy and pink as ever as their foreheads rest together.
“S’fuckin’ big, baby,” Gojo half-whispers, voice hoarse from the heat of previously stifled sounds. “There’s– hh, fuck– every slide, you’re just fuckin’-- you’re just–” Gojo laughs a little, the sound and the expression on his face that of delirious pleasure. “--just so big, each slide in n’ out rubs against my–”
And then Nanami is angling his hips to do that even better, the fat cockhead pressing and sliding through his lubed-up asshole to rub against that spot. It’s a spot that has Gojo gasping wetly, eyes wide and back arching off the shitty standard mattress, heels digging into the small of his back.
“Look at you,” Nanami breathes out, barely breaking a sweat. “Taking my cock so well, Gojo.”
Gojo practically struggles beneath him, voice hushed but mouth going a mile a minute.
“Oh god oh god– fuck, baby– fuck, ohgodohgodohgodohgod yes, yes–” He’s panting, staring up at Nanami when the latter pulls away, hands on a surprisingly slender waist to yank Gojo back onto his cock. “You feel so good inside me, Kento, it feels amazing– baby– fuck–”
The wet sound of skin slapping against skin starts to fill up the air. Previously, Nanami had taken his time, pulling out nearly all the way and shoving back balls deep. With how Gojo is squirming beneath him, he needs to keep the man in place. Now, he’s pulling just halfway, slamming back and giving them both what they want.
“So good, fuck–” Gojo pants, ass tightening so hard around him. Nanami responds in kind, fucking him faster, harder and he receives nails scraping down his back, eliciting a grunt from him. “Oh my god, you’re g’nna– fuck, g’nna break me, you’re gonna break m– oh– fuh– fuck–”
The cock in him is so large, stretching him so wide. It’s so big that every slide in and out automatically rubs against Gojo’s sweet spot. He writhes beneath him, hips moving up to meet Nanami’s desperately. The contact is so much, their bodies so hard and hot. They’re nebulous in their pleasure, wanting to break each other down to the barest of atoms, like two colliding stars.
Nanami knows the man is about to cum and long fingers tighten hard around Gojo, effectively silencing any sounds that he’s about to make. So he fucks him and fucks him, destroying the man’s asshole, forcing him to loosen up around him. He feels the clenching of muscle, Gojo’s eyes wide almost in fear as he realizes that he’s going to cum without being touched.
Gojo’s blunt nails dig into his wrist as Nanami squeezes tight, but not too tight that he can’t actually breathe.
“Ah, fuck–! Fuck– Ken– to –”
Nanami hates the sound of his name falling from Gojo’s babbling mouth. It sounds too domestic, like the both of them are in an apartment somewhere in a beach house on the warmer coast. They aren’t in their steel-wall sleeping quarters, fucking for the sake of fucking, for the sake of another means of intimacy. Just two men, probably in love and happy together.
No, he doesn’t want to hear his given name fall from this hero’s mouth. He wants the security of being called a standard-issue term of endearment, because maybe Gojo can pretend that he’s a replacement for his previous copilot. Nanami knows that Gojo loved him, loved Geto Suguru, the postmortem savior of Japan.
He is comfortable with the hope of being a replacement for Geto, because he doesn’t know what he would do if Gojo returns his own affections.
“ Kento ,” Gojo whispers out to him, as though he can read his mind. Nanami trembles just slightly.
Then Nanami’s other hand wraps around him, stroking his cock, and the poor man is gone.
His back bows off the bed, body tight around Nanami as he strokes and pounds him into completion.
Surprisingly, Gojo cums without a sound, save for the pathetic sputtering he makes. Nanami carves space out of him, dick practically jammed into his guts as Gojo’s hard member kicks out white. It spurts all over his chiseled abdomen and chest, dribbling down the younger’s bony knuckles as he continues to saw his cock in and out of the near-dying man. When Nanami lets go of his throat, Gojo gasps for air like a fish out of water, convulsing beneath him in jerks of pleasure as oxygen floods his nervous system with electric fire.
The taller male inhales sharply through gritted teeth, body shaking in overstimulation before he lets out a thin laugh. It’s haggard-sounding and borderline pained, but Gojo’s never been a quitter and Nanami does enjoy the expression on his face. Pushed a little too far, but desperate to please him, to milk him for all that he’s worth. Nanami’s hand is back on Gojo’s mouth, muffling any further sounds and blue eyes stare up at him.
Then he’s fucking him hard, harder than before, brutalizing Gojo’s ass and the latter screams behind his palm. It’s so much, and maybe if he cared about being more vulnerable the way that Gojo is with him, he would feel bad. Maybe he does. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that Gojo’s hot and tight around him and the tears in his eyes are the fucking prettiest as fat crystal tears slide down his pale cheeks and to his ears.
He should feel bad.
The bed rattles beneath him, the sound of skin against skin almost inaudible with how he’s driving into the older man, giving him his cock like the world depended on it. Maybe it does, because he knows that this is how connections are made even deeper with a neural bond.
There’s so much of Gojo that he wants, that he needs. He wants him, needs him. He doesn’t want to hear anything from Gojo about returning it. He needs this, needs Gojo to be the asshole playboy, the god of Japan, the celebrity teacher that beds whomever he wants.
Nanami can’t see him like this, cheeks still shiny with tears, mortal.
Nanami reaches his orgasm with a grunt, hot ribbons of white filling Gojo up. He’s panting, body glossed with sweat as he pulls his hand away from his mouth. The blue-eyed individual beneath him is staring at him, trying to focus on his face. Nanami finds himself looking back, still catching his breath as he takes in how debauched the man looks, his own cum splattered all across his chiseled chest.
“Kento,” Gojo murmurs, voice fucking shot.
Nanami sighs in response, the only thing he knows what to do now. He pulls out, Gojo wincing and thick thigh muscles flexing from the sensation of emptiness. Pink lips press into a thin line and Gojo musters a smile, tentative and experimental.
“You alright, Nanami?” Gojo asks him, stretching his arms over his head as if he hadn’t just gotten his intestines pulverized by his copilot.
Nanami doesn’t respond, doesn’t sigh either at how Gojo has switched to calling him his name again. He simply nods, unamused at the fact that the other’s already moved to worrying about him and not the dribble of spend that’s leaking out of his swollen hole.
He should go. He should leave Gojo here, a sacrifice on his own altar.
The younger man has never believed in god or the divine. Not when the world is going to shit. And definitely not now as he watches Gojo Satoru, laying flushed and pink and absolutely human with the tears that have dried like a sheen on his cheeks.
Nanami presses two fingers into Gojo, eliciting a gasp when he rubs his seed up against spongy walls.
“Don’t–” Gojo swallows thickly, hand curving along the side of Nanami’s throat. “Just. Just stay here for now, Nanami. Just dream a little with me, won’tcha?”
Nanami stares at Gojo Satoru, twenty-eight years old, national hero, a ghost haunting the body of his loved one.
“Alright,” he responds, leaning in to kiss the man. “Alright.”