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When they tell you that Kafka can't transform without the risk of losing himself, there's the briefest flash of relief deep in your ribs. Yes–man or monster: he has to choose. He doesn't get to have it all. And as a mere man, he can't beat you.
The next moment, your skin is crawling with self-disgust. What the hell is wrong with you, gloating over his affliction? The man who sacrificed his freedom to save your entire division when you couldn't? Who's done nothing in life but try to make himself useful? Your subordinate, who's only here because you opened the door for him? What kind of monster are you?
(Maybe you deserve everything you know will happen.)
He reminded you of yourself, that same desperate striving. It made you want to give him a chance, at least, the way Mina had for you. Maybe you just wanted to get to feel like Mina for a while.
(Maybe this is your punishment for such impiety.)
You knew the moment you saw his real power–power that could afford to play with you, to spare you. It would only be a matter of time. And you brought him here–brought him closer to her. You brought the wolf to your door, Hoshina Soshiro.
You give him an out–you tell him you'll handle things–but you already know he won't take it. Neither of you would be in this position if he was the type of man who would. It was always going to be like this–there was never any other way it could go. That's your role–you clear the path for her, then pass the baton.
So you fulfill your role, with everything you have–you prepare him to fight, to survive, to toss you aside. He's what she's been waiting for, after all–you were only ever a placeholder. Despite all your struggling, despite every pretty word she ever gave you that made you think you were worth something, in the end, all you can do is teach the people who will actually get things done. The era of blades is over, and a blade is all you know how to be. Your clock was always ticking down.
So you're going to get him ready for her, like you do every kaiju too big for you to take down. And even though you can pin him or throw him without breaking a sweat, when you stand next to him, you can feel the way he looms over you, more than the ten centimeters he has on you should allow. When you spar, you feel the way his hands could engulf yours, palms calloused from his life of manual labor in a different pattern than your swordsman hands. There's something larger than life in his presence, in his smile, in the resolute furrow of his brows. You know there's something bigger in him than you can ever hope to reach.
—
If you're harder on him than you need to be, you tell yourself you have the right to that at least–you're teaching him how to tear your heart out. He doesn't seem to notice–he gripes without any real heat, obeys your every instruction fully, shows gradual progress.
You watch him, focusing on his form, his speed, the placement of his feet, the tilt of his hips. When he grits his teeth in determination, you don't think about how soft his lips look. You don't think about how soft he is everywhere, thick muscles well-cushioned under a layer of fat, contrasting your own hard planes and sharp edges. It’s just genetics, you know, but it feels like it means something. You've weaponized yourself by shaving off anything unnecessary, sharpened yourself into the most useful tool you know how to be. A sword sharp enough to slice through anything, whose only proof of existence is the bodies you leave behind. You wonder what it must be like to not have to carve your existence into the world, for the warmth of your body and the touch of your hand to be proof enough.
You don't let your hands linger as you adjust his stance or help him up from the ground. If you give yourself any leeway here, you won't be able to take it back. Already your hands itch to wander up the thick curves of his arms, across the broad expanse of his torso. You don't know if they want to rest over his heart or tear it from his chest; to clamp down on his throat, or tilt his face up to yours. (They say he doesn't have a heart anymore, just a kaiju’s core, but when you feel his pulse thrumming through his body, you don't think there's much difference.)
There's a monster here, and it's not Kaiju No. 8. You try not to feel like every touch is cracking something fragile that lies between you.
—
You told him you wouldn't be handing over your place, and you won't–you’ll fight with everything you have. Even when you already know what you have isn't enough. Defense force officers have to be willing to fight in the face of defeat. And he has defeated you–the only mercy is that he doesn't know it yet. You don't want to see the mixture of satisfaction and pity on his face when he does.
Maybe you don't want to be around when he wins at all. You think of Ryunei Shrine–you always kind of imagined you'd end up there eventually. It's what everyone who warned you about the shortcomings of your blades expected. A better place to end up than rotting forgotten in some training dojo, the sharp swish of your blades replaced by the dull thud of bamboo.
“Vice-captain?”
You spaced out while you both took a breather–it’s definitely been more than the two minutes you told him. You blink, taking in his concerned face, and give him your attention.
He falters under your direct gaze, brings a hand to the back of his neck. You can't help but find it charming, the way he flits between self-doubt and overconfidence. You know that he likes you more than he should and respects you more than you deserve. But that's not going to stop him from stealing the only place you've ever been worth something.
(It's not stealing if he earns it, you remind yourself. And you're going to make him earn it.)
“I was asking if I should step up my training between your visits.”
You blink again, trying to replay anything you missed. “What?”
“Well, you looked kind of worried, and I thought… I know I'm not making great progress, so…”
Amazing how he can be so perceptive and so oblivious at once. It seems he's always dumbest when it comes to himself.
“Is that somethin’ you can do?”
His face hitches, shadows with shame. “I, uh, I can try.”
You roll your eyes. “No you can't. I'm already pushing ya as hard as you can go. Constantly burning yourself out is going to make ya weaker, not stronger.” His face is still shadowed, so you add honestly, “You're doing fine, Kafka. You've got a ways to go, but we can't help where you're starting from. You're improving.”
He sighs. “Thank you, sir.”
Later, when training is cooling down, he asks you to tell him why you joined the defense force, and you don't know what to say. To prove that you could? To make others recognize you? What stupid things to risk your life for. No–because you wouldn't know how to recognize yourself otherwise. What are you if not a kaiju slayer?
You've been quiet so long that he starts apologizing for asking, so you cut him off with something generic about your family history.
“I was just thinking that you know what my goal is,” he explains, “but I don't know about yours.”
“Besides gettin’ in your way?” you tease.
He gives a bit of a sheepish smile. “I guess I'd be flattered if I was that important–” he doesn't even know “--but I can't imagine you waiting around aimlessly until I got here.”
“Well, I was already plenty busy doin’ my job before you showed up.”
He looks a bit guilty, but continues before you can think of anything to say. “I'm sure, but you've still got to have something deeper driving you. If you don't,” and he gives a hollow little laugh, “well, from experience, I don't think you make it to vice-captain that way.”
You think about the eight years you've spent in the defense force, and how during that time he must have moved from still hopefully throwing himself at his dream to a man resigned to his missed opportunities. On his physical fitness report, you saw that he quit smoking not long before he joined. You remember, as a teenager, a friend of the family telling you that everyone who starts smoking knows it'll kill them eventually. You can't imagine Kafka like that, and it breaks your heart a bit to try.
“I don't know a whole lot about your relationship to the captain,” he continues, “but… I mean, I understand wanting to serve with Mi–Captain Ashiro. Obviously. She's incredible! But…” He chews on his bottom lip, and you wish it was your teeth there instead.
God, you must be going insane.
“But if that's not specifically your goal, it seems strange to decide that it's the end of the road. That you can't reach any higher. I mean, you're the best at what you do.”
‘What you do’ is a vestige of forgotten times, something everyone but you is eager to bury. A corpse you can't uncurl your fingers from.
“You're an amazing leader. You understand your team’s strengths and weaknesses, and you don't just use them to strategize–you really think about how to help everyone grow. And I see how hard you work to protect your subordinates. Plus…” He's flushed, you've never known a grown man to blush so much. “You're one of the kindest men I've ever known. Actually, I really think you're the kindest person I've met in the defense force.”
Your mouth is dry. He's wrong. You're not kind. You think about telling him how many times you've imagined your hands around his throat, but you don't know if you mean it as threat or proposition, and you don't want to do either to him.
“And that's not even getting into what you're like when you're actually fighting kaiju! You…” He trails off and clears his throat. “Anyway, I think what you have is a lot more valuable than you admit. Honestly, you're just as incredible as Mina, in different ways.”
Your mind blanks so hard you forget to reprimand him for using her name. Kafka has said a lot of ridiculous things, but this goes so far that it's not even funny anymore.
“Can't have ya sayin’ things like that. Ya might get tempted into standin’ by me instead.” You shouldn't try a joke like that when your throat feels this raw. You can hear your accent coming out stronger. Too much truth might get through.
But he doesn't look off-put. He doesn't even laugh. He just looks at you with that earnest gaze and replies, “I made a promise to Mina.”
You manage a tight smile. “Well, good thing for us all then.”
He grabs your hand as you turn away, and you look back, eyes widening even though you know they'll show too much.
He holds your gaze for several moments, makes a few aborted attempts to speak. “I…” He drops his eyes, still holding onto your hand. This is the longest you've been skin-to-skin since you could do so casually at the third, when you let him slip past your defenses, when you first let yourself get too fond of him, and you guaranteed he was going to ruin your life one way or another.
Finally, his second hand joins his first (you were right, his hands swallow yours, and knowing you could snap his wrist with ease doesn't change the tingle that shoots down your spine at this confirmation), and he maneuvers your pliant fingers until your pinkies are linked, a childish gesture that feels foreign to you now. You both look up at the same time, eyes locking.
“I'm not going to drag you down to get to her side. I know you're helping to pull me up, and when I climb up there, I'll be pushing you forward.”
The sincerity in his eyes pins you in place. You remember why you're here to begin with, and think that even if he does get stuck as a kaiju, nothing in the world can stop him from being Kafka.
Aw hell. What the fuck are you supposed to do with this?
You do the only thing you know how–you grin and somehow say past your heart lodged in your throat, “Big talk for someone who still can't stop me from throwing him.”
His smile is raw and brilliant. “With you training me? It's only a matter of time. Besides, if I can get the upper hand on you even one time out of ten, kaiju will be a breeze.”
He's such an idiot, and you're even worse, because you know you're going to pass him on to Mina in the end but you don't want to let go of his hand. You can't even muster a scolding about his flippancy. Instead, pinkies still locked together, you tell him, “I'll hold ya to that, then.”