Gift fic for yararanger!
Gift fic for yararanger
From kis_my_fic2
Title: Adrift
Pairings/Characters: Yokoo focused with leanings of Yokoo/Fujigaya and background Miyata/Tamamori and Nikaido/Senga
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: slight occasional swearing
Summary: au - In space no one can hear you scream. Of boredom.
Notes: For yararanger - hopefully you will like this as I had a lovely time writing for you. I took what you said about wanting Yokoo/anybody and tried to give you a little bit of Yokoo/everybody. Thank you to my beta and for those that gave me support and encouragement.
Mission code : 1 - 48300
log : 041
A distant star rises over some nameless uninhabitable planet; the crescent of light glares into Yokoo’s eyes before he has time to adjust the visor. He drifts and rotates, cumbersome inside the large space-suit, turning his back to the light and focuses once more on the task at hand.
Yokoo represents years of training, a thousand years of science and mathematics fuelled by hopes and curiosity. Of dreams to journey across all of space, to reach out into the constellations, to explore and discover.
But this is nothing more than a routine repair job.
A scheduled routine mission to distant outer regions of the universe to repair hardly ever used - but still apparently essential - satellites and probes damaged by meteor storms or time.
Clever fingers work fast and aptly, switching in the new or repaired parts, a mechanical operation of sorts. With the right tools and experience, the gloves of the space-suit are hardly a hindrance. Today’s patient - a satellite telescope, old and travelled far from home - has explored more of universe than Yokoo can ever hope to. Silly to be jealous of a machine. The star rises higher as Yokoo and the broken satellite float on out of orbit, deeper into the endless black of space until the last missing part is sealed back in place. The control panel glows orange as the satellite warms up, slowly coming back to life, and engines whir like breathing. The light fails to blink green, still off-line and out of communications range, but fixed nonetheless. Yokoo stores his tools away, the job of the day done.
As the tether slowly pulls his floating body safely back to the awaiting dock bay, Yokoo spots a tile on the exterior hull of the fuselage already out of place. Piece of shit ship, Yokoo tsks softly to himself within his space helmet in annoyance. From afar in the shine of twilight, she still occasionally appears majestic, classic in design, still perhaps one of the fastest in the fleet in the right hands, but a hand-me-down second-hand piece of shit ship nonetheless. He checks his oxygen levels; they’re still reasonably high, work on the satellite completed faster than usual. He might as well see to the tile now.
-
There’s a long list of protocols to follow after every space walk. Airlock procedures then the space-suit, cleaned and checked. Yokoo cleaned and checked. Then, return the suit to its unit back by Yokoo’s work station. The left space boot falls sideways in mutiny. Yokoo carefully places it upright in its proper assigned place, hand lingering to still it in its place, in case the boot dares to do so again.
“Eh- no salute?” comes a mumble from behind, startling Yokoo out of his conflict with footwear. Yokoo glances over his shoulder at the reclined lump along a metal bench by the opposite wall, one of Yokoo’s discarded jumpers balled into a makeshift pillow under the lump’s head.
“Sorry Captain,” Yokoo salutes half-heatedly in the general direction of nothing. Mollified, Kitayama lets his eyes slip shut again.
“What brings you down here and away from the flight deck anyway?” Yokoo queries before the other has a chance to drift back asleep.
Kitayama scrunches his face, purses his lips, as if trying to remember what exactly he was doing before a long forty winks stole his focus, then his eyes flash open in remembrance. “There’s a problem with the left engine. Might really be on its last legs. Loosing fuel, overheating, and if it slows down any further you’ll just be going in circles. Look into it.”
Yokoo tsks under his breath again and notes the flashing red light of alarm from a far console as Kitayama elaborates. The engine is added to a growing list of tasks, near the top for urgency. “Miyata is an engineering officer too, as I'm sure you're aware.” An attempt to sound put upon, but not really complaining.
Kitayama rises far enough to let his head rest against the wall, no longer horizontal, more of a 45 degree angle in compromise. He lets out a long yawn before replying, “Miyata’s too preoccupied complementing the new co-pilot on his uniform.”
Yokoo rolls his eyes, already calling up the damage report for the left engine on the data screen, brow furrowing at what he sees. “Hardly new, Tama was promoted to co-pilot over a year ago.”
“Ah-” Kitayama suddenly looking more awake, “but the colour of Tama-chan’s uniform apparently still highlights the golden flecks in the auburn pools of his eyes - let Miyata drown in them. Besides, you’re better than he is at these urgent life-or-death sort of things.”
Yokoo nods along, still half focusing on the engine report - but also, the uniform truly does suit Tamamori.
“You going to eat that?” Kitayama calls for his attention and gestures at a pre-packaged re-hydrated scheduled meal sitting on Yokoo’s desk, not yet touched, full of all the essential vitamins and nutrients required on a daily basis but with none of the taste. Yokoo makes a face of disgust in response. “Piece of shit ship, right?” referring to both the engine and the food and everything in general.
Kitayama laughs but he’s already reaching for the food tray heedless of permission. “Even a shit meal can taste better when you have good company.”
Maybe there’s a wisdom to the words, as it would be easy to wrongfully assume the greyish re-hydrated gruel was some sort of delicacy by how Kitayama shovels it down with an expression of orgasmic delight.
“Come on now,” Kitayama mumbles between bites, food cutely spitting out as he talks. “The oxygen tanks aren’t the only thing that need refilling after a space walk, Yokoo-san.”
Yokoo strides across the room to retrieve his own meal and finally start eating. While still mulling on his first bite, he catches Kitayama’s eye and tired smile over the tray.
“Good work today, Watta.”
Gruel never tasted so good.
-
log : 056
The automated lights of Yokoo’s sleeping quarters have turned themselves on signifying morning - or whatever could quantify as morning in the constant night of space - but Yokoo still can’t quite urge himself to get out of bed. Tired and left lethargic from long shifts, he stays a little longer lying curled up and willing for no alarms to sound, alerting him to another new problem needing his attention.
Yokoo quickly does the math, wondering what the damage would be to the fuel reserve if he turned the thermostat up higher - worries as he’s been unable to gather an accurate estimate on exactly how much fuel was lost in the incident with the left engine, and the long term ramifications. Instead, he pulls the blankets up higher and tighter and tries to block out the dull cold world of the ship a little longer.
Besides, more than engine trouble or broken satellites, Yokoo’s interested in the sudden head of curls on the pillow beside him, the bed usually only occupied by one. Minutes pass. Toes no longer feel as numb. Senga burrows his face deeper into a poached pillow while Yokoo begins an internal debate, hoping to deduce if Senga is truly asleep or only attempting to lower his defences with cuteness - breathing shallow and steady, yet a pout that’s too much of an act - the debate is interrupted when the other suddenly speaks.
“Taipi told me about the night before launch.”
It was the latter.
“He would, wouldn’t he,” Yokoo replies with a resigned sigh, glad Senga has at least kept his eyes shut in the guise of sleep. He feels somewhat safer, less readable than he would under Senga’s prying, knowing stares.
There’s a moment of silence between them, Senga obviously planning which angle to attack next and Yokoo waits, defences raised, watching Senga’s features draw in concentration, hair brushing across his cheeks. Then Senga whispers loudly, “It makes sense though. You’ve both been floating around it for ages. Orbiting.”
“That’s not what orbiting means,” Yokoo corrects but it’s a cheap tactic, an attempt to avoid telling Senga anything.
“Yeah,” Senga continues anyway. “You’re orbiting. Like stars on the same path, fixated on each other.”
“Now you’re just making us into asteroids about to collide,” Yokoo scoffs in reply.
The mattress dips around them and even if Senga feels close enough like he’s about to crawl into his arms and under his skin, it’s perhaps odd how no part of them is touching. Yokoo wonders if it’s some sort of agreement Nikaido’s laid down. Sleep in all the beds you want but don’t touch anyone else. It’s odd enough to be something they would agree too. Senga’s eyes snap open, lids fluttering, pupils beating as they adjust to the light of the room and Yokoo’s suddenly too scared to breathe as Senga might see through the whole facade.
“If it’s a way to start a universe.”
“What did they teach you at the academy?” Yokoo scrambles to keep his cards close to his chest. He’s played this game with Senga before, more timid than usual to talk about the subject this time, uneasy to say it out loud now that something worth talking about finally happened. Burned by false starts before, what if there’s not a something after all? Curiosity can’t help but wonder what exactly Fujigaya told Senga about that night too. Yokoo wants to ask but bites his tongue in reserve.
No mind. As quickly as he sneaked in, Senga’s already gone like he was never there and Yokoo’s bed is freezing again.
-
log : 073
“Gravity’s out,” Nikaido says as calmly as he can from his perch in a corner of the ceiling, bracing himself upside down against the walls and clearly freaking out and expressing it through aggression.
“You don’t say,” Yokoo serenely swims by.
“Well, can you fucking do something about it before I throw up?” Nikaido grits through his teeth, his face already unnaturally pale and tinged green as he then imagines the repercussions of vomiting in a gravity free environment.
Yokoo finally drifts close enough to the desired panel housing the gravity cells and uses one hand to anchor himself to a console while the other sets about trying to pry open the front to investigate the problem. The paperwork he had been working on prior flutters and floats by to clutter his view, and while Yokoo sweeps them aside he takes a moment to be thankful that all heavy furniture is securely bolted in place.
The distant yelling of Fujigaya filters from down the corridor, telling the others to focus and get their act together and what’s the point in doing drills if they forget it all in a time of crisis, but less politely. This is why they’re never entrusted with missions of more importance - even less politely.
A burnt out cell triggered by faulty wiring seems to be the root of ship-wide panic. It’s an easy fix Yokoo assesses, back-up cells already in place - he just needs to implement a power re-root. “Dare I ask where Miyata is?” he throws over his shoulder at Nikaido, still clinging to the walls, mid-meditation, eyes squeezed shut and pretending the world is right-side up.
“Asshole wouldn’t share his gravity boots”
Miyata, who for some reason has the only gravity boots on board, was failing in his role as junior engineer, less concerned with restoring gravity and more focused on holding onto Tamamori’s hands so he wouldn’t float away into the gallows. Yokoo almost believes he hears some sappy line about angels flying except Nikaido’s teeth grinding is rising in volume.
“You’ve been in a foul mood all day, what’s getting you down?”
“Nothing. Nothing is literally keeping me down!” Nikaido snaps as his voice raises an octave and cracks in alarm as both his arms flail in defence to fight back the free floating paperclips that had once resided peacefully on a desk. And then he thrashes wildly in panic to regain a grip on something, anything, as he drifts freely into the centre of the room away from the walls.
“Yokoo! Do some-” Nikaido crashes to the floor in a pile of limbs and curse words and unfinished forms, then everything is quiet for a moment until Nikaido groans loudly in pain as he attempts to move and untangle himself. “You-” his head sways in disorientation until he spots Yokoo. “ugh, you fucking did that on purpose.”
Yokoo smiles sweetly down on the other as innocently as he can from where he softly landed on a chair. “Go find Senga, if you can crawl. I’m sure he’ll love to play nurse with you.”
“Your jokes suck,” Nikaido grouses from the mess on the floor, paperclip in his hair, resigned to not moving, before he lowers his voice in defeat. “...at least call him here to fetch me.”
-
log : 080
Tamamori softly wanders into Yokoo’s workspace late one afternoon just as Yokoo’s fatigue with the day is settling in and he feels unmotivated to continue. Neither say anything at first, Tamamori content to take a seat across the room, gracefully curling his knees up into his chest, watching Yokoo work on part repairs for another lost satellite for a while in silence with a dreamy, unfocused expression.
The post of chief engineer officer is not enticing, Yokoo suspects. Most join the academy with the ambition and hope to reach the platform of pilot, like Kitayama, captain of their own ship. Or perhaps to be like Fujigaya, in charge of military operations. But Yokoo finds pride in his work. He knows how to repair broken things, knows a place and an order, and how to hold them all together. Yokoo pushes with his feet and rolls across the room on the work stool’s casters to search for a replacement chip board from a shelf closer to Tamamori. They finally make eye contact and Yokoo raises an eyebrow in prompt.
“Can I hide out in here?” Tamamori shifts uncomfortably before supplying an explanation. “Captain announced it’s Hump Day.”
Ah. The halfway point of a mission. Halfway done. Halfway home. Over the hump of the mountain and on the trail back down. Yokoo kicks back to the work desk, unable to hold back the eye-roll and laugh. “Kitayama’s an idiot.”
Captain jokingly refers to it as Hump Day, but he takes no credit in the invention; that goes to someone from that Alpha Beta Crew. The intention of the day is not about ticking dates off a calendar in completion, but signifies the boiling point of a feeling. When an itch not being scratched reaches insanity. When long treks trickle by and your body sings in need for something.
Curled up on the floor of the flight deck, Kitayama looks intent on sharing tips and secrets like it’s a sleepover rather than navigating through all of space. “I always wanted a little brother to impart these things to,” before he launches onto Tamamori another monologue about such and such that Yokoo doesn’t need repeated. Tamamori’s certain he doesn’t wanted to be imparted with anything that goes by the name Hump Day.
Sailors lost adrift at sea would understand, falling overboard for the siren’s call or lusting after dreams of mermaids. But it’s impossible to fall overboard if the ship is airtight and the only thing close to mermaids is one unusual other-world alien porno Nikaido tricked them all into watching on movie night.
Yokoo’s more concerned with how the day means his mission is halfway completed - but it is amusing to watch the younger ones run around chasing one another.
Maybe an hour or so slips by in companionable silence, Tamamori making the occasional comment to Yokoo (or the lamp focused on the work table, or the dust molecules drifting in the air) about the day when they’re suddenly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps along metal walkways. Tamamori leans further back into the shadows just as Miyata comes into view, nose first.
“Yo, Yokoo!” Miyata stumbles over his feet a little as they try to catch up to his eagerness. “Has Tama-chan been here?” His grin wide with hope.
Yokoo looks up from the part he was repairing, the magnifying goggles still resting on the bridge of his nose causing his eyes to cross a little - it must be leaving him with an odd expression if Miyata’s blurry laugh is any indication.
“Sorry Miyata, haven’t seen him.”
Target not found, Miyata is quick to turn and return the way he came, back to the heart of the ship and the livelier upper decks, leaving only a distant echo of footsteps. Tamamori, still in the same spot, questions, “You don’t want him to find me yet?”
“Hmmm,” Yokoo idles, inspecting the welder’s seals. “I need someone to keep me company. Want to use the mini air compressor?”
Tamamori accepts the offer and scoots over to Yokoo’s side. It’s Yokoo’s favourite part but he doesn’t mind sharing, especially when Tamamori purses his lips cutely and makes little noises as the small nozzle puffs blasts of air, sweeping away all traces of dust from small gears and circuit boards.
“Tama-chan,” Yokoo starts with the guise of someone knowing and wise. “If you truly wanted to hide from Miyata - the junior engineer officer - maybe the engineering bay isn’t a very good spot to pick.”
“Seemed like the last place he’d look.”
“But it would be a place he would look.” Obvious - the only word that springs to mind.
Tamamori doesn’t reply except to whisper encouragement as the air compressor is faced with particularly dusty nooks and crannies of the CPU. Yokoo can’t help but continue; they all tease each other, wounds still vulnerable from Senga’s piercing, knowing looks, and Yokoo wants it to be his turn.
“Maybe you shouldn’t walk around your quarters naked, you’re only giving him ideas.”
Tamamori looks mildly affronted. “I don’t walk around my quarters naked!” But the tips of his ears are already a telltale blush despite his denial.
Yokoo’s eyes twinkle as he smirks. “Sure you don’t.”
Tamamori makes a face of momentary defeat, fixes his hair in a habit of nerves. “It’s nice, you know, to have something around that’s familiar. These missions are so long, he- he can make me feel a bit like home.” Tamamori trails off, the pink hue spreading from ears to cheeks then neck. Yokoo does nothing but blink in surprise at the moment of honesty.
Not a dust speck in sight, Tamamori places the air compressor down and rises from his chair and strides towards the door with a certainty, a high contrast to how he wandered in.
“Sorry Yokoo. I’ll be back later if you still need the company, but it’s a hard thing to resist.”
Alone again, Yokoo pretends Tamamori missed a spot just so he’ll have something to do and wonders what the others are doing.
-
log : 104
“4875.89. You?”
“Same,” Miyata replies.
“Obviously.”
With a sigh, Yokoo tosses the data panel aside and rubs the exhaustion out of his eyes. He lets them linger shut a moment longer in weariness, a rest from the constant strain of data screens and artificial light.
When he opens them again, Miyata is eyeing him with concern but flicks his gaze away when Yokoo notices and looks over the figures again. He pushes numbers around and speaks. “Have the full diagnostics returned concerning the left engine? The fuel loss-”
“Was insignificant,” Yokoo interrupts. It wasn’t.
“But...” Miyata glances over the report confused. “At our current speed we’ll return and dock on schedule but fuel levels look too low to sustain it.”
“They aren’t.” They are but there’s still a possibility, a chance; the gauges have been known to report errors before.
It’s not something Yokoo wants to think about yet, no matter the need to. “Any plans for tonight?” It’s a clear and obvious attempt to change discussion, transparently so, but Miyata’s nice. He plays along and if Yokoo knows anything about Miyata and the way his sudden bright grin makes his eyes vanish, Yokoo knows what topic the other will change it to.
Miyata leans closer to whisper like they’re about to share highly classified information, despite the fact they’re the only two in the room. “I discovered a nearby star constellation that maps out Tama-chan’s beauty marks. I’m going to show it to him tonight on the observation deck. I have a picnic and everything, and learned to cook some of Yuta’s favourite dishes.”
Remember to clean up after you’re done, is all Yokoo can think to contribute in between Miyata’s soliloquy about galaxies and the curve of Tamamori’s shoulder blades and the corner of his lips.
Miyata nods in agreement and flashes a peace sign in treaty. “Still mad about the mess Senga and Nika made of the holo-deck?”
Distress signals sound in Yokoo’s mind. “What mess?”
“Oh.” Miyata has the decency to look sheepish. “Don’t tell Nika I snitched.”
-
log : 126
The on board oxygen farm requires top level security access - which Yokoo has and is stingy to share - and is by consequence constantly peaceful. An oasis. Yokoo breathes in the freshly recycled air as an artificial breeze caused by the ship’s air ducts shakes the leaves of the tall trees overhead.
Ignoring conscience and obligation, Yokoo has decided to ignore work in favour of reclining on the mossy forest floor and letting the artificial sunlight warm his cheeks, as blots and glows dance patterns behind his eyelids. Fingertips explore the texture of a peach in hand, soft and ripe, before drawing it up to his mouth, teeth piercing peel and flesh, letting the juices explode and dribble down his chin. A small orchard and vegetable plot provide the only fresh produce, a break in the dull grey meals, a miracle of nature and technology that anything grows. Occasionally, he hums in response and condolence as Fujigaya - security chief has access all areas - recounts whatever mishap Nikaido caused this week or how Captain fell asleep at the wheel again (figuratively, there is no actual steering wheel) leaving the ship on course for an asteroid belt. Fujigaya’s voice flies and bounces through the branches as he walks and strolls through the trees and continues. Yes, Captain somehow slept through the warning alarms too.
Maybe some artificial bird song would really add to the scene, Yokoo wonders, or Fujigaya should at least be in animal print as he prowls through the manmade forest, fallen leaves crinkling underfoot as he circles.
“Ah-” Fujigaya pauses mid story at the ring of an alert tone from Yokoo’s tossed aside satchel. “Sounds like someone has mail from Earth. Didn’t Ken-chan say we were still out of communication range?”
“Maybe one of those satellites they sent me out here to fix is finally coming online. Or a temporary boost in signal from that electrical storm we’re passing.” Yokoo rises to sit, peach forgotten, and stretches long arms for his bag from where it rests nestled against the trunk of a tree, reaching for his communications pad.
It’s impossible to suppress the surprised noise that escapes on seeing the name of the sender. No chance of it going unnoticed either.
“Must be mail from someone good.”
“Yes, you could say that...” Trailing off, Yokoo tries to ignore Fujigaya as he raises an eyebrow quizzically, ever curious and nosy, pushing Yokoo to elaborate.
It’s from you, catches on the lump in his throat as the mail loads and opens.
// incoming message start //
Don’t know if you’ll see this. One man missions are always hard but you’re probably relieved there’s no one else there to make messes for you to clean up - hope you’re not going insane.
Taisuke
// end //
Yokoo glances up from the screen to track Fujigaya’s movement as he appears and disappears through the trees, how the artificial sunlight moves in rays across his skin, before he suddenly stills and catches Yokoo’s gaze through the branches.
“Hope you’re not going insane, Yokoo,” Fujigaya repeats out loud, even throwing in a cat pose to emphasise the point.
Yokoo can’t help but laugh at the image of it, bringing up a hand to his mouth to try and hold it in, and then suddenly Fujigaya’s a lot closer and Yokoo almost believes he can feel him, the warmth of another as he presses into his side, the brush of his breath against his cheek as he leans in, sits close enough like he’s trying to merge them together.
“Are you really sure you’re not?” Fujigaya breathes softer than the breeze into Yokoo’s ear.
“I think-” Yokoo pauses to take a breath, bites slightly on his lower lip, taking a moment to really think. “I think believing I have you all here is the only thing stopping me from going insane.”
Yokoo pushes the hair back out of his face and if he closes his eyes it’s so easy to imagine it’s Fujigaya’s hand doing so, the way Fujigaya does it sometimes when he finds Yokoo overwrought, hunched at a work station for hours, hair falling across his eyes, each blink longer than the last. Yokoo not even noticing he’s there, too engrossed, too tired, until gentle fingers ghost behind his ear and pull him away to rest.
Daydream slipping away, Yokoo opens his eyes and rereads the short three lines over and over.
“But you could have at least written that you miss me. Too busy playing with a superior, eh?” he murmurs under his breath, pressed to keep his tone light and hide the drips of slight contempt.
“It goes without saying that we all miss you-” Yokoo’s eyes narrow darkly. “It goes without saying that I miss you,” Fujigaya amends.
“You’re only a figment of my imagination, of course you’re going to say what I want to hear.”
-
“Last night on Earth!”
The drinks slosh and spill as all seven hands forcefully collide their glasses together to toast. Yokoo’s already reaching for paper napkins to wipe the table clean with his free hand while the sip slides past his lips and down his throat. This isn’t the first round but Senga’s insisting on a toast each time, for luck. By now, so many have passed that they’ve all lost track of all the numerous things they’re supposed to be drinking to.
Senga, picking up from before the toast, continues to pout and complain - they’re a crew, they should all go together on missions, shouldn’t be separated. It’s not right, not fair, to send only Yokoo away.
Fujigaya waves an arm around, making disagreeing noises and jabs a finger at the table until he’s sure all attention is on him. “Why send and pay for all you idiots when Watta’s more than capable of doing the job alone?” Yokoo can’t help but glow a little with pride at Fujigaya’s words. Or maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in his veins.
No help at all, Kitayama occasionally interjects with horror stories from old science fiction movies as if they were factual true accounts of missions gone awry. “And in space,” Kitayama widens his eyes in act, wibbles his voice in mock terror, “no one can hear you scream.” Nikaido pales and looks terrified simply thinking about it and pokes at Senga violently when the other asks Kitayama to tell the story about the parasites again.
Leaning back to clear the clouding of his mind, Yokoo stretches the kink from his legs, presses his palms behind him into the scratch of the traditional tatami mats and lets his head tilt back. He looses himself momentarily in the wallpaper - a rich dark blue, almost black in the dimmed lamps, with swirls of gold like the mist of fields in the morning or the haze of zodiacal light. Dropped out of the conversation completely in favour of attempting to pick back up the threads of topics he takes to watching the others.
They’ve been a crew of 7 together for years, united in the hope that maybe one day they will be called to a greater cause, maybe a distress call to answer or a mission of top importance, but it doesn’t really matter where they end up as long as they end up together. Yokoo wonders if they know he’s doing this for them. Most are reluctant to accept solo missions, let alone volunteer, but he’ll do anything to please and impress the higher ups in charge, maybe shine some favourable fortune on their crew in return. Yokoo wants to earn his spot amongst them, prove his worth.
Kitayama pauses the horror stories and torture in favour of answering mails on his phone, snickering at some reply he’s just received. Left to their own devices, Senga and Nikaido seem to have unfortunately taken the task upon themselves to invent a new drinking game with some brightly coloured liqueur that burns Yokoo’s throat just by looking at. Fujigaya interrupts the game when it becomes clear it’s just a transparent ruse for them to take their clothes off.
In their own bubble off to the side, there’s Miyata with his cheek pillowed on Tamamori’s shoulder, eyes cast upwards and blinking at the other, tracing shapes with his fingers across Tamamori’s bare forearm while slurring drunken endearments. “We’re written in the stars, you and I - hiccups - I’d travel the whole galaxy to find you.”
Tamamori rolls his eyes and wrinkles his nose. “That’s not very impressive. We travelled across galaxies last week just to deliver toilet paper.” Too busy following a drop of condensation as it slides down the outside of his cold glass, he doesn’t complain at how Miyata’s fingers curl around his wrists and murmurs that, mah, he’ll search the universe then.
The door to their private room slides open, interrupting them all with the signal of more food arriving - even Kitayama puts away his phone as they gather close around the table, passing and sharing plates, and think of another thing to drink to for when the next round arrives.
They stay until they’re clearly no longer welcome, the last group left at the establishment. Kitayama exits first, yawning with mouth uncovered, well-wishes in Yokoo’s direction before pausing to reach over the table to grasp at Yokoo’s shoulder strongly for a moment - wordless communication, like comrades formed through battle - before turning and going. Senga’s hardest to retract, drunkenness adding strength to his clinging fingers but Nikaido, impatient, drags him away eventually. And then as Miyata is leaving - hand still curled around Tamamori as he pulls the other along and tighter against him - he implants the idea.
Just a seed of an idea.
“Watta,” Miyata almost shouts with drunken enthusiasm for a brilliant suggestion. “If you ever get lonely up there, you can just start talking to objects like Tama-chan does.” Tamamori’s annoyed grumble is hard to hear from where his face is pushed into Miyata’s shoulder. Yokoo laughs it off as a joke and tells them both to send a mail when they arrive safely home.
And then, as if orchestrated - probably so - there’s only the two of them left.
Fujigaya, collapsed on his back across the tatami floor in a purposefully seductive unnatural sprawl, tilts his head back to meet Yokoo’s gaze upside down and under bangs. Presumably, if the smirk is any indication, it’s a pose Fujigaya thinks is incredibly sexy - and well, Yokoo more than slightly agrees.
“Last night on earth Watta, wha’ you wanna do?”
Yokoo kind of wants to clean his apartment, maybe cover furniture in sheets so dust won’t settle, but it’s doubtful that’s the answer Fujigaya wants to hear.
-
Take off is 10 am but Yokoo has to report by 7, so it’s still the edges night, barely morning, when he crawls out of bed to leave.
The sun rises as Yokoo walks around his apartment. He washes, dresses in the clothes already laid out, mentally going over internal lists with a towel draped over head, drying his hair slowly, adding more things to his already packed bag - a classic anime series Miyata lent on a data drive insisting he watch, a book, a real book bought in an antique story, from Kitayama - but all the while as he prepares to leave, his attention constantly darts back to the bed.
As Yokoo paces and pads, Fujigaya slowly stirs and untangles himself from the sheets but stays in the bed, self-consciously attempting to tackle the mess of his hair and keeping the sheets pulled tight under his chin - not ashamed, only shy in the grey light of morning. His eyes are dull from lack of sleep and the effects of too many drinks the night before; Fujigaya only quietly hums in understanding as Yokoo explains how to use the shower, to run a bath if he prefers, where to find coffee in the kitchen, reminds him to lock the door securely after he leaves. Ever the good host. Placing a clean towel at the foot of the bed for Fujigaya to use.
Yokoo reaches for his wristwatch on the night-stand when a hand darts out from the bundle of bedding to grab at his shirt cuff, stilling him. He takes a moment to gather courage before meeting Fujigaya’s uncertain gaze.
“We’ll talk about it when you get back, so...”
And there’s so many things Yokoo wants to say in reply, in agreement, but he’s worried he’ll stumble over important words and the only thing he can say is -
“Will you check on my dogs at the shelter?”
And then Fujigaya’s kissing him hard enough that Yokoo’s lips will tingle with the pressure of it for lightyears. Yokoo doesn’t even care if Fujigaya’s breath is stale with sleep or that he’ll have to brush his own teeth again before leaving.
-
log : 141
It takes two days for the seed of an idea to sprout.
Two days on board for the true loneliness, the constant quiet, to settle in and gnaw away, and there is something, a sort of relief, in saying itadakimasu out loud alone in the kitchen, or ohayo to an empty work station each shift - anything to cut through the silence of being alone all day, everyday. There’s regulated hours each day allocated for fitness, to be spent on a treadmill, stationary bicycle, a rowing machine with virtual images of waves and horizons to steer towards for a change in routine, but nothing to exercise his own voice when there's not a single soul to converse with.
As the mission crawls by, dull and monotonous, it evolves. Yokoo starts to pretend Nikaido is sitting across from him at meals, picking and pushing food around a plate, coercing, until Yokoo gives in and swaps for his preferred choice of dish. He envisions Miyata calmly working alongside him, through double shifts and double-checks, always smiling, humming the tune of some anime opening.
Yokoo knows it’s only memories keeping him company - echoes of past missions when they were all together - but there’s a familiar comfort to it, better than talking to the automated voice of a computer. Natural, almost, as it’s only unnatural for them not to be there. The computer is cheating at the board games they play anyway.
Cost is the only justification for these solo treks. The weight of extra crew is inconsequential but food, supplies, oxygen considerations, an extra paycheque, it all adds up and so - if only one person is needed for the job, then only one person goes and they’re trained to deal with the isolation, the loneliness, to cope with any emergency, to get the job done. Even this emergency.
Yokoo’s been avoiding it long enough. There’s no gauges sending misreads. The damn left engine. Fuel levels are too low. With the flick of a wrist, the pencil rolls across the table and Yokoo catches it with his opposite hand before it careens off the edge, then flicks again and sails it back the way it came. The rumble of it loud in the stillness, Yokoo’s eyes follow the movement unfocused. The motion repeats as he thinks and plans, ignoring the vague sense of fear starting to swell around and inside him. Protocol doesn’t allow it.
Pencil to note pad again - the others occasionally tease him for being old fashioned, for loving the feel and smell of paper - solutions sometimes find him quicker if he works on hard copy. Yokoo changes variables - if power was cut to the unused decks, gravity disabled, dropped cargo, changed route - then re-runs the calculations, prays to something, the stars, the way Fujigaya whispers his given name, to anything that a saving answer will be returned.
Filtered coffee fuels him to work through the night as he sits in a quiet kitchen with 6 empty chairs and spotless counters.
-
log : 158
The mission is complete yet despite the satellite probes being fixed, the ship is trapped in the depths of rarely travelled space, out of range for communication, waiting for charges to come online any day, any week now. Hopefully. The distress call is typed and automated to send as soon as there's signal so Yokoo kills the engines and coasts, lets the lingering propulsion drift him along. It slows the ship’s speed down, almost to a non-existent drift, but it saves the remaining drops of fuel.
Next, the lights are cut as is power to the consoles, save for emergency usage. For worst case scenarios he’ll need to save power cells for life support and maintenance of the oxygen farm. Supplies and comforts are moved from the kitchen and his quarters as he camps out on the flight deck by the communication controls, waiting for the first blip of signal, the chill of the metal floor seeping through his futon, aiding to his uneasy sleeplessness. Fortunately, or unfortunately, there’s enough vacuum sealed meals for him to eat for years. Taste may be an issue but starvation won’t be.
The ship moves mutely through the darkness, slowly and steadily towards home. Time seems broken. Measurement and marking of its passage gone with no automated lights to signal if it is night or day. On the razor’s edge of panic, Yokoo forbids to let his mind dawdle too long on the thought of being lost forever in this emptiness alone. Instead he tries to find the serenity in it, the tranquility of drifting through space, the beauty in passing galaxies, the mystery of empty planets, the endless blanket of stars that captivated him as a child. He tries desperately to hold himself back and not topple off the cliff and into despair.
Then Nikaido breaks the silence, complaining it’s too dark, and Kitayama replies by asking if he would like to come sit on the captain’s lap since he’s so scared.
And it’s all okay again. He’ll be home soon.
-
log : 172
Kitayama can run the fastest but he’s also lazy and most likely still asleep, or only just awake given the early hour, and it’s for that reason Senga reaches Yokoo first on the landing pad, barrelling into him, a blur at breakneck speed. Breakfast abandoned at the crackle of the tannoy announcement of Yokoo’s unscheduled landing and bread crumbs still lingering around his mouth, fingers sticky from sweet glazes, but Yokoo wouldn't chastise him for it, too captivated by the way Senga’s beaming at him enchantingly. He won’t make a single complaint even if Senga transfers aforementioned crumbs onto his shirt, burying his face into Yokoo’s shoulder - no thought to it being his last clean shirt.
Yokoo wobbles a little as Senga rests all his weight against him, strong arms draped around his neck, feet still becoming acclimated to feel of real gravity, real earth, nothing artificial.
“Taipi told me about the night before launch.”
“He would, wouldn’t he,” Yokoo replies on cue, comfortable with the topic, conversation and resolution already played out and at peace in his mind for weeks.
Yokoo’s in no hurry to leave the landing pad and report to base, content just to hold Senga, passing the time while they wait for the others by feeling the rhythm of Senga’s still racing heart slow through their chests, warm puffs of breath along his neck. Yokoo knows as soon as he does report he will be swept away by protocols and invasive unpleasant medical checks, followed most likely by in depth inquiries into why the mission went awry and over schedule.
The interim isn’t long until Nikaido is stomping up the landing ramp, trailed closely after by Miyata and Tamamori. Yokoo peeks through the mop of Senga’s head and catches Nikaido mid internal struggle between complaint at Senga’s behaviour and the urge to join in. The latter wins with Senga even happier as a sandwich is formed around him. Cautious not to overcrowd, Miyata reaches forward, worming a hand into the huddle, to ease the heavy bag from Yokoo’s shoulder, down his arm, and carry the weight for him.
Impressively, when he does finally arrive, Kitayama goes to Yokoo first and not the ship, but after greetings he can’t hold back the playful complaints and jibes of how Yokoo broke his ship and friendship is thrown out the airlock with a sweet refusal to assist with filling out any of the demanded paperwork on the incident.
Fujigaya, lingering on the edge of the crowd, loudly echoes most of the same.
“The reason they sent you was because you’re the reliable one and in the end you go missing for weeks and need a tow back. What’s with that?” Yet he looks tired and worn, betraying his tone of casual annoyance, and his line of sight seems more focused on Yokoo’s shoulder, or the nothing beyond. Tamamori whispers mutinously somewhere to the left, was it not Fujigaya who refused to leave the control tower until Yokoo made contact or appeared on radar, and had to be physically forced to sleep and eat?
It takes a moment before Yokoo can draw out the other’s eye contact, but when he finally does - it's fine - there’s no rush or insecurities, they can take their time, talk later, start a world or a whole universe whenever they want. The anticipation still burns along his spine. Fujigaya's everything he remembered.
“Watta,” Senga interrupts and can’t even stop smiling to pout. “Tell us you missed us, too.”
Yokoo grins with slightly more fang than usual, at six faces he knows better than his own.
“I barely even noticed you weren’t there.”
-
Mission code : 7 - 80085
log : 001
...
Pausing mid security log, Fujigaya squints back to the top of his data screen in suspicion - 80085 - then spares a distrusting glance across the flight deck at Kitayama, who is currently stifling giggles while continuously stuffing his face with food with all the subtlety of a peacock.
Fujigaya clears his throat to get the other’s attention. “You wouldn’t have been the one that decided the mission code number by any chance?”
“Hmmm-” Kitayama strikes an utterly fake thoughtful pose, rice grains stuck to the corner of his mouth. "I wonder if that falls under Captain’s privilege."
Fujigaya’s calm is as strained as a dam under heavy spring rains until Senga swivels to face them from his chair at the communications officer’s station to interrupt.
“Hey,” Senga starts. “I’m getting an incoming message from Fumi-chan, he wants to know if we’ll be needing any assistance with mission..." Senga trails off and pauses awkwardly under Fujigaya’s livid glare and Kitayama’s deranged grin, egging him on, before glancing back at the glowing monitor and awkwardly continuing, volume dropping, eyes cast downward, suddenly incredibly interested in the floor. "-with mission Boobs?"
Kitayama erupts in laughter. The dam breaks.
"Eight. Zero. Zero. Eight. Five. It’s mission eight zero zero eight five!"
Yokoo swoops in to save the data pad out of Fujigaya’s hand before he throws it into Kitayama’s face - it’s expensive equipment - and then glides out of the room, retreating for safety, steering Senga by the shoulder along with him.
The doors shut automatically with a whisper and a whoosh quickly behind them - the wonders of a newly upgraded ship - yet still with all the old familiar noises, like the muffled annoyed and riling voices still filtering through the walls of the flight deck. The clanging footsteps as Senga slips from Yokoo’s grasp and escapes further down the corridor. Nikaido calling for him from the direction of the armoury.
With nowhere he needs to be, Yokoo wanders this way and that through hallways - picking up the stray abandoned balled up scrap of litter, a lost sock, wipes a stain clean - passes by the open door to Tamamori’s quarters, howbeit less recognisable each time; Miyata having dedicated years to the covert cause of secretly moving his possessions from his own room into Tamamori’s. Initially, starting timid, waters tested with small items; a purple toothbrush, a colourful jumper that stands out loudly amongst the stylish monotone shades of the wardrobe’s other inhabitants. At first, Tamamori turns a blind eye or there is a possible chance he is truly oblivious - drifting spaced out through his own rooms unaware of changes - but slowly it builds to bolder unignorable statements. The garish poster of an idolised 2D character survived only an afternoon, though the pet turtle still resides safely in a corner.
Currently, Miyata sits cross-legged in the middle of the floor, a sprawl of data devices and vintage disc drives strewn around him, sorting and documenting notes of potential anime series to watch. Tamamori lounges behind him watching uninterested and shrugs when he catches Yokoo's eye and smirk in passing.
Eventually, Yokoo ends up in his own quarters, he could invent a job to occupy his time but falling instead into an unfinished book seems more preferable. An old used paperback, spine cracked and pages curling and yellowed with thumbed interest but Yokoo’s barely more than a chapter read - deep in an engrossing scene - before Fujigaya strides in unannounced and collapses face first onto the bed beside him.
Fujigaya groans in anguish, the sheets and the mattress almost vibrating from how his mouth is pushed into them, but Yokoo wants to finish this page - he can sense an important development imminent in the tone. The desire is fruitless. A few lines later, Fujigaya sighs loudly and, without looking, reaches up and unceremoniously bats the book out of Yokoo’s hands, sending it falling over the edge of the bed. Yokoo will just have to remember the page number.
Focus finally earned, Fujigaya turns darkly dramatic. “I’m volunteering for the next solo mission.”
Yokoo curls an arm around the other’s waist, encouraging Fujigaya to roll closer and murmurs and works discouraging words into the jut of a collarbone.
From kis_my_fic2
Title: Adrift
Pairings/Characters: Yokoo focused with leanings of Yokoo/Fujigaya and background Miyata/Tamamori and Nikaido/Senga
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: slight occasional swearing
Summary: au - In space no one can hear you scream. Of boredom.
Notes: For yararanger - hopefully you will like this as I had a lovely time writing for you. I took what you said about wanting Yokoo/anybody and tried to give you a little bit of Yokoo/everybody. Thank you to my beta and for those that gave me support and encouragement.
Mission code : 1 - 48300
log : 041
A distant star rises over some nameless uninhabitable planet; the crescent of light glares into Yokoo’s eyes before he has time to adjust the visor. He drifts and rotates, cumbersome inside the large space-suit, turning his back to the light and focuses once more on the task at hand.
Yokoo represents years of training, a thousand years of science and mathematics fuelled by hopes and curiosity. Of dreams to journey across all of space, to reach out into the constellations, to explore and discover.
But this is nothing more than a routine repair job.
A scheduled routine mission to distant outer regions of the universe to repair hardly ever used - but still apparently essential - satellites and probes damaged by meteor storms or time.
Clever fingers work fast and aptly, switching in the new or repaired parts, a mechanical operation of sorts. With the right tools and experience, the gloves of the space-suit are hardly a hindrance. Today’s patient - a satellite telescope, old and travelled far from home - has explored more of universe than Yokoo can ever hope to. Silly to be jealous of a machine. The star rises higher as Yokoo and the broken satellite float on out of orbit, deeper into the endless black of space until the last missing part is sealed back in place. The control panel glows orange as the satellite warms up, slowly coming back to life, and engines whir like breathing. The light fails to blink green, still off-line and out of communications range, but fixed nonetheless. Yokoo stores his tools away, the job of the day done.
As the tether slowly pulls his floating body safely back to the awaiting dock bay, Yokoo spots a tile on the exterior hull of the fuselage already out of place. Piece of shit ship, Yokoo tsks softly to himself within his space helmet in annoyance. From afar in the shine of twilight, she still occasionally appears majestic, classic in design, still perhaps one of the fastest in the fleet in the right hands, but a hand-me-down second-hand piece of shit ship nonetheless. He checks his oxygen levels; they’re still reasonably high, work on the satellite completed faster than usual. He might as well see to the tile now.
-
There’s a long list of protocols to follow after every space walk. Airlock procedures then the space-suit, cleaned and checked. Yokoo cleaned and checked. Then, return the suit to its unit back by Yokoo’s work station. The left space boot falls sideways in mutiny. Yokoo carefully places it upright in its proper assigned place, hand lingering to still it in its place, in case the boot dares to do so again.
“Eh- no salute?” comes a mumble from behind, startling Yokoo out of his conflict with footwear. Yokoo glances over his shoulder at the reclined lump along a metal bench by the opposite wall, one of Yokoo’s discarded jumpers balled into a makeshift pillow under the lump’s head.
“Sorry Captain,” Yokoo salutes half-heatedly in the general direction of nothing. Mollified, Kitayama lets his eyes slip shut again.
“What brings you down here and away from the flight deck anyway?” Yokoo queries before the other has a chance to drift back asleep.
Kitayama scrunches his face, purses his lips, as if trying to remember what exactly he was doing before a long forty winks stole his focus, then his eyes flash open in remembrance. “There’s a problem with the left engine. Might really be on its last legs. Loosing fuel, overheating, and if it slows down any further you’ll just be going in circles. Look into it.”
Yokoo tsks under his breath again and notes the flashing red light of alarm from a far console as Kitayama elaborates. The engine is added to a growing list of tasks, near the top for urgency. “Miyata is an engineering officer too, as I'm sure you're aware.” An attempt to sound put upon, but not really complaining.
Kitayama rises far enough to let his head rest against the wall, no longer horizontal, more of a 45 degree angle in compromise. He lets out a long yawn before replying, “Miyata’s too preoccupied complementing the new co-pilot on his uniform.”
Yokoo rolls his eyes, already calling up the damage report for the left engine on the data screen, brow furrowing at what he sees. “Hardly new, Tama was promoted to co-pilot over a year ago.”
“Ah-” Kitayama suddenly looking more awake, “but the colour of Tama-chan’s uniform apparently still highlights the golden flecks in the auburn pools of his eyes - let Miyata drown in them. Besides, you’re better than he is at these urgent life-or-death sort of things.”
Yokoo nods along, still half focusing on the engine report - but also, the uniform truly does suit Tamamori.
“You going to eat that?” Kitayama calls for his attention and gestures at a pre-packaged re-hydrated scheduled meal sitting on Yokoo’s desk, not yet touched, full of all the essential vitamins and nutrients required on a daily basis but with none of the taste. Yokoo makes a face of disgust in response. “Piece of shit ship, right?” referring to both the engine and the food and everything in general.
Kitayama laughs but he’s already reaching for the food tray heedless of permission. “Even a shit meal can taste better when you have good company.”
Maybe there’s a wisdom to the words, as it would be easy to wrongfully assume the greyish re-hydrated gruel was some sort of delicacy by how Kitayama shovels it down with an expression of orgasmic delight.
“Come on now,” Kitayama mumbles between bites, food cutely spitting out as he talks. “The oxygen tanks aren’t the only thing that need refilling after a space walk, Yokoo-san.”
Yokoo strides across the room to retrieve his own meal and finally start eating. While still mulling on his first bite, he catches Kitayama’s eye and tired smile over the tray.
“Good work today, Watta.”
Gruel never tasted so good.
-
log : 056
The automated lights of Yokoo’s sleeping quarters have turned themselves on signifying morning - or whatever could quantify as morning in the constant night of space - but Yokoo still can’t quite urge himself to get out of bed. Tired and left lethargic from long shifts, he stays a little longer lying curled up and willing for no alarms to sound, alerting him to another new problem needing his attention.
Yokoo quickly does the math, wondering what the damage would be to the fuel reserve if he turned the thermostat up higher - worries as he’s been unable to gather an accurate estimate on exactly how much fuel was lost in the incident with the left engine, and the long term ramifications. Instead, he pulls the blankets up higher and tighter and tries to block out the dull cold world of the ship a little longer.
Besides, more than engine trouble or broken satellites, Yokoo’s interested in the sudden head of curls on the pillow beside him, the bed usually only occupied by one. Minutes pass. Toes no longer feel as numb. Senga burrows his face deeper into a poached pillow while Yokoo begins an internal debate, hoping to deduce if Senga is truly asleep or only attempting to lower his defences with cuteness - breathing shallow and steady, yet a pout that’s too much of an act - the debate is interrupted when the other suddenly speaks.
“Taipi told me about the night before launch.”
It was the latter.
“He would, wouldn’t he,” Yokoo replies with a resigned sigh, glad Senga has at least kept his eyes shut in the guise of sleep. He feels somewhat safer, less readable than he would under Senga’s prying, knowing stares.
There’s a moment of silence between them, Senga obviously planning which angle to attack next and Yokoo waits, defences raised, watching Senga’s features draw in concentration, hair brushing across his cheeks. Then Senga whispers loudly, “It makes sense though. You’ve both been floating around it for ages. Orbiting.”
“That’s not what orbiting means,” Yokoo corrects but it’s a cheap tactic, an attempt to avoid telling Senga anything.
“Yeah,” Senga continues anyway. “You’re orbiting. Like stars on the same path, fixated on each other.”
“Now you’re just making us into asteroids about to collide,” Yokoo scoffs in reply.
The mattress dips around them and even if Senga feels close enough like he’s about to crawl into his arms and under his skin, it’s perhaps odd how no part of them is touching. Yokoo wonders if it’s some sort of agreement Nikaido’s laid down. Sleep in all the beds you want but don’t touch anyone else. It’s odd enough to be something they would agree too. Senga’s eyes snap open, lids fluttering, pupils beating as they adjust to the light of the room and Yokoo’s suddenly too scared to breathe as Senga might see through the whole facade.
“If it’s a way to start a universe.”
“What did they teach you at the academy?” Yokoo scrambles to keep his cards close to his chest. He’s played this game with Senga before, more timid than usual to talk about the subject this time, uneasy to say it out loud now that something worth talking about finally happened. Burned by false starts before, what if there’s not a something after all? Curiosity can’t help but wonder what exactly Fujigaya told Senga about that night too. Yokoo wants to ask but bites his tongue in reserve.
No mind. As quickly as he sneaked in, Senga’s already gone like he was never there and Yokoo’s bed is freezing again.
-
log : 073
“Gravity’s out,” Nikaido says as calmly as he can from his perch in a corner of the ceiling, bracing himself upside down against the walls and clearly freaking out and expressing it through aggression.
“You don’t say,” Yokoo serenely swims by.
“Well, can you fucking do something about it before I throw up?” Nikaido grits through his teeth, his face already unnaturally pale and tinged green as he then imagines the repercussions of vomiting in a gravity free environment.
Yokoo finally drifts close enough to the desired panel housing the gravity cells and uses one hand to anchor himself to a console while the other sets about trying to pry open the front to investigate the problem. The paperwork he had been working on prior flutters and floats by to clutter his view, and while Yokoo sweeps them aside he takes a moment to be thankful that all heavy furniture is securely bolted in place.
The distant yelling of Fujigaya filters from down the corridor, telling the others to focus and get their act together and what’s the point in doing drills if they forget it all in a time of crisis, but less politely. This is why they’re never entrusted with missions of more importance - even less politely.
A burnt out cell triggered by faulty wiring seems to be the root of ship-wide panic. It’s an easy fix Yokoo assesses, back-up cells already in place - he just needs to implement a power re-root. “Dare I ask where Miyata is?” he throws over his shoulder at Nikaido, still clinging to the walls, mid-meditation, eyes squeezed shut and pretending the world is right-side up.
“Asshole wouldn’t share his gravity boots”
Miyata, who for some reason has the only gravity boots on board, was failing in his role as junior engineer, less concerned with restoring gravity and more focused on holding onto Tamamori’s hands so he wouldn’t float away into the gallows. Yokoo almost believes he hears some sappy line about angels flying except Nikaido’s teeth grinding is rising in volume.
“You’ve been in a foul mood all day, what’s getting you down?”
“Nothing. Nothing is literally keeping me down!” Nikaido snaps as his voice raises an octave and cracks in alarm as both his arms flail in defence to fight back the free floating paperclips that had once resided peacefully on a desk. And then he thrashes wildly in panic to regain a grip on something, anything, as he drifts freely into the centre of the room away from the walls.
“Yokoo! Do some-” Nikaido crashes to the floor in a pile of limbs and curse words and unfinished forms, then everything is quiet for a moment until Nikaido groans loudly in pain as he attempts to move and untangle himself. “You-” his head sways in disorientation until he spots Yokoo. “ugh, you fucking did that on purpose.”
Yokoo smiles sweetly down on the other as innocently as he can from where he softly landed on a chair. “Go find Senga, if you can crawl. I’m sure he’ll love to play nurse with you.”
“Your jokes suck,” Nikaido grouses from the mess on the floor, paperclip in his hair, resigned to not moving, before he lowers his voice in defeat. “...at least call him here to fetch me.”
-
log : 080
Tamamori softly wanders into Yokoo’s workspace late one afternoon just as Yokoo’s fatigue with the day is settling in and he feels unmotivated to continue. Neither say anything at first, Tamamori content to take a seat across the room, gracefully curling his knees up into his chest, watching Yokoo work on part repairs for another lost satellite for a while in silence with a dreamy, unfocused expression.
The post of chief engineer officer is not enticing, Yokoo suspects. Most join the academy with the ambition and hope to reach the platform of pilot, like Kitayama, captain of their own ship. Or perhaps to be like Fujigaya, in charge of military operations. But Yokoo finds pride in his work. He knows how to repair broken things, knows a place and an order, and how to hold them all together. Yokoo pushes with his feet and rolls across the room on the work stool’s casters to search for a replacement chip board from a shelf closer to Tamamori. They finally make eye contact and Yokoo raises an eyebrow in prompt.
“Can I hide out in here?” Tamamori shifts uncomfortably before supplying an explanation. “Captain announced it’s Hump Day.”
Ah. The halfway point of a mission. Halfway done. Halfway home. Over the hump of the mountain and on the trail back down. Yokoo kicks back to the work desk, unable to hold back the eye-roll and laugh. “Kitayama’s an idiot.”
Captain jokingly refers to it as Hump Day, but he takes no credit in the invention; that goes to someone from that Alpha Beta Crew. The intention of the day is not about ticking dates off a calendar in completion, but signifies the boiling point of a feeling. When an itch not being scratched reaches insanity. When long treks trickle by and your body sings in need for something.
Curled up on the floor of the flight deck, Kitayama looks intent on sharing tips and secrets like it’s a sleepover rather than navigating through all of space. “I always wanted a little brother to impart these things to,” before he launches onto Tamamori another monologue about such and such that Yokoo doesn’t need repeated. Tamamori’s certain he doesn’t wanted to be imparted with anything that goes by the name Hump Day.
Sailors lost adrift at sea would understand, falling overboard for the siren’s call or lusting after dreams of mermaids. But it’s impossible to fall overboard if the ship is airtight and the only thing close to mermaids is one unusual other-world alien porno Nikaido tricked them all into watching on movie night.
Yokoo’s more concerned with how the day means his mission is halfway completed - but it is amusing to watch the younger ones run around chasing one another.
Maybe an hour or so slips by in companionable silence, Tamamori making the occasional comment to Yokoo (or the lamp focused on the work table, or the dust molecules drifting in the air) about the day when they’re suddenly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps along metal walkways. Tamamori leans further back into the shadows just as Miyata comes into view, nose first.
“Yo, Yokoo!” Miyata stumbles over his feet a little as they try to catch up to his eagerness. “Has Tama-chan been here?” His grin wide with hope.
Yokoo looks up from the part he was repairing, the magnifying goggles still resting on the bridge of his nose causing his eyes to cross a little - it must be leaving him with an odd expression if Miyata’s blurry laugh is any indication.
“Sorry Miyata, haven’t seen him.”
Target not found, Miyata is quick to turn and return the way he came, back to the heart of the ship and the livelier upper decks, leaving only a distant echo of footsteps. Tamamori, still in the same spot, questions, “You don’t want him to find me yet?”
“Hmmm,” Yokoo idles, inspecting the welder’s seals. “I need someone to keep me company. Want to use the mini air compressor?”
Tamamori accepts the offer and scoots over to Yokoo’s side. It’s Yokoo’s favourite part but he doesn’t mind sharing, especially when Tamamori purses his lips cutely and makes little noises as the small nozzle puffs blasts of air, sweeping away all traces of dust from small gears and circuit boards.
“Tama-chan,” Yokoo starts with the guise of someone knowing and wise. “If you truly wanted to hide from Miyata - the junior engineer officer - maybe the engineering bay isn’t a very good spot to pick.”
“Seemed like the last place he’d look.”
“But it would be a place he would look.” Obvious - the only word that springs to mind.
Tamamori doesn’t reply except to whisper encouragement as the air compressor is faced with particularly dusty nooks and crannies of the CPU. Yokoo can’t help but continue; they all tease each other, wounds still vulnerable from Senga’s piercing, knowing looks, and Yokoo wants it to be his turn.
“Maybe you shouldn’t walk around your quarters naked, you’re only giving him ideas.”
Tamamori looks mildly affronted. “I don’t walk around my quarters naked!” But the tips of his ears are already a telltale blush despite his denial.
Yokoo’s eyes twinkle as he smirks. “Sure you don’t.”
Tamamori makes a face of momentary defeat, fixes his hair in a habit of nerves. “It’s nice, you know, to have something around that’s familiar. These missions are so long, he- he can make me feel a bit like home.” Tamamori trails off, the pink hue spreading from ears to cheeks then neck. Yokoo does nothing but blink in surprise at the moment of honesty.
Not a dust speck in sight, Tamamori places the air compressor down and rises from his chair and strides towards the door with a certainty, a high contrast to how he wandered in.
“Sorry Yokoo. I’ll be back later if you still need the company, but it’s a hard thing to resist.”
Alone again, Yokoo pretends Tamamori missed a spot just so he’ll have something to do and wonders what the others are doing.
-
log : 104
“4875.89. You?”
“Same,” Miyata replies.
“Obviously.”
With a sigh, Yokoo tosses the data panel aside and rubs the exhaustion out of his eyes. He lets them linger shut a moment longer in weariness, a rest from the constant strain of data screens and artificial light.
When he opens them again, Miyata is eyeing him with concern but flicks his gaze away when Yokoo notices and looks over the figures again. He pushes numbers around and speaks. “Have the full diagnostics returned concerning the left engine? The fuel loss-”
“Was insignificant,” Yokoo interrupts. It wasn’t.
“But...” Miyata glances over the report confused. “At our current speed we’ll return and dock on schedule but fuel levels look too low to sustain it.”
“They aren’t.” They are but there’s still a possibility, a chance; the gauges have been known to report errors before.
It’s not something Yokoo wants to think about yet, no matter the need to. “Any plans for tonight?” It’s a clear and obvious attempt to change discussion, transparently so, but Miyata’s nice. He plays along and if Yokoo knows anything about Miyata and the way his sudden bright grin makes his eyes vanish, Yokoo knows what topic the other will change it to.
Miyata leans closer to whisper like they’re about to share highly classified information, despite the fact they’re the only two in the room. “I discovered a nearby star constellation that maps out Tama-chan’s beauty marks. I’m going to show it to him tonight on the observation deck. I have a picnic and everything, and learned to cook some of Yuta’s favourite dishes.”
Remember to clean up after you’re done, is all Yokoo can think to contribute in between Miyata’s soliloquy about galaxies and the curve of Tamamori’s shoulder blades and the corner of his lips.
Miyata nods in agreement and flashes a peace sign in treaty. “Still mad about the mess Senga and Nika made of the holo-deck?”
Distress signals sound in Yokoo’s mind. “What mess?”
“Oh.” Miyata has the decency to look sheepish. “Don’t tell Nika I snitched.”
-
log : 126
The on board oxygen farm requires top level security access - which Yokoo has and is stingy to share - and is by consequence constantly peaceful. An oasis. Yokoo breathes in the freshly recycled air as an artificial breeze caused by the ship’s air ducts shakes the leaves of the tall trees overhead.
Ignoring conscience and obligation, Yokoo has decided to ignore work in favour of reclining on the mossy forest floor and letting the artificial sunlight warm his cheeks, as blots and glows dance patterns behind his eyelids. Fingertips explore the texture of a peach in hand, soft and ripe, before drawing it up to his mouth, teeth piercing peel and flesh, letting the juices explode and dribble down his chin. A small orchard and vegetable plot provide the only fresh produce, a break in the dull grey meals, a miracle of nature and technology that anything grows. Occasionally, he hums in response and condolence as Fujigaya - security chief has access all areas - recounts whatever mishap Nikaido caused this week or how Captain fell asleep at the wheel again (figuratively, there is no actual steering wheel) leaving the ship on course for an asteroid belt. Fujigaya’s voice flies and bounces through the branches as he walks and strolls through the trees and continues. Yes, Captain somehow slept through the warning alarms too.
Maybe some artificial bird song would really add to the scene, Yokoo wonders, or Fujigaya should at least be in animal print as he prowls through the manmade forest, fallen leaves crinkling underfoot as he circles.
“Ah-” Fujigaya pauses mid story at the ring of an alert tone from Yokoo’s tossed aside satchel. “Sounds like someone has mail from Earth. Didn’t Ken-chan say we were still out of communication range?”
“Maybe one of those satellites they sent me out here to fix is finally coming online. Or a temporary boost in signal from that electrical storm we’re passing.” Yokoo rises to sit, peach forgotten, and stretches long arms for his bag from where it rests nestled against the trunk of a tree, reaching for his communications pad.
It’s impossible to suppress the surprised noise that escapes on seeing the name of the sender. No chance of it going unnoticed either.
“Must be mail from someone good.”
“Yes, you could say that...” Trailing off, Yokoo tries to ignore Fujigaya as he raises an eyebrow quizzically, ever curious and nosy, pushing Yokoo to elaborate.
It’s from you, catches on the lump in his throat as the mail loads and opens.
// incoming message start //
Don’t know if you’ll see this. One man missions are always hard but you’re probably relieved there’s no one else there to make messes for you to clean up - hope you’re not going insane.
Taisuke
// end //
Yokoo glances up from the screen to track Fujigaya’s movement as he appears and disappears through the trees, how the artificial sunlight moves in rays across his skin, before he suddenly stills and catches Yokoo’s gaze through the branches.
“Hope you’re not going insane, Yokoo,” Fujigaya repeats out loud, even throwing in a cat pose to emphasise the point.
Yokoo can’t help but laugh at the image of it, bringing up a hand to his mouth to try and hold it in, and then suddenly Fujigaya’s a lot closer and Yokoo almost believes he can feel him, the warmth of another as he presses into his side, the brush of his breath against his cheek as he leans in, sits close enough like he’s trying to merge them together.
“Are you really sure you’re not?” Fujigaya breathes softer than the breeze into Yokoo’s ear.
“I think-” Yokoo pauses to take a breath, bites slightly on his lower lip, taking a moment to really think. “I think believing I have you all here is the only thing stopping me from going insane.”
Yokoo pushes the hair back out of his face and if he closes his eyes it’s so easy to imagine it’s Fujigaya’s hand doing so, the way Fujigaya does it sometimes when he finds Yokoo overwrought, hunched at a work station for hours, hair falling across his eyes, each blink longer than the last. Yokoo not even noticing he’s there, too engrossed, too tired, until gentle fingers ghost behind his ear and pull him away to rest.
Daydream slipping away, Yokoo opens his eyes and rereads the short three lines over and over.
“But you could have at least written that you miss me. Too busy playing with a superior, eh?” he murmurs under his breath, pressed to keep his tone light and hide the drips of slight contempt.
“It goes without saying that we all miss you-” Yokoo’s eyes narrow darkly. “It goes without saying that I miss you,” Fujigaya amends.
“You’re only a figment of my imagination, of course you’re going to say what I want to hear.”
-
“Last night on Earth!”
The drinks slosh and spill as all seven hands forcefully collide their glasses together to toast. Yokoo’s already reaching for paper napkins to wipe the table clean with his free hand while the sip slides past his lips and down his throat. This isn’t the first round but Senga’s insisting on a toast each time, for luck. By now, so many have passed that they’ve all lost track of all the numerous things they’re supposed to be drinking to.
Senga, picking up from before the toast, continues to pout and complain - they’re a crew, they should all go together on missions, shouldn’t be separated. It’s not right, not fair, to send only Yokoo away.
Fujigaya waves an arm around, making disagreeing noises and jabs a finger at the table until he’s sure all attention is on him. “Why send and pay for all you idiots when Watta’s more than capable of doing the job alone?” Yokoo can’t help but glow a little with pride at Fujigaya’s words. Or maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in his veins.
No help at all, Kitayama occasionally interjects with horror stories from old science fiction movies as if they were factual true accounts of missions gone awry. “And in space,” Kitayama widens his eyes in act, wibbles his voice in mock terror, “no one can hear you scream.” Nikaido pales and looks terrified simply thinking about it and pokes at Senga violently when the other asks Kitayama to tell the story about the parasites again.
Leaning back to clear the clouding of his mind, Yokoo stretches the kink from his legs, presses his palms behind him into the scratch of the traditional tatami mats and lets his head tilt back. He looses himself momentarily in the wallpaper - a rich dark blue, almost black in the dimmed lamps, with swirls of gold like the mist of fields in the morning or the haze of zodiacal light. Dropped out of the conversation completely in favour of attempting to pick back up the threads of topics he takes to watching the others.
They’ve been a crew of 7 together for years, united in the hope that maybe one day they will be called to a greater cause, maybe a distress call to answer or a mission of top importance, but it doesn’t really matter where they end up as long as they end up together. Yokoo wonders if they know he’s doing this for them. Most are reluctant to accept solo missions, let alone volunteer, but he’ll do anything to please and impress the higher ups in charge, maybe shine some favourable fortune on their crew in return. Yokoo wants to earn his spot amongst them, prove his worth.
Kitayama pauses the horror stories and torture in favour of answering mails on his phone, snickering at some reply he’s just received. Left to their own devices, Senga and Nikaido seem to have unfortunately taken the task upon themselves to invent a new drinking game with some brightly coloured liqueur that burns Yokoo’s throat just by looking at. Fujigaya interrupts the game when it becomes clear it’s just a transparent ruse for them to take their clothes off.
In their own bubble off to the side, there’s Miyata with his cheek pillowed on Tamamori’s shoulder, eyes cast upwards and blinking at the other, tracing shapes with his fingers across Tamamori’s bare forearm while slurring drunken endearments. “We’re written in the stars, you and I - hiccups - I’d travel the whole galaxy to find you.”
Tamamori rolls his eyes and wrinkles his nose. “That’s not very impressive. We travelled across galaxies last week just to deliver toilet paper.” Too busy following a drop of condensation as it slides down the outside of his cold glass, he doesn’t complain at how Miyata’s fingers curl around his wrists and murmurs that, mah, he’ll search the universe then.
The door to their private room slides open, interrupting them all with the signal of more food arriving - even Kitayama puts away his phone as they gather close around the table, passing and sharing plates, and think of another thing to drink to for when the next round arrives.
They stay until they’re clearly no longer welcome, the last group left at the establishment. Kitayama exits first, yawning with mouth uncovered, well-wishes in Yokoo’s direction before pausing to reach over the table to grasp at Yokoo’s shoulder strongly for a moment - wordless communication, like comrades formed through battle - before turning and going. Senga’s hardest to retract, drunkenness adding strength to his clinging fingers but Nikaido, impatient, drags him away eventually. And then as Miyata is leaving - hand still curled around Tamamori as he pulls the other along and tighter against him - he implants the idea.
Just a seed of an idea.
“Watta,” Miyata almost shouts with drunken enthusiasm for a brilliant suggestion. “If you ever get lonely up there, you can just start talking to objects like Tama-chan does.” Tamamori’s annoyed grumble is hard to hear from where his face is pushed into Miyata’s shoulder. Yokoo laughs it off as a joke and tells them both to send a mail when they arrive safely home.
And then, as if orchestrated - probably so - there’s only the two of them left.
Fujigaya, collapsed on his back across the tatami floor in a purposefully seductive unnatural sprawl, tilts his head back to meet Yokoo’s gaze upside down and under bangs. Presumably, if the smirk is any indication, it’s a pose Fujigaya thinks is incredibly sexy - and well, Yokoo more than slightly agrees.
“Last night on earth Watta, wha’ you wanna do?”
Yokoo kind of wants to clean his apartment, maybe cover furniture in sheets so dust won’t settle, but it’s doubtful that’s the answer Fujigaya wants to hear.
-
Take off is 10 am but Yokoo has to report by 7, so it’s still the edges night, barely morning, when he crawls out of bed to leave.
The sun rises as Yokoo walks around his apartment. He washes, dresses in the clothes already laid out, mentally going over internal lists with a towel draped over head, drying his hair slowly, adding more things to his already packed bag - a classic anime series Miyata lent on a data drive insisting he watch, a book, a real book bought in an antique story, from Kitayama - but all the while as he prepares to leave, his attention constantly darts back to the bed.
As Yokoo paces and pads, Fujigaya slowly stirs and untangles himself from the sheets but stays in the bed, self-consciously attempting to tackle the mess of his hair and keeping the sheets pulled tight under his chin - not ashamed, only shy in the grey light of morning. His eyes are dull from lack of sleep and the effects of too many drinks the night before; Fujigaya only quietly hums in understanding as Yokoo explains how to use the shower, to run a bath if he prefers, where to find coffee in the kitchen, reminds him to lock the door securely after he leaves. Ever the good host. Placing a clean towel at the foot of the bed for Fujigaya to use.
Yokoo reaches for his wristwatch on the night-stand when a hand darts out from the bundle of bedding to grab at his shirt cuff, stilling him. He takes a moment to gather courage before meeting Fujigaya’s uncertain gaze.
“We’ll talk about it when you get back, so...”
And there’s so many things Yokoo wants to say in reply, in agreement, but he’s worried he’ll stumble over important words and the only thing he can say is -
“Will you check on my dogs at the shelter?”
And then Fujigaya’s kissing him hard enough that Yokoo’s lips will tingle with the pressure of it for lightyears. Yokoo doesn’t even care if Fujigaya’s breath is stale with sleep or that he’ll have to brush his own teeth again before leaving.
-
log : 141
It takes two days for the seed of an idea to sprout.
Two days on board for the true loneliness, the constant quiet, to settle in and gnaw away, and there is something, a sort of relief, in saying itadakimasu out loud alone in the kitchen, or ohayo to an empty work station each shift - anything to cut through the silence of being alone all day, everyday. There’s regulated hours each day allocated for fitness, to be spent on a treadmill, stationary bicycle, a rowing machine with virtual images of waves and horizons to steer towards for a change in routine, but nothing to exercise his own voice when there's not a single soul to converse with.
As the mission crawls by, dull and monotonous, it evolves. Yokoo starts to pretend Nikaido is sitting across from him at meals, picking and pushing food around a plate, coercing, until Yokoo gives in and swaps for his preferred choice of dish. He envisions Miyata calmly working alongside him, through double shifts and double-checks, always smiling, humming the tune of some anime opening.
Yokoo knows it’s only memories keeping him company - echoes of past missions when they were all together - but there’s a familiar comfort to it, better than talking to the automated voice of a computer. Natural, almost, as it’s only unnatural for them not to be there. The computer is cheating at the board games they play anyway.
Cost is the only justification for these solo treks. The weight of extra crew is inconsequential but food, supplies, oxygen considerations, an extra paycheque, it all adds up and so - if only one person is needed for the job, then only one person goes and they’re trained to deal with the isolation, the loneliness, to cope with any emergency, to get the job done. Even this emergency.
Yokoo’s been avoiding it long enough. There’s no gauges sending misreads. The damn left engine. Fuel levels are too low. With the flick of a wrist, the pencil rolls across the table and Yokoo catches it with his opposite hand before it careens off the edge, then flicks again and sails it back the way it came. The rumble of it loud in the stillness, Yokoo’s eyes follow the movement unfocused. The motion repeats as he thinks and plans, ignoring the vague sense of fear starting to swell around and inside him. Protocol doesn’t allow it.
Pencil to note pad again - the others occasionally tease him for being old fashioned, for loving the feel and smell of paper - solutions sometimes find him quicker if he works on hard copy. Yokoo changes variables - if power was cut to the unused decks, gravity disabled, dropped cargo, changed route - then re-runs the calculations, prays to something, the stars, the way Fujigaya whispers his given name, to anything that a saving answer will be returned.
Filtered coffee fuels him to work through the night as he sits in a quiet kitchen with 6 empty chairs and spotless counters.
-
log : 158
The mission is complete yet despite the satellite probes being fixed, the ship is trapped in the depths of rarely travelled space, out of range for communication, waiting for charges to come online any day, any week now. Hopefully. The distress call is typed and automated to send as soon as there's signal so Yokoo kills the engines and coasts, lets the lingering propulsion drift him along. It slows the ship’s speed down, almost to a non-existent drift, but it saves the remaining drops of fuel.
Next, the lights are cut as is power to the consoles, save for emergency usage. For worst case scenarios he’ll need to save power cells for life support and maintenance of the oxygen farm. Supplies and comforts are moved from the kitchen and his quarters as he camps out on the flight deck by the communication controls, waiting for the first blip of signal, the chill of the metal floor seeping through his futon, aiding to his uneasy sleeplessness. Fortunately, or unfortunately, there’s enough vacuum sealed meals for him to eat for years. Taste may be an issue but starvation won’t be.
The ship moves mutely through the darkness, slowly and steadily towards home. Time seems broken. Measurement and marking of its passage gone with no automated lights to signal if it is night or day. On the razor’s edge of panic, Yokoo forbids to let his mind dawdle too long on the thought of being lost forever in this emptiness alone. Instead he tries to find the serenity in it, the tranquility of drifting through space, the beauty in passing galaxies, the mystery of empty planets, the endless blanket of stars that captivated him as a child. He tries desperately to hold himself back and not topple off the cliff and into despair.
Then Nikaido breaks the silence, complaining it’s too dark, and Kitayama replies by asking if he would like to come sit on the captain’s lap since he’s so scared.
And it’s all okay again. He’ll be home soon.
-
log : 172
Kitayama can run the fastest but he’s also lazy and most likely still asleep, or only just awake given the early hour, and it’s for that reason Senga reaches Yokoo first on the landing pad, barrelling into him, a blur at breakneck speed. Breakfast abandoned at the crackle of the tannoy announcement of Yokoo’s unscheduled landing and bread crumbs still lingering around his mouth, fingers sticky from sweet glazes, but Yokoo wouldn't chastise him for it, too captivated by the way Senga’s beaming at him enchantingly. He won’t make a single complaint even if Senga transfers aforementioned crumbs onto his shirt, burying his face into Yokoo’s shoulder - no thought to it being his last clean shirt.
Yokoo wobbles a little as Senga rests all his weight against him, strong arms draped around his neck, feet still becoming acclimated to feel of real gravity, real earth, nothing artificial.
“Taipi told me about the night before launch.”
“He would, wouldn’t he,” Yokoo replies on cue, comfortable with the topic, conversation and resolution already played out and at peace in his mind for weeks.
Yokoo’s in no hurry to leave the landing pad and report to base, content just to hold Senga, passing the time while they wait for the others by feeling the rhythm of Senga’s still racing heart slow through their chests, warm puffs of breath along his neck. Yokoo knows as soon as he does report he will be swept away by protocols and invasive unpleasant medical checks, followed most likely by in depth inquiries into why the mission went awry and over schedule.
The interim isn’t long until Nikaido is stomping up the landing ramp, trailed closely after by Miyata and Tamamori. Yokoo peeks through the mop of Senga’s head and catches Nikaido mid internal struggle between complaint at Senga’s behaviour and the urge to join in. The latter wins with Senga even happier as a sandwich is formed around him. Cautious not to overcrowd, Miyata reaches forward, worming a hand into the huddle, to ease the heavy bag from Yokoo’s shoulder, down his arm, and carry the weight for him.
Impressively, when he does finally arrive, Kitayama goes to Yokoo first and not the ship, but after greetings he can’t hold back the playful complaints and jibes of how Yokoo broke his ship and friendship is thrown out the airlock with a sweet refusal to assist with filling out any of the demanded paperwork on the incident.
Fujigaya, lingering on the edge of the crowd, loudly echoes most of the same.
“The reason they sent you was because you’re the reliable one and in the end you go missing for weeks and need a tow back. What’s with that?” Yet he looks tired and worn, betraying his tone of casual annoyance, and his line of sight seems more focused on Yokoo’s shoulder, or the nothing beyond. Tamamori whispers mutinously somewhere to the left, was it not Fujigaya who refused to leave the control tower until Yokoo made contact or appeared on radar, and had to be physically forced to sleep and eat?
It takes a moment before Yokoo can draw out the other’s eye contact, but when he finally does - it's fine - there’s no rush or insecurities, they can take their time, talk later, start a world or a whole universe whenever they want. The anticipation still burns along his spine. Fujigaya's everything he remembered.
“Watta,” Senga interrupts and can’t even stop smiling to pout. “Tell us you missed us, too.”
Yokoo grins with slightly more fang than usual, at six faces he knows better than his own.
“I barely even noticed you weren’t there.”
-
Mission code : 7 - 80085
log : 001
...
Pausing mid security log, Fujigaya squints back to the top of his data screen in suspicion - 80085 - then spares a distrusting glance across the flight deck at Kitayama, who is currently stifling giggles while continuously stuffing his face with food with all the subtlety of a peacock.
Fujigaya clears his throat to get the other’s attention. “You wouldn’t have been the one that decided the mission code number by any chance?”
“Hmmm-” Kitayama strikes an utterly fake thoughtful pose, rice grains stuck to the corner of his mouth. "I wonder if that falls under Captain’s privilege."
Fujigaya’s calm is as strained as a dam under heavy spring rains until Senga swivels to face them from his chair at the communications officer’s station to interrupt.
“Hey,” Senga starts. “I’m getting an incoming message from Fumi-chan, he wants to know if we’ll be needing any assistance with mission..." Senga trails off and pauses awkwardly under Fujigaya’s livid glare and Kitayama’s deranged grin, egging him on, before glancing back at the glowing monitor and awkwardly continuing, volume dropping, eyes cast downward, suddenly incredibly interested in the floor. "-with mission Boobs?"
Kitayama erupts in laughter. The dam breaks.
"Eight. Zero. Zero. Eight. Five. It’s mission eight zero zero eight five!"
Yokoo swoops in to save the data pad out of Fujigaya’s hand before he throws it into Kitayama’s face - it’s expensive equipment - and then glides out of the room, retreating for safety, steering Senga by the shoulder along with him.
The doors shut automatically with a whisper and a whoosh quickly behind them - the wonders of a newly upgraded ship - yet still with all the old familiar noises, like the muffled annoyed and riling voices still filtering through the walls of the flight deck. The clanging footsteps as Senga slips from Yokoo’s grasp and escapes further down the corridor. Nikaido calling for him from the direction of the armoury.
With nowhere he needs to be, Yokoo wanders this way and that through hallways - picking up the stray abandoned balled up scrap of litter, a lost sock, wipes a stain clean - passes by the open door to Tamamori’s quarters, howbeit less recognisable each time; Miyata having dedicated years to the covert cause of secretly moving his possessions from his own room into Tamamori’s. Initially, starting timid, waters tested with small items; a purple toothbrush, a colourful jumper that stands out loudly amongst the stylish monotone shades of the wardrobe’s other inhabitants. At first, Tamamori turns a blind eye or there is a possible chance he is truly oblivious - drifting spaced out through his own rooms unaware of changes - but slowly it builds to bolder unignorable statements. The garish poster of an idolised 2D character survived only an afternoon, though the pet turtle still resides safely in a corner.
Currently, Miyata sits cross-legged in the middle of the floor, a sprawl of data devices and vintage disc drives strewn around him, sorting and documenting notes of potential anime series to watch. Tamamori lounges behind him watching uninterested and shrugs when he catches Yokoo's eye and smirk in passing.
Eventually, Yokoo ends up in his own quarters, he could invent a job to occupy his time but falling instead into an unfinished book seems more preferable. An old used paperback, spine cracked and pages curling and yellowed with thumbed interest but Yokoo’s barely more than a chapter read - deep in an engrossing scene - before Fujigaya strides in unannounced and collapses face first onto the bed beside him.
Fujigaya groans in anguish, the sheets and the mattress almost vibrating from how his mouth is pushed into them, but Yokoo wants to finish this page - he can sense an important development imminent in the tone. The desire is fruitless. A few lines later, Fujigaya sighs loudly and, without looking, reaches up and unceremoniously bats the book out of Yokoo’s hands, sending it falling over the edge of the bed. Yokoo will just have to remember the page number.
Focus finally earned, Fujigaya turns darkly dramatic. “I’m volunteering for the next solo mission.”
Yokoo curls an arm around the other’s waist, encouraging Fujigaya to roll closer and murmurs and works discouraging words into the jut of a collarbone.