radish

You admired those same qualities in him in so many different ways, his strength, resilience, the drive that never let him settle for anything less than the best in conducting his duties.

When it came to matters of the heart, however, Soshiro often pulled some hidden shutter closed in order to prevent his feelings from reaching, or perhaps inconveniencing others.

It was after his battle with Kaiju No. 10 that things came to a head.

You'd rushed to his side as soon as your own duties allowed, placing one hand over the tank of the cellular therapy med pod in which he was receiving emergency treatment.

Hours blurred into a whole night, a day, then another.

You'd conducted your tasks from his bedside, eyes constantly traveling over to his still form, even as you flew through analysis on the datapad you'd carried with you.

Eventually, he'd regained consciousness, and you'd seen it, in the moment before he'd registered your presence; a trace of fear of the unknown, eyes widening as memory flooded back to him, the convulsive grasp of his hand around the hilt of a sword that wasn't there.

Then, as you straightened and gently touched the sleeve of his hospital gown, his gaze landed on you.

"Soshiro, I'm here."

Silence for a beat, and then a smile, mechanical, wry, expected.

"Ah. So I got knocked out, huh? I didn't dream up that stuff about Kaiju 10 and Kafka?"

You shook your head.

"It's all true."

"Damn. He really did a number on us."

There it was, a small crack, a lance of pain on ever-composed features.

You knew how much he liked Officer Hibino, how much trust and faith he'd placed in him.

"Guess he couldn't tell us, huh? But still. Kind of a big secret to keep."

"He's with the first division now. In their custody. Are you going to - "

"Captain will handle things from here."

His answer was brisk, firm, not as your lover, but a Vice-Captain.

"Soshiro, you - "

"I'll be fine."

There it was again, the smile you wished, selfishly, you could wipe from his face.

"Hey, any chance you could sneak me in some Mont Blanc? I know the doc doesn't approve, but I'm really feeling for - "

"Stop that."

Your voice was lower, set deep and guttural with pain you never wanted him to hear.

He fell silent immediately, watching you.

"Stop doing that when you're with me. I don't need you to be strong. I need you to talk to me. About what you're thinking. What you're feeling. Even if it doesn't make sense. Even if you don't understand it yourself. When you were out there, you almost - "

Cutting yourself off felt like the safest option. The hysteria rising in your throat had no safe outlet.

Soshiro remained silent, and you couldn't even look at him.

You weren't brave enough to confront the pity you thought you might find there.

Rising abruptly, you exited the room.

Perhaps, if you'd glanced back, you'd have seen the spasmodic jerk of his hand, as if he'd fought every impulse not to raise it toward you.

As with all things he did, Soshiro never worked by halves.

If he believed that this task required his entire effort and attention, then that was exactly what it received.

He came to you more often, tentatively, as if unsure what reception he'd receive. More evenings were spent together, his head planted firmly in your lap, as if claiming it as his space.

Sometimes, you woke to him curled against your back, head resting between your shoulder blades, one hand twisted in the fabric of your sleepshirt.

He sat down beside you on the sofa one afternoon, with a datapad in his hand, a device you hadn't seen before. After a moment's pause, he handed it over to you.

"Soshiro, what's this?"

"One of my personal devices. I keep ... a journal of sorts. Backed up on the cloud. I've kept these entries for a while now. Writing things down helps keep my thoughts in order. Helps me reflect."

He tapped the screen.

"This one's got the entries after the attack on the base. After we fought Number Ten."

Wordlessly, you took the datapad from him. 

Soshiro's concise accounts filled the pages of the document, the military discipline and strict upbringing present in the structure and order of how he expressed himself, but these entries held something more.

Here were reflections on his own anxiety, his perceived inadequacy, his constant fight to prove himself, his fears about the lives of the officers he was responsible for.

Here were the dozen observations of a man who missed nothing, who cared so much more than he let on. He'd written about Kafka's nightly sessions in the library, Kikoru's struggle with reverse grip during training, and her subsequent frustration, Mina facing down the prejudice of her superiors, Iharu's desperate striving, Reno's dogged training until he pushed himself to the edge.

There were videos embedded within, small clips from his personal cam footage that offered a disconcertingly intimate view into his world.

These were his arms, his hands, his blades, the hulking form of a kaiju, so much larger in comparison to him, taken down all the same.

Shaky panning over the squad, Kikoru's exasperated face as she shook her finger at him. Okonogi sleeping at her desk, shaken to bleary, annoyed wakefulness as he tugged a sheet of paper out from underneath her cheek.

A sudden shot of the sky, then the ground far, far below, as he slid down the polished steel and glass of a high rise, a brief glimpse of his reflection, canines gleaming in the sun.

And in between, entries about you.

Nothing particularly revealing, unless you knew Soshiro well.

On this day, you'd ordered your favourite tea, and he'd made sure it had arrived from the screening at the front gate in time for your afternoon break.

On that day, you'd spent an afternoon running diagnostics, and he'd noticed how tired your eyes had seemed.

Last Friday, you'd looked particularly happy at the thought of a winter evening hot pot, and he'd made sure to order the extra condiments that you liked.

When you finally looked up at him again, he seemed almost nervous, in a way only you could tell. Lips pressed tight together, posture slightly stiff, fingers linked in his lap.

In your mind, a sudden burst of warmth, like the sight of the first flowers of spring.

This was no ordinary journal.

It was Soshiro's truest self, all the indelible parts of him that made him an exemplary Vice-Captain. That was now as much part of his identity as Captain Ashiro reaching out a hand to him in the soft afternoon light of her office.

It was also Soshiro the man, with fears, flaws and dreams that still held power over him, who treasured his officers, their spirit and bravery, and cherished the bonds he held with each of them.

It was Soshiro the lover, with endless sweetness, patience, devotion and the fear that he'd never be enough for you. The man who tracked each part of your day, all of your own habits and thoughts, what gave you joy, sadness and hope, and documented each of them with care and unflagging attentiveness.

You put down the datapad and moved into his space, feeling his shoulder tense briefly beneath your fingers before he gave in to your touch with a shuddering breath of relief.

He was heavy, warm, solid within your arms, so much more substantial than his lean frame let on.

With you he was not the elusive, inscrutable Vice-Captain, as playful as he was dangerous, a fox sighting you with cheerful, wily charm before darting out of reach.

His hair, silky and slightly rumpled from your embrace fanned out against your cheek, his head dropping to the crook of your neck.

"That Number Ten. He got me good. Thought I wouldn't make it back."

"I know. But you're here now. And you're safe."

"You're gonna protect me?"

He was laughing, but the words held a certain weight, an unspoken question hidden within.

"I'll protect you. Like a guard dog."

This drew another laugh, his face turning tenderly against your skin.

"Gonna bite 'em good?"

"If they try to get you, sure."

"They better not try. I got a fierce one here."

You thought of the cam footage, the brief glimpse you'd caught of his reflection in the glass of the high rise, hair flying in the cross-wind, cheeks and nose blown ruddy, eyes as luminous as dawn breaking across a violet sea.

That look he wore, fierce, exultant, diamond-bright and focused, was worth protecting, for the simple reason that he chose to share it with you. 

With both your respective positions in the defence force, time together was precious, well-spent, an indulgence you never took for granted.

You knew, on some fundamental level, that Gen never took it for granted either. He showed it in a dozen different ways, from the way he memorized details about you while seeming to never pay attention, to the way he discerned your every mood and emotion, to his perfect comprehension of the fact that sometimes you just needed his presence.

Today, however, something was visibly bothering him.

Sitting together with him in his quarters, you raised an eyebrow as you watched the tense set of his shoulders, his worse-than-usual posture, the grim downward curve of his lips and the restless drum of his fingers on the controller as a loading screen flickered with gentle ambience.

"Gen?"

"Hmm?"

"What's wrong?"

"Stuff."

You knew him well enough to anticipate the elaboration on this. 'Stuff' was shorthand for paperwork, subordinates who were hassling him, endless meetings that took away time from his personal training (or gaming), and endless bureaucracy.

"Wrong answer."

That got his attention, even if he was now frowning across at you.

"It's not."

"It's not the usual stuff."

"What are you, some kinda freaky mind-reader?"

"Is that an admission?"

This was often the trigger for his argumentative side, teeth and claws and well-hidden affection.

Instead, he fell silent.

Now it was your turn to lean towards him, curiosity warring with concern. Shoulder pressed to his, you took in the solid warmth of him, the shift of his body before he relaxed slightly into you.

"Hey, take this."

He shoved the controller into your hands. Surprised, you looked over at the screen once more.

It was a game you were unfamiliar with, retro in presentation, all pastel shades and bobbing pixelated outlines, the muted chime of the music soothing and repetitive.

It was the kind of game you sometimes took a liking to, simple to play between missions and easy on the eye and ear.

"What's this one called?"

"Dunno. Bought it with a bunch of others. Part of a deal."

You started up a New Game, and uttered a small laugh. One of the avatar choices looked a lot like you.

"Hey, that's me. Down to that t-shirt I like."

Gen snorted.

"You stole it from me first. Give credit where it's due."

"I did not steal that from you. It was mine. I remember buying it."

"You mean you were there when I bought it for myself."

"Lies and slander, sir."

Gen had eased into your regular exchange of gentle ribbing, something that did not escape your notice. That same strange reticence was still present, however, and you determined to work your way to the root of it, prying him open with love and patience, as you did.

The game was easy enough to learn, a cute and well-designed platformer, combined with some role-play elements, that seemed to reward courage and persistence.

Gen watched attentively as you worked your way through levels, which grew progressively more challenging.

Along the way, various NPCs helped you with items or special abilities.

Then, at the twentieth level, an anomaly.

There was a character who offered to join your quest, to 'show you how things were done.'

It would have been a small, but pleasant surprise if the character hadn't been a tiny, pixelated dead-ringer for Gen, scarlet-eyed, a starburst of pale pink hair on his head.

His name was Garumi Nen.

You put down the controller slowly.

"Gen?"

"Huh?"

"That's you."

"Yeah, does kinda look like me."

You shot him an exasperated look.

"No. That's you. As in, somebody designed this game with you in mind. Is this what you wanted me to see?"

"Keep playing."

"All right, Lord of Mysteries, keep your secrets."

So, you did keep playing.

Mini-Gen introduced some novel mechanics. There were new items to collect, which didn't generate points towards the score, but added to his HP and MP, up to a certain scale, after which he could release a wide scale attack.

Those new items were in the shape of 'hearts', red, bright against the lighter shades of the background, jewel-like and slowly rotating.

They could only be unlocked by your character touching them. Mini-Gen was powerless to collect these, even if they fuelled his own abilities.

Then, there were the combo attacks.

To get to certain areas, Mini-Gen had to launch you with his weapon (a large blade, the design of which didn't escape your attention either). Each time you succeeded, he would gain a stat boost.

As level thirty approached, a new mechanic unlocked.

More powerful 'hearts' were now available, but Mini-Gen encountered a fatal flaw in their use. Once his guage was full, he entered a highly vulnerable state.

He could launch a devastating attack, but he needed time to charge it up, and even a weaker foe could strike him down in that pivotal period.

Only your character was equipped with a shielding spell strong enough to protect him during that time.

Pausing the game, you set the controller down again.

Gen was still and silent beside you, not even questioning your decision.

"Gen."

"Hmm?"

"Where did you get this game?"

He shrugged, another admission.

"I had an idea for something cool. Something you might like on your downtime. And I had Akira help me put it together. He's into indie game development as a hobby."

"So ... all of these, they were your ideas?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Why? Don't like it?"

As casual as his tone seemed, there was something rough-edged, half-pained, half-hopeful revealed in his words. As if your reply carried more weight than the outcome of any battle he'd faced.

Words were bound to fail you here.

Instead, you opted to rise to your knees, shuffling over to him. His head fell naturally within the enclosure of your arms, face hidden in rare avoidance of perception against your chest.

"I love it, Gen. It's perfect."

"For real?"

"I love every bit of it. And I'll make sure I collect every heart for ... Garumi."

Gen's voice reached you, slightly muffled.

"He's kinda bad at that, y'know. Collecting hearts."

You tightened your arms around him, sinking one cheek to the top of the softly yielding unruliness of his hair.

"Maybe he'll unlock an extra ability later."

"He does."

"Oh?"

"But he can't if you're not there."

This time, he raised his head, and his lips found yours with unerring focus, as in all things he put his hand to.

It was different, more intentional, firm and warm, drawing sharp heat to the middle of your chest with a keen needle-point.

Gen was no romantic, but in that moment, you could have fallen head-first into the honeyed well of sweetness he had unlatched the door to.

A little later, when your head lay propped on his chest, the game-backdrop still bobbing gently on the screen, you asked him the question that had been bothering you since this had all started.

"Why'd you decide to make the game?"

He huffed out an annoyed breath before launching into a jumbled tirade about a cherry blossom viewing, Vice-Captain Hoshina and two children, all of which were almost unintelligible to you, but it seemed that someone had dared call him a bad boyfriend.

"What the fuck do they know? I'm the best at everything, but ... yeah, maybe I'm not great with love and stuff - "

You silenced him with a finger to the lips, waiting for him to truly grow quiet.

"I don't care if you are. I know you, Gen."

"Yeah?"

"I do."

There was a long pause, as you finger slid along his mouth, down to his chin, to his throat, waited there.

You felt him swallow.

"You'll collect all the hearts?"

"I always do."