#anthoine sevre

Tully Matherson’s first time in Cardinal Atlantic’s conn-pod is a bitter sweet thing.

On the one hand, he’s there. He’s finally there. After all those years, Tully finally gets to live his childhood dream, the thing he’s been working towards for as long as he can remember. He wonders, every now and then, if his dreams are a byproduct of his upbringing. Would he still be a Ranger if his father weren’t Marshall? Would he be dying to see the inside of a Jaeger if he hadn’t been raised in the PPDC? Would he be stepping into his drive suit if he hadn’t spent his formative years watching his parents do the same? The questions keep coming as he enters the conn-pod, trailing one hand over the metal walls.

On the other hand, this is Cardinal Atlantic, of all Jaegers. It’s a sick twist of irony, Tully thinks, that the last Jaeger his father ever stepped foot in would be his first.

Footsteps sound behind him, but Tully doesn’t have to turn to know who it is. Anthoine Sevre, one of Cardinal Atlantic’s original pilots, Marshall Matherson’s last co-pilot. He shouldn’t—he won’t—hold it against them. He pushes any thought of his father from his mind, letting a smile warm his face as he turns to face his new partner.

“Hey—”

“I’ll take the left,” Anthoine says without preamble. Tully hasn’t seen them since their compatibility test, much less talked to them, and their bluntness doesn’t fail to strike him as…unpleasant.

“Oookay,” Tully draws out, stepping to the right side of the conn-pod. “You excited?” he asks as the rigging clasps over his boots. Anthoine mirrors his steps but doesn’t respond. “Well, you’re probably used to this,” Tully continues. “Drifting and all. How long have you been piloting?”

“Five years.” Anthoine doesn’t seem even the slightest bit interested in Tully. They still haven’t looked at him, despite the mere few feet between them. Instead, they keep their eyes forward, the reflection of the display in their visor highlighting a slight Roman nose and sharp jawline, the light doubled in dark eyes.

“Oh, that’s longer than—”

“—Tully.” Anthoine glances at him from the corner of their eye. “You’re about to be in my head.”

Heat crawls up Tully’s neck. “Right.” He can only let the silence sit for so long as LOCCENT ramps up the neural bridge. “Any final advice?”

Anthoine sighs, but after a moment, says, “You’ll see a lot, from my side. You’re not just getting my memories, but the memories I retained from my previous partners. Including your father. Don’t get caught up in them, just let them flow.” Tully swallows, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He knows about RABITs, of course. He’s tried not to think about the fact that he’ll most likely relive the moment his father died, from both the Marshall’s perspective and Anthoine’s, but with the possibility about to become a reality, he can’t help but fear it.

“I know,” he says, though he doesn’t even sound convincing to himself.

Anthoine looks like they’re about to say something else, but are interrupted by their J-Tech.

“Morning, Rangers,” Naomi chimes over the comms. “Ready to get really, really personal?”

“Good morning, Naomi,” Anthoine says.

At the same time, Tully says, “No.”

Naomi cackles. “This will be good.” There’s a pause as she types in the commands and the neural link indicators begin to appear on screen. “Cardinal Atlantic, ready to drop.”

“Ready to drop,” Anthoine and Tully say in unison.

“Here we go.” Steam hisses as the Jaeger’s head disconnects from the coupling.

“Don’t lock your knees,” Anthoine advises a second before they make the drop. Tully copies Anthoine’s position, the loose line of their shoulders, a solid but casual stance, and forces himself to relax. The rig absorbs most of the shock, slowing considerably before they reach the body, but the force is still enough that Tully’s thankful for the hint.

“Engaging pilot-to-pilot protocol.” Naomi’s voice fills the conn-pod. Tully flips the necessary switches as he dutifully ignores the tingle of excitement shivering down his arms.

“Connection sequence engaged,” Cardinal Atlantic’s AI sounds off. The display flickers to life in front of them, opening on the bay. The massive doors remain closed, but Tully’s dying to know what it’ll be like to see them open from inside a Jaeger. Beside him, Anthoine rolls their neck, momentarily pausing with their head tilted back, eyes closed. Tully can’t help but think that he’s about to be inside their brain, and the thought momentarily scares him.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, as Marshall Jameson taps into the comms. “Good morning, rangers. Marshall Jameson, checking in. Prepare for neural handshake.”

 Naomi starts the countdown, and suddenly, Tully can’t ignore the buzzing in his head. He shakes his hands in an attempt to distract himself, urging his brain to think of literally anything that won’t ruin this for him. For both of them. He knows Anthoine will see just about anything that crosses Tully’s mind. Unfortunately for Tully, he’s been spending too much time thinking about Anthoine, about what this moment would be like, would mean, for the both of them. Before Tully’s father, Anthoine had two other co-pilots. Three in just over five years. Not a lot, but more than the average ranger. What’s it even like, Tully wonders, to be in the heads of so many people? What’s it going to be like to be in his father’s head? He doesn’t know the extent of his father’s death, just that he was killed in combat after a Kaiju damaged Cardinal Atlantic’s conn-pod, due to blunt force trauma. He could’ve asked—probably should’ve—but he didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to know what it was like, what his father might’ve felt. The adrenaline in his veins turns icy.

Seconds before the handshake, Tully looks over at Anthoine. He’s surprised to find their dark eyes on him, corners of their mouth pinched downward, as if they’re already regretting this. Tully doesn’t have time to ask. The countdown reaches ‘one’ as Anthoine faces forward again, and the neural bridge opens.

Tully is sucked in immediately. He doesn’t fight it—he knows better. It’s an odd sensation, like all of his thoughts, his memories, are tied together, and someone is pulling the string, yanking them through his consciousness faster and faster. A few memories he doesn’t recognize—Anthoine’s, he’s sure—flicker in the back of his mind. He forces himself to push forward, not letting the RABITs distract him. There are faces he doesn’t recognize, words in a language he doesn’t know. Images of a bright, warm kitchen, a woman’s voice singing a French lullaby. A small black and white dog dashes into a copse of trees, which then turns into a field, dotted with grazing horses. One of the horses whinnies, then screams, as the field turns dark, the shapes of the horses folding into rubble, the clouds in the sky darkening with ash. The heat around him is unbearable, but Tully doesn’t dwell, doesn’t take the bait. The memory courses past, ruins turning darker, smooth, the halls of their station in northern California. Something more familiar, which Tully is glad for. The red of warning lights pulse on the walls.

“Ready, kid?” A voice sounds behind him, and Tully balks. There’s his father, just as he remembers him. He looks slightly shorter, and Tully duly notes it’s because he’s seeing him through Anthoine’s eyes, who is a couple inches taller than Tully himself.

“Always,” Anthoine says, the end of the word fading as the memory begins to move on.

Except, it doesn’t. Tully stumbles forward, into Cardinal Atlantic’s conn-pod, the Jaeger’s AI blaring around him

“Warning, neural bridge unstable. Right hemisphere disconnected.”

“Sorry,” Tully stammers, his mouth dry. He didn’t realize the connection was so sensitive. “I didn’t—”

“It’s not you,” Naomi interrupts. She sounds frantic, as if Tully is the last thing on her mind. “Goddammit. Tully, Anthoine’s too deep. They’re chasing the RABIT. Try to get them out, but don’t disengage.”

Fuck me, Tully thinks. Beside him, Anthoine is standing perfectly still, save for a slight twitch in their right hand. They’re too far away for Tully to try touching them, and he doesn’t think throwing anything would help, even if he did have anything to throw. “Naomi, how…”

“Uh.” Naomi mutters something, too quiet for Tully to understand. “If you can reengage, you can try to pull them out from inside the memory.”

“Is that…safe?”

“The worse that’s gonna happen is you both disengage and the bridge collapses. In that case, we just try again. I can reconnect you, if you’re ready.”

Tully swallows, shifting his weight and shaking out his shoulders. “Do it,” he says, before he can chicken out.

The conn-pod shifts around him. Sirens blare, a million warnings demanding his attention on the display. Panic spikes in Tully chest until he realizes—he’s on the other side of Cardinal Atlantic. This is Anthoine’s memory. Beyond the Jaeger’s visor, a massive Kaiju roars, the sound vibrating through Tully’s bones. Tully recognizes this Kaiju, a Cat 4 known as Riptide. In front of him, Anthoine braces as Riptide bows its head before charging. It collides with Cardinal Atlantic so hard, they’re thrown back. Pain shoots up Tully’s spine as the Jaeger collides with a cliff face behind them.

“The nerve system’s damaged,” Anthoine’s co-pilot says, and Tully’s heart stops. His father again, a few years older, looking exactly as he had the last time Tully saw him.

Of course.

Of course, the RABIT Anthoine chases would be the day Marshall Matherson died.

“We need to reboot the system,” Anthoine states, reaching to flip a switch on their control panel.

“We don’t have time.” The Marshall punches a command into the system as Riptide charges again.

Reroute the system, the thought passes in Tully’s mind, and he recognizes it as his father’s. Anthoine is already moving to type in the same command, their body lurching backwards before the last button is pushed as the Kaiju throws itself against them.

“Hull breach,” Cardinal Atlantic declares. Tully doesn’t have to look to know a rip has opened across the back of the Jaeger’s head, jagged cliff face digging through the metal.

Fucking Kaiju, the pilots think together. Then, sword on the left flank, he’s open. And Anthoine is moving before the thought is complete, bringing Cardinal Atlantic’s left sword arm up, slicing into the Kaiju’s body. The monster screams, open mouth a mere feet from the Jaeger’s head. Again. The Kaiju relinquishes its hold as the sword cuts through its side, burying itself in bone. Anthoine tries to pull back, but the blade is stuck.

Riptide yanks backward, taking Cardinal Atlantic with it as it retreats several steps. There’s a moment of quiet, odd stillness, as the Kaiju stares them down.

It’s thinking. The Marshall.

That’s not good. Anthoine.

The pilots bring Cardinal Atlantic’s right arm up, crossing the Jaeger’s two swords as the Kaiju leaps, throwing itself bodily across the space between them.

Tully vaguely thinks that he knows what happens next, that he doesn’t want to see it, but he can’t stop it from playing out in front of him.

The tip of Riptide’s claw catches Cardinal Atlantic, ripping into the conn-pod and taking out the edge of Marshall Matherson’s rigging. The pilots both scream, pain ripping through their right side as Matherson is thrown out of the rigging and into the far wall. Something like electricity sparks at the back of their heads, tingling outwards, down their spines, fading into a persistent pressure. Tully can’t move as the two pilots’ thoughts run laps in his head. Anthoine’s flooding his cerebral cortex with a deep-down panic, fear pushing through the mirrored pain coming from the Marshall. And the Marshall…

Steven Matherson’s mind is fading, gripping wildly onto anything he can find substance in. Memories of earlier battles, memories of Anthoine’s, memories of Tully. The young, curly-haired, wild child Tully used to be, wreaking havoc on LOCCENT because he was one of very few children living on a massive military base. Tully as he grew up, his years at the academy, the relief his father felt when Tully announced he was going to be a J-Tech. Steven would always love his son, but he never wanted him to be a Jaeger pilot. Tully swallows, chest contracting as he watches his father die. All he can think is that he’s here, where he’s always wanted to be, as his father’s last wish crosses his mind.

God, please, never let Tully step foot in a Jaeger.

When the Marshall dies, Tully feels nothing, just as if he’s there, then gone. The three paths of thought in his mind reduce to two, just him and Anthoine.

Anthoine struggles to push Riptide off, slashing upwards with one arm. The Kaiju catches the arm in its mouth, biting down hard. Pain lances up Anthoine’s arm as it tears into mechanic muscle strands, but the ranger doesn’t back down. They cast a look over their shoulder, searching for the Marshall, only pausing for a split second when they find his body.

“LOCCENT,” they say through gritted teeth, “reroute the Marshall’s control to me.”

“Anthoine, what happened?” Naomi’s voice cracks through the comms. “We lost connection to the Marshall, is he—”

“—He’s dead,” Anthoine almost shouts. Pain surges as Riptide shreds Cardinal Atlantic’s arm further, mixing with the panic and grief building in the back of Anthoine’s mind. “Give me control, now.”

Naomi doesn’t argue. A split second later, an orange light haloes Anthoine’s right hand, signaling control of the right hemisphere. Pressure blooms at Anthoine’s temple as they lift their right arm, calling on the Jaeger’s second sword. They bring it down, hard, across Riptide’s cheek, severing the Kaiju’s head in two. The beast stumbles, struggling to keep its hold as blood and brain matter splash into the ocean around them. It’s a losing battle. Moments later, the Kaiju shutters, its jaw going lax as its body fails, collapsing against Cardinal Atlantic. Dead.

Anthoine falls to their knees in the rigging. Cardinal Atlantic does the same, help up only by the cliffs behind it and the Kaiju pinning its front.

“Fuck,” Anthoine gasps, tilting their head back, breathing hard. After a moment, they finally look back, staring at Steven’s body for several seconds. A single, agitated sob escapes them, and something clicks in Tully’s head.

The Jaeger. The drift test.

He chased the fucking RABIT.

“Anthoine,” he starts, remembering his body and moving to kneel at his co-pilot’s side. He touches their shoulder, to no response. “Anthoine, it’s done. It’s over.” But Anthoine can’t hear them, their breathing too sharp, too focused on his former co-pilot’s body.

Naomi’s voice sounds again, this time too close to Tully to be part of the memory. “Tully, can you hear me?”

“Yes, shit. Sorry. I can’t—they’re too—”

“I know,” Naomi’s voice is soft, like she’s talking to a scared child. “We’re going to terminate the neural link, okay?”

Tully swallows the lump in his throat, actively keeping himself from following Anthoine’s line of sight. “Yeah, I just…” He fails miserably. Thankfully, from his place at Anthoine’s side, all he can see is his father’s hand where it lays limp on the ground.

“I’m sorry, Tully.”

He takes a deep breath, making himself close his eyes and turn away. “It’s okay. I knew this could happen.”

“It doesn’t make it any easier. I’m disconnecting you guys now.”

The conn-pod, the real conn-pod, comes back to Tully in a rush. He falls to his knees at the same time Anthoine does, both of them kneeling on the floor in silence punctuated only by their ragged breathing. Having his mind to himself again provides a small relief, but Tully can’t shake the sense of having someone else in his head. He reaches up numbly, flipping a switch on the right side of his control panel before pressing two buttons along the jawline of his helmet.

“Right hemisphere, disengaged,” Cardinal Atlantic states. Tully pulls his helmet off, pushing his hair back as he sits to the best of his ability. “Left hemisphere, disengaged.”

Anthoine takes the same steps as Tully, setting their helmet aside gently. They rub absently at their left arm as they make eye contact from across the conn-pod. “Sorry.”

Tully waves them off, too out of breath to talk.

“Everything okay in there?” Naomi asks.

“Peachy.” Anthoine tries to sound okay, but it comes out exasperated. “Didn’t mean to ruin it, LOCCENT.”

“Man, shut up,” Naomi says. “We should’ve kept a better eye on you. We were too worried about our rookie here.”

“I thought I did okay,” Tully defends himself.

“You did just fine,” Anthoine says. They’re quiet for a moment, looking over Tully, before continuing. “I’m sorry about your father. I should’ve tried to save him.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done, Anthoine. He died before the Kaiju did. You wouldn’t have been able to do both.” Anthoine only shrugs. Tully takes a deep breath, then rises to his feet, taking up his helmet.

Anthoine watches him, brows furrowed, as Tully puts his helmet back on. “What are you doing?”

“Trying again,” Tully states simply. “Unless you want our first drift to end on us reliving the death of my father?”

Anthoine laughs, and Tully knows he’s caught them by surprise. “Absolutely not.” They stand slowly, obviously not fully recovered from the memory, but pushing through.

Once their helmet is back on, Naomi says, “Are you guys sure you wanna try again right now? We can come back after lunch…”

“No,” Tully and Anthoine chorus. They look at each other, slightly shocked.

“We’re ready now,” Tully says. Anthoine smiles, igniting a warmth in Tully’s chest.

“Here goes nothing, then.”

The connection sequence restarts. The two pilots punch in the necessary commands, both of them taking a deep breath before the neural bridge reengages. This time, Tully doesn’t wander. He let’s Anthoine’s memories flow by, keeping his eyes ahead, locked on Cardinal Atlantic’s display. Glimpses of faces, snippets of voices, flood around him, but they don’t catch. It’s easier this time, now that he knows what to expect. A shadow flickers at the edge of his mind—Riptide’s claw tearing into the hull—but Tully refuses to let the memory stick. After several seconds, the flow slows, and Tully’s mind clears.

That was…           

…better.

Tully catches Anthoine’s gaze across the conn-pod. The other pilot winks.

It’s not all that bad.

He didn’t realize at first, but the thought comes from Anthoine, who still watches him carefully.

Dude, this is like, real telepathy.

Anthoine laughs again, and Tully thinks he can get used to the sound.

Don’t get your hopes up, Matherson.

Anthoine teases, but their tone is light, warm.

“How are we feeling?” Naomi cuts into their thoughts.

“Scientifically advanced,” Tully jokes. It is weird, having someone else in his head. He realizes that, with enough focus, he can kind of see from Anthoine’s perspective, too. This freaks him out though, and he almost immediately pushes the idea to the back of his mind.

Keep your hands to yourself.

Sorry.

“Well, if we’re ready, let’s see if baby can take his first steps. Starting up calibration. You first, Matherson.”

Tully exhales, pushing the three buttons to begin the calibration on his side. “Right hemisphere, calibrating.” Something tingles at the base of his neck as the Jaeger leans into his neurons. His lifts his arms, the orange glow of the halo circling his right wrist. Cardinal Atlantic moves with him, lifting its right arm.

Beside him, Anthoine copies his steps. “Left hemisphere, calibrating.” They lift their arms, and Tully feels it as much as he sees it. The Jaeger’s left arm lefts, and both pilots bring their hands together in front of them. Cardinal Atlantic’s hands come together in front of the display.

The buzz at the base of Tully’s skull settles, his nerves calming as the Jaeger settles around them, as the pilots settle with each other. He isn’t surprised when he sees his grin reflected on Anthoine’s face.

               Tully Matherson catches himself skimming the news boards in the canteen, reading without really reading, since there isn’t much going on that day. It’s been two days since the last Kaiju attacked Chile, which Tully and Anthoine weren’t even a part of, with their current deployment too far north. Scientists found another use for Kaiju remains—something about teeth whitening that Tully immediately decides he won’t be trying. On the final board, a story scrolls by about a man in France thinking he saw a Kaiju in the Atlantic.

               God, that’s the last thing we need, Tully thinks, immediately followed by, Wait, what the fuck.

               Because the article isn’t in English, the one and only language Tully has ever known. It’s in French.

               “Un homme originaire de Briec, près de la côte Atlantique, soutient qu’il a vu un Kaiju dans la mer pendant ses vacances à la plage de l’Île-Tudy. Si c’est vrai, ce serait la première fois qu’un de ces monstres est vu à l’extérieur du Pacifique.”

               He blinks, reading over the words a second time, in case the sleep deprivation finally caught up and he’s just hallucinating the fact that it’s French.

               But no, it’s French. It’s very French.

He decides this is a problem for later.

Later turns into that afternoon, as Tully scrolls through a folder of documents containing early notes on the effects of drifting. It’s something he studies often, especially since becoming an actual Jaeger pilot three months prior. There’s lots of interesting things no one expected to come out of being in someone else’s head, aside from the typical memories. Pilots have learned entirely new skills just from sharing a headspace. He skims an article of a Mach 1 ranger who never learned how to drive until they drifted with their co-pilot, a former kart driver. People reported learning how to knit, cook, paint, solve sedukos, but he doesn’t find anything on languages. Surely, he’s not the first one. He taps through two more articles—one about a pilot who learned to drive a boat, the other about one who learned the layout of a building he’d never been in—before he gets an idea.

He closes the file, checking the time on his desk before grabbing his jacket. It’s just before dinner, and the evening sparring session is coming to an end. He has to run to make it to the gym before the class lets out but catches Nadia just in time. Nadia, who has been a pilot for ten years. Nadia, whose co-pilot is from a different country.

“If you’re trying to make the session, you’re kinda late, kid,” she muses as Tully jogs up. It must’ve been a good session because she’s all smiles, despite the few bruises forming around her arms and shoulders.

“No, actually, I was looking for you.” She raises one eyebrow. “You’ve been a pilot for a long time, Dia—”

“Careful, Matherson,” she warns, lifting her water bottle to her mouth.

He waves her off. “—I mean, you have a lot of experience. Seen a lot of shit.”

“True.”

“Have you ever heard of a pilot learning a language in the Drift?”

She takes a swig of water, holding it in her cheeks as she ponders. After a moment, she swallows, and says, “Not like, entirely. I mean, I’ve definitely picked up some Italian from being in Mel’s head, but not the whole shebang. Why?”

“Because this morning, I read an article in French.”

“And?”

“I don’t speak French, Nadia.”

She shrugs. “I wouldn’t be surprised that it’s possible. People pick up weird shit in the Drift all the time. I mean, how do you think I know so much about welding? I definitely didn’t learn it in Miami.”

“No, I know. I just haven’t heard of anyone picking up a full language before. Besides, Anthoine’s only been my co-pilot for three months.”

“Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t you ask them?”

Tully shrugs. “Anthoine’s not exactly…open.”

Nadia laughs. “Yeah, I gathered that by the trail of co-pilots they leave in their wake.”

“No, I mean…I don’t know if they’d like me, uh, sharing…French. With them. It’s kind of a touchy subject.” Anthoine’s a great pilot, Tully can’t deny, but their first few drifts were rough. Many of the difficulties they encountered were caused mostly by Tully’s inexperience, something Tully can’t deny, but he knows part of it lay in Anthoine’s absolute refusal to touch some of their own memories.

Nadia takes another drink of water before placing a comforting hand on Tully’s shoulder. “They’re your co-pilot, Tully. You’re gonna have to talk to them at some point. Maybe this can be a bonding experience for you two.”

Tully brushes her hand off, turning away before she can see him blush. “Yeah, yeah.”

The problem with being Anthoine’s co-pilot is that Tully never knows where they are. It’s like the second they’re out of the cockpit, they’re gone. Usually, it’s not that big of a problem, seeing as they don’t spend a lot of time outside their Jaeger anyway. Anthoine is antagonistic at best and especially so after a bad practice session, which is exactly what happened that morning. It’s not that the two of them aren’t compatible, obviously they are, but Anthoine is a perfectionist with 5 years of piloting under their belt. Tully’s only been a pilot for three months. He’s bound to make mistakes, he knows that, but it doesn’t keep Anthoine from snapping at him at every misstep. Tully is sure there’s a bet going on somewhere about how long they’ll both last.

The good thing about being Anthoine’s co-pilot is that Tully’s been in their head enough to guess at how to find them. It takes some time, but Tully finally finds the other ranger across the compound, in the smaller, much less used mess hall. It’s practically abandoned, so well hidden in LOCCENT that Tully, born and raised PPDC, didn’t even know it existed until he saw it in one of Anthoine’s memories.

So, maybe French isn’t the only thing he’s picked up in the Drift.

Tully knows Anthoine is there before he sees them, the warm smell of garlic and melted cheese wafting down the hall outside the kitchens. Anthoine’s a great cook, something they got from their mother. Memories—Anthoine’s memories—vie for Tully’s attention as he approaches the room. He lets them slide by as he peeks around the corner of the doorway. Anthoine’s back is to him, focused as they are at the burning stove in front of them. Tully can’t tell what they’re making, only that it smells really good, and seems to have the other ranger in a decent mood. They’re dressed in their regulation black jumpsuit, sleeves rolled up to their elbows, dark hair pulled back in a bun. He watches the line of their shoulder flex as they stir whatever is on the stove. Tully knows Anthoine is going to see this memory in the Drift later, going to feel that warm flutter in Tully’s chest, but for once, it doesn’t bother him.

“What?” Anthoine calls over their shoulder.

“How did you know I was here?” Tully leaves the safety of the wall, stepping forward to lean against the counter to Anthoine’s right.

               “You breathe very loudly.” Anthoine doesn’t look at him, and Tully gets the impression it’s a pointed effort.

               “I don’t breathe that loud,” Tully protests. That earns him a small, but withering, glance from his co-pilot. “What are you making?”

               Anthoine lifts the spoon, the contents of the pot stretching and rising with it. “Pommes aligot.” A memory flashes in Tully’s mind of a younger Anthoine watching their mother stir the same dish in a different pot, a different kitchen, a lifetime away. “What do you want, Tully?”

               “I was reading the news in the canteen this morning,” he starts.

               “Ah, you can read?” Anthoine still hasn’t looked to him, but the corner of their mouth flickers in a quick smile. Tully punches them in the shoulder.

               “Shut up.” Anthoine rolls their eyes. “I was reading the news and saw an article about a man in France.”

               Anthoine hums. “Yes, I saw the same. The man who saw the Kaiju?”

               “Yeah.”

               “Lots of people see Kaiju, Tully.”

               “Yeah, but he saw it in France, Anthoine. Like, in the Atlantic. There’s never been one in the Atlantic before.”

               It’s possible Anthoine picks up on where Tully is going, because they finally look at their co-pilot, one eyebrow raised in slight skepticism as they reach to switch off the burner. “You read the whole article?”

               “Well, I skimmed it.”

               “Since when can you read French?”

               Tully throws his hands up. “That’s what I’m saying!” Anthoine’s eyes widen just a fraction at Tully’s outburst. “Sorry, that was loud.”

               “You usually are,” Anthoine says, matter of fact. “Are you implying you learned French from drifting with me?” Their tone isn’t demeaning, but they don’t seem to be thrilled with the idea of sharing this with Tully. Part of Tully understands—language can be really personal, especially for someone like Anthoine, who keeps so much to themselves.

               Tully shrugs. “I think it’s possible.”

               Anthoine tilts their head, eyes trailing Tully head-to-toe before they settle on what Tully is sure is the stupid grin on his face. “C’est possible,” Anthoine mutters. “Tu peux le parler?”

               Tully shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I think I can only read it and understand it.”

               “Ah, quel dommage. Your accent would be awful anyway. You’ll have to work on that.” Antoine turns back to the stove, giving the pommes aligot a final stir before pulling two plates from the cabinet. Tully watches them, contemplating as Anthoine divides an impressive amount of perfectly creamy, stretchy potatoes between the dishes.

               “You’re okay with that? Is this even a thing that’s happened before?”