#rodinon

Tom Hanks cradled the phone against his face, lights twinkling behind him, his lips pressed to receiver. As he romanced Meg Ryan, a soft sigh carried through the air, escaping after a kiss. Rodinon set his weight in his elbow, holding himself over Mitaka on the couch. Beneath him, Mitaka lay out with a smile,fingers tangled in Rodinon’s sweater.“We’re never going to finish a movie, are we?” Rodinon asked, laughing under his breath.Mitaka smirked and shook his head. “No,” he said, leaning up, brushing his lips over Rodinon’s. Mitaka dragged his fingers through Rodinon’s hair, pressing them against the nape of his neck. “You’re too weak to my kisses.”

Mitaka is sweat slick from my head to toe, shivering under his sheets. A few feet away, the love of his life sits with red hair plastered to his forehead, nose running and irritated. He’s lovely, anyway. “Open up,” he says with a raspy voice, holding up another spoonful of soup.

“You should switch places with me,” Mitaka mumbles, rubbing at his eye. “You’re worse off than I am.”

His love smiles through the pain, pressing the warm spoon against his lips. “Nonsense,” he says, clearing his phlegm-filled throat. “If I did that, then who would take care of you?”

(You can imagine your preferred ginger!)

In response to this post. Thanks for the info @ltxmitaka​. Roditaka drabble. Set on Starkiller. AKA my headcanons are adaptable to new information without losing their integrity. Blood warning.

The first crack in the earth is massive. It looks like the jagged edges of a knife wound, pale white pulling apart to reveal something hot and red underneath. Everything is trembling, shaking hard enough to make Rodinon quake in his boots. He tastes the fear the Academy was supposed to have trained out of him. It is sulfuric, sharp on his tongue, and makes him grip the sides of his console. At any moment, he feels like his legs could give way.

Staring out the viewport, watching as Starkiller falls apart, he decides it is time to leave.

It is not an easy choice to make, all things considered. The thought seers in his mind, hot as the molten rock and stone bubbling to surface of the Order’s crown jewel. It runs counter to every bit of information he’s ever been told, pressing against the years of education he received as a younger man - that he re-received, tied down in the reconditioning chambers, at the first sign of fault. But where those lessons focused on facing death with pride, he found himself unconcerned with his living. At least, in living for life’s sake.

Chunks of Starkiller’s land mass sink downward, the planet's core both collapsing in and expanding our as the oscillator’s energy courses out of control. Admiral Datoo commands everyone to mind their training, to stay where they are. The binds of Rodinon’s loyalty to the Order hold him in place, but then they break away into nothing. As Datoo drones on and on, invoking the oaths they all took, he thinks of another promise he’s made. I’ll always be here for you, Dop. It stings behind his eyes, greater than any thought he’s ever had, and then he is running.

“Lieutenant, get back to your station!” Datoo shouts, but Rodinon carries on.

“Just look!” he says, eyes set on the growing crevice in the planet. It threatens to swallow everything up, the craggy stone at its edges like fangs. “We won’t survive! Even Hux is gone.”

Datoo freezes in place, fists tight at his sides. He remains as Rodinon flees the scene. May his soul rest well, Rodinon thinks, skin crawling. The static bodies he passes in the halls, those still at their posts, are just that - bodies. When he calls to some of them, beckons for them to flee, they remain, stiff as rigamortis.  They’re already dead, he thinks, turning his eyes to the ground. He doesn’t have time to save them.

The journey towards the third level command room takes him ten years to complete, or at least it feels that way. He is caked with sweat by the time he arrives, fingers trembling at his side. When the door opens, he sees the state of the planet through the far window. There is more fire and bright, red light than white anymore.

Mitaka turns around, eyes wide. He looks ill, his hat thrown aside and his dark curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.. His eyes are red and puffy and his skin is corpse white, forcing Rodinon’s blood pressure to peak. “Rodinon,” Mitaka whispers, voice quivering. He reaches out one hand and Rodinon takes it, gripping tight.

“Come with me,” Rodinon says. Across the room, the room’s superior takes note and begins to approach. Mitaka sees him coming, swallows, and then nods.

They sprint away together, feet pounding against the base’s metal floors. It sounds just like when they used to play tag in the Academy, all sharp elbows and pimples as they ran themselves ragged. Rodinon realizes he is crying only when a salty tear catches on his lip.

The door out to the tarmac opens to reveal that half the tie-fighters and escape shuttles have fallen into the earth. Many teeter on the edge of falling, the ground beneath them crumbling away. The outside air is boiling hot and difficult to breath, burning in the lungs like bleach fumes. There are hundreds of officers, technicians, and troopers crowding the remaining ships, screaming over one another as they desperately storm the entrances.

Captain Phasma stands at the door of the closest shuttle. Her armor is sullied, smeared with thick ooze and bits of metal shavings. Rodinon wonders what happened to her for only a moment before he cannot think of anything but the bloody hole she leaves in place of a technician's face. Her blaster shot sears away the young man’s flesh and, with a scream, he falls to the ground. The white of his cheekbone is exposed, stark against the charred black of his muscle.

The others, in their desperation, ignore the horror beneath their feet. They trample over the body, still trying to claw their way aboard.

“Everyone get back!” Phasma shout, sweeping her blaster across the crowd. She kicks away a sobbing kitchen worker, growling in her throat. “Can’t any of you hear? We are only accepting individuals with high clearances. We can accept one more Class 3 personnel, but none of you qualify.” She brings her blaster against the skull of a shivering petty officer. “Get away before I kill you myself.”

Rodinon swallows. It is amazing how, even in all this chaos, the Order can still try and grasp for something like organization. Can’t Phasma see that the rules don’t apply anymore? Can’t she see that waiting around, for any reason, is the most foolish thing she can do? He wants to laugh, only his heart is beating too fast for it. Before Phasma can say anything else, Rodinon grips Mitaka by the bicep and drags him forward. The crowd is violent around them, thrashing, but he presses on. This is all that he can give, all that he can do. Nothing has ever been quite so important.

“Phasma!” he shouts, lifting Mitaka’s hand into the air. “He’s Class 3! He’s a lieutenant. Take him!” Rodinon pushes his voice, makes himself louder than the sound of the planet’s disintegration. “Take him!”

The second Mitaka realizes what’s going on, he pulls against Rodinon’s hold. “What are you doing?” he asks, struggling. He knows the answer in an instance, finds it in the wide, honest look of Rodinon’s eyes. In an instant, he finds himself unable to breathe. “Rodinon, stop. Stop. She’ll only take one of us.” Tears spring from his eyes. He thrashes, but his attempts to break away are useless. Rodinon has him. There is no escaping. “You can’t do this,” he begs, but it is already too late.

Phasma turns her head their way and reaches out, catching Mitaka’s other wrist in hand. Mitaka cries out in response, sobs and struggles, but he cannot fight her strength as he is pulled forward. “No! No, please,” He pleads, dragging his feet. “Take him! Take him instead. He’s a lieutenant, too!” The crowd is clawing at him and he tries lean into their touch, begging to be recaptured and dragged back toward the ground. But Phasma is too powerful for them and he is pulled aboard. “Please!”

Rodinon’s hold on his wrist vanishes and he looks back, sees the place where Rodinon’s hand hangs, outreached, in the air. He traces the outline of his fingers, feels his heart seize in his chest. When will he ever know Rodinon’s touch again? When will he feel those fingers against his scalp, running over the curve of his spine?  Mitaka shrieks, face stained red with anguish and tears. He breaks down to nothing and  Phasma has to hold him upright against her chest, squeezing him everytime he tries to push back.

It is painful, but Rodinon forces a smile. He keeps a strong face for their final moments together, blinking back his tears. The planet gives another creak and groan, more and more of everything they’d dreamed of slipping away. As the doors of the shuttle begin to close, the people around him grow more erratic. He locks eyes with Mitaka, being jostled back and forth in the crowd. “I love you!” he calls, grinning ear to ear. “I love you so much, Dop!”

He shouts it over and over again, but Mitaka hears none of it over the roar of the damned. Mitaka reaches out, sets his hand against the shuttle door as it slides shut, and watches as the man he loves disappears into the shrinking crack of the door. When it shuts fully, he presses his finger to the seam, certain he’ll never be whole again.

The shuttles pull away into the sky moments before the rest of the tarmac begins to crack. Rodinon watches it go, a bright streak across the sky. He laughs, then, and crouches to the earth.

Roditaka Modern AU - Dogging

Rodinon has heard of dogging. Who hasn’t? People park their cars in empty lots and hope they’ll get lucky. He knows he’s hit the jackpot when he comes across a dark-haired stranger with an insatiable appetite. Mitaka is good - they’re good together - but this was meant to be a one-night stand. When they meet at the same lot one week later, and the week after that, it’s no surprise that no-strings-attached has become a yearning that neither can quite satisfy without the other.

“Poor Mitaka.”

It rings through the halls of the Finalizer like the oscillator’s explosions on Starkiller. He hears it everywhere everyday. The mess hall, the bridge, the communal refreshers. Always, it is just

“Poor Mitaka.”

He hates to see their sad expressions, the cut of their frowns like saw blades on his skin. When Hux looks his way with soft eyes, he wants to claw his own throat out. When Kylo Ren accepts his message without a tantrum, he wants to impale himself on a spike. How is he supposed to manage? How is he supposed to deal with

“Poor Mitaka.”

“Are you eating enough, Dopheld? You look thin,” Unamo says and he wants to tear his clothes off, show her the places where he’s scratched scabs against his ribs. What will she say then, he wonders? Oh, but he knows. Through the pain, just another

“Poor Mitaka.”

He doesn’t want this. Why doesn’t anyone understand? He doesn’t want their pity. He doesn’t want their cards or gift baskets or carefully prepared casseroles. He wants one thing and one thing alone.

He wants Rodinon.

And he will never have him.

“Poor Mitaka.”

“I’m cold.” “You’re always cold.”

Mitaka huffs, shoving his elbow against Rodinon’s chest. The deep, hearty laugh he earns in response shakes through the room. It rattles in his chest, soothes his tense muscles. He thinks that, if Rodinon weren’t so handsome, if he weren’t the love his life, he might strangle him. There is something criminal about the way his smile is enough to make him swoon. One man’s grins shouldn’t be enough to sustain him, and yet it is. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, rolling over and pressing his face to the crook of Rodinon’s neck. It is warm and he sighs against it, nuzzling as close as he can. It is like pressing his cheek to a sandy beach at night, stealing away all the warmth it has collected over the day. “I’m not always cold.” Rodinon’s hands slink down his back. They’re toasty, too, and rub away the cold spots at his sides. “You are,” Rodinon mumbles. He is half-asleep, only spry enough to tease. His fingertips trace the ridges of Mitaka’s rib cage, soothing him. Soon, rebuttal doesn’t seem worth it.

What they have is what Mitaka’s teachers would have called “fatal dependence.” Rodinon holds all the cards, a royal flush in the suit of his heart. In politics, the arrangement is a death knell. If someone has something you need, which you cannot get anywhere else, then they own you. You have nothing, ruled by your desperation instead of your will.  But in love? In love, Mitaka does not know what to think. In one breathe, he sees the danger. He knows he would give anything, everything, for Rodinon. In the next, he longs to give it all. He wants to be Rodinon’s. He wants to be his forever. The bed warms beneath them, body heat collecting against the sheets. Still, Mitaka feels the edges of his fingers tingle. He tucks them in Rodinon’s armpit, smiling at the slight giggle he receives in response. “Don’t,” Rodinon whines, squirming. He’s chuckling anyway, allowing Mitaka’s fingers to remain even as he protests. “You know I’m ticklish.” “Just like I’m cold,” Mitaka says. He draws his hand back, pressing it to Rodinon’s cheek. Their lips come together with a soft sigh. They move against each other, Rodinon’s fingers tangling in Mitaka’s hair. As they part, they hold each other’s gaze. Rodinon is difficult to see in the dark, but Mitaka can catch the outlines of his face. He sees the square jaw and harsh brow he’s come to love, feels his body pull in response to them. Around them, the ship shivers and hums. It feels like the rock of a mother’s arms and his eyelids grow heavy. Rodinon stands, pulling away from the bed. “Need the refresher,” he says, padding off into the darkness. Mitaka stares after him, fingers curling in the sheets. Once the refresher door closes, his skin pricks up with goosebumps and his hands begin to shake.

One minute passes, then two. He clamps his eyes shut, curling in on himself to huddle for warmth. The hot stripes of sheet fade and he searches for them anyway, burying his face against Rodinon’s pillow. It smells off him, still, and Mitaka shakes his head against it. He waits a long time for Rodinon to return. The light under the door in the refresher gives way to darkness and Mitaka has to ask himself if it was ever there at all. He waits just a little longer, staring, worrying. He wants to know if Rodinon will ever come back. Except, of course not. Of course he won’t return. Of course he can’t. 

The bed is chill, has been. Rodinon won’t ever warm it again. He won’t tuck Mitaka close and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. He won’t pin him down on the shits, kissing and touching all the sweet spots on Mitaka’s body. He won’t don anything at all because he is gone. Starkiller is gone. That icy planet, with its unforgiving terrain and wicked storms, has vanished form the galaxy. Even the burning heat of its aftermath has faded away, leaving nothing more than an empty spot where something great once stood.

He wonders if, in his final moments, Rodinon felt that heat. Or was it cold, freezing, like he is now?

Like he will always be, now.

Cold.