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writetomyheart2015-07-23 02:03 pm
defiancebyfire.livejournal.com) wrote in writetomyheart2015-07-23 02:03 pm
[team four] --
fujigaya snippet from my striker!au. aka i am bad at giving titles and unable to write happy things. short background/character study, maybe.
Love definitely wasn’t what was between the two of them, because Fujigaya had long ago given up even the slightest notion of feelings in exchange for skill, precision, and the ability to sass back at his superiors and colleagues. In hindsight, love was never a factor in any of this, not when they could be high on fumes and adrenaline and the heady mix of cold-blood panic and thrill that came with saving each other’s asses over and over.
For every mission that was handed out to them there was a corresponding hit order should they fail, and Fujigaya’s skewed sense of responsibility in ensuring the survival of Kitayama--of his entire team--effectively crippled any other emotions that he might have harbored toward any of them had they been born in another lifetime. He’s pretty sure everyone else on his squad more or less felt the same, because they had been a group for years, and with prolonged exposure Fujigaya had involuntarily learned how to read them like the open books that they were.
So when he gives Kitayama the cold shoulder and ignores Nikaido’s and Senga’s less than subtle attempts to drag him to the hospital to visit, he tells himself it’s not because of worry, because that would mean he was concerned about Kitayama being alive more than what is necessary, and in Fujigaya’s books that equated to love, and he most definitely did not do love.
The first and last time Fujigaya had held on and cared enough and felt, he was twelve years old. All the hiding and running to try and protect their family from the men his fathers’ enemies had sent had ended with his parents sprawled on their front yard, a bullet through each of their temples. It took another five days before Yuusuke and Ryosuke surfaced, three blocks from their house, their bodies cold and bloated from imbibing too much of the lake water. Until now Fujigaya can’t look at bruises without imagining the splotch of color they made on his brothers’ pale throats and wrists--it’s why he hates hand-to-hand combat.
Fujigaya refuses to tack an overused word to name whatever this niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach was whenever he thought about being too late to the rescue, or the uncomfortable clench of his stomach at the imagination of a breathing tube in Kitayama’s mouth and the steady beep of a heart monitor from beside his hospital bed.
It was their unrelenting need to stay alive, if only for another day. A chance to keep each other breathing enough to maybe try and overcome their personal demons. They would fall however many times, but they were trained not to waste time--his men would always hit the ground running.
It’s not love, Fujigaya convinces himself. It is instinct, pure and simple and easy to understand, this code among his men. It was him keeping his promise, making good on his claim to always protect his teammates. He had nothing else to offer other than his unspoken words, and to their lot, words seemed to be the only things meant to be honored.
your turn,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
faded_lace
Love definitely wasn’t what was between the two of them, because Fujigaya had long ago given up even the slightest notion of feelings in exchange for skill, precision, and the ability to sass back at his superiors and colleagues. In hindsight, love was never a factor in any of this, not when they could be high on fumes and adrenaline and the heady mix of cold-blood panic and thrill that came with saving each other’s asses over and over.
For every mission that was handed out to them there was a corresponding hit order should they fail, and Fujigaya’s skewed sense of responsibility in ensuring the survival of Kitayama--of his entire team--effectively crippled any other emotions that he might have harbored toward any of them had they been born in another lifetime. He’s pretty sure everyone else on his squad more or less felt the same, because they had been a group for years, and with prolonged exposure Fujigaya had involuntarily learned how to read them like the open books that they were.
So when he gives Kitayama the cold shoulder and ignores Nikaido’s and Senga’s less than subtle attempts to drag him to the hospital to visit, he tells himself it’s not because of worry, because that would mean he was concerned about Kitayama being alive more than what is necessary, and in Fujigaya’s books that equated to love, and he most definitely did not do love.
The first and last time Fujigaya had held on and cared enough and felt, he was twelve years old. All the hiding and running to try and protect their family from the men his fathers’ enemies had sent had ended with his parents sprawled on their front yard, a bullet through each of their temples. It took another five days before Yuusuke and Ryosuke surfaced, three blocks from their house, their bodies cold and bloated from imbibing too much of the lake water. Until now Fujigaya can’t look at bruises without imagining the splotch of color they made on his brothers’ pale throats and wrists--it’s why he hates hand-to-hand combat.
Fujigaya refuses to tack an overused word to name whatever this niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach was whenever he thought about being too late to the rescue, or the uncomfortable clench of his stomach at the imagination of a breathing tube in Kitayama’s mouth and the steady beep of a heart monitor from beside his hospital bed.
It was their unrelenting need to stay alive, if only for another day. A chance to keep each other breathing enough to maybe try and overcome their personal demons. They would fall however many times, but they were trained not to waste time--his men would always hit the ground running.
It’s not love, Fujigaya convinces himself. It is instinct, pure and simple and easy to understand, this code among his men. It was him keeping his promise, making good on his claim to always protect his teammates. He had nothing else to offer other than his unspoken words, and to their lot, words seemed to be the only things meant to be honored.
your turn,
faded_lace