#aristotle caws | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

graciescott27 · 4 months ago

Text

Aristotle’s Got Nothing on Me! - Tabito Karasu

Tabito Karasu x AFAB!Academic Rival!Reader

I love caw caw bitch sm - I know I did his accent wrong

cw: language, suggestive at some parts possibly, Otoya, Karasu’s a loser

kinda possibly some of my worst writing recently but that’s ok

wc: 1k

Tabito Karasu’s resolve to do anything was cracking and he couldn’t figure out why. Otoya insisted that he knew, but he refused to tell Karasu. He just kept saying that it’d be a “bad omen” if he didn’t “learn for himself”, whatever the hell that meant. What Otoya did insist on telling him was how hot that “one chick in his class” was. Every single day without fail Otoya would bring up your appearance. Yeah, Tabito Karasu didn’t need any reminders of that.

Unfortunately, your personality was far more rotten than your looks. You were argumentative, obnoxious, way too determined, and way too smart for your own good. All objectively hot traits in his mind, of course, but coming from you it was… unflattering. All of your perfectionism and sass was directed towards him solely because of how competitive you two were. Both of you had silently decided at some point that you had to beat each other academically no matter what. Every time you got a 99 on a test, he assured you that he’d get a 100 on the next one. Every time you had to give a classmate notes on their essay, you would correct every possible error you could find in his.

He was walking with Otoya and Yukimiya to soccer practice when he spotted you talking to your friend by your locker. Recently, he had found that his eyes followed you whenever you two were in the same room. That was unusual. You were whispering about something, a distressed look on your face. What were you so worried about?

Karasu nearly tripped over his own feet as he continued to stare at you long after he had passed you. Yukimiya and Otoya were on either side of him, exchanging unimpressed looks every so often.

“Karasu. Dude,” Otoya raised a brow. “Did you hear anything I said?”

“Uh, yeah,” Karasu rolled his eyes, his head snapping back towards his stupid best friend. “Ya were talkin’ about Fight Club. Ya never shut up about that damn movie.”

“Fuck you, it’s sick,” Otoya scoffed.

Yukimiya huffed out a laugh. “Nineties movies aside, Karasu, why are you staring at that poor girl like a creep?”

“Oh, yeah, you don’t know about his girlfriend yet,” Otoya nodded.

“Not my goddamn girlfriend,” Karasu grumbled, scoffing. He had never thought much about it before. He didn’t think about love or crushes very frequently, admittedly. He had dated a few girls, sure, but all of them were either friends with one of Otoya’s girlfriends or they asked him out first. The idea of actually dating you, however, interested him more than he cared to admit.

“You’re still into her, though,” Otoya insisted, his expression still as relaxed as ever.

“Yer inta Megan Fox,” Karasu retorted. “Doesn’t mean yer gonna date Megan Fox.”

“Yeah, obviously not. But if Megan Fox wanted to date me, hell yeah I would date Megan Fox.”

Yukimiya raised a brow, trying (and failing) not to laugh. “So a random girl at our school is Megan Fox, and Karasu would date her if she was into him? But under no other circumstances?”

“Basically.”

“Makes a lot of sense, thank you, Eita,” Yukimiya nodded sarcastically.

“Okay, I wouldn’t date ‘er under any circumstances ’cause she thinks I’m a dick,” Karasu rolled his eyes. He glanced back at you once they turned the corner. Someone new had walked over to you since they had passed. He was tall, pale, had baby blue hair, and-

You were friends with Hiori Yo. Fucking hell. Yeah, he officially could never get with you. There was no chance you would ever be into him now. Who knew the kind of shit Hiori was telling you about him? Hiori hated him more than you did. He had tried to be nice to the guy, he really had, but he was still such a bitch towards him. If Hiori was your friend and you mentioned Karasu to him, he might end up dead.

After a month, the Hiori incident started to matter less and less. Karasu had finally started to talk to you about something other than grades. Whatever Hiori had told you clearly wasn’t too bad. You could still stand to look at him.

You walked up to his desk after school ended, trying to catch him before he left for soccer practice. He was packing up his bag when you cleared your throat, and his head snapped up to look at you. His signature smirk came across his face as he locked eyes with you.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you smiled awkwardly in response. “You going on that museum field trip for history?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I was plannin’ on it.”

“Cool,” You said, relaxing a bit finally. “I’m going, too, so. See you there?”

“I’ll definitely see ya there, don’t worry.”

He was actually not planning on going on the field trip. It sounded like fun, sure, but it definitely interfered with his schedule a bit too much. He was for sure going now, though. He could probably convince Otoya and Yukimiya to tag along, too.

Karasu hadn’t left your side since arriving at the museum. You kept dragging him around exhibits, ranting to him about everything you knew about each display. You were a total dork. That much was obvious. He loved it.

You passed by a set of samurai armor, grinning up at him as you continued walking. “How many samurai do you think there were in Japan?”

“Probably not very many, right?” he guessed. He wore his usual smirk as he glanced down at you every so often. “That was feudal times, so there were probably…two million people in Japan? I’d say twenty thousand.”

“Closer to four hundred thousand,” you correct, smiling. “There were way more than people think. Most people say it was about five to ten percent of Japan’s whole population. They were their own social class, actually.”

God, he could have listened to you talk for hours. And he did. Karasu spent the entire day following you around the museum like an eager-eyes puppy following its owner. Otoya passed by them a few times, grinning at Karasu every time. Karasu would just roll his eyes at him.

That bastard didn’t need to know that you had kissed him.

#fanfiction #bllk #blue lock #writing #karasu tabito #x reader #karasu x reader #blue lock boys #fluff #bllk fluff

90 notes · View notes

uvicgirl · 7 years ago

Text

Sound Barrier

SUMMARY: Following the end of the war both Farrier and Collins struggle to reconcile their experiences over the past six years with a world now at peace. But peace looks very different these days. Fallout from the atomic bombs is felt throughout the world and the race to prevent another drop has begun as the Iron Curtain spreads across Europe.

WARNINGS: none

Fanfiction.net Link AO3 Link Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

CHAPTER 5/5

The caw of gulls woke him the next morning. They were louder than usual. He opened his eyes slowly, disoriented by the wall of grey. He wasn’t in his room. He wasn’t in his bed. He sat up. His neck was stiff. The tendons warmed and strained as he looked around. The lighthouse loomed above him, its red and white stripes disappearing into low lying fog. The ocean spilled onto the sand just feet from his shoes. A gull landed on the rocks behind him and hopped closer. Farrier stood before it could reach him.

He walked back towards town. The faint outline of person appeared in the fog a head of him. The person was still, looking out at the water. It wasn’t much of a view. A device stood in the sand in-front of them. They were tinkering with it.

“’Mornin’” Collins said.

Farrier looked back to the figure, close enough now that he could make out the blond hair and the uniform. He should have given him a wider birth and slipped passed unnoticed.

“You’re out early.”

“Swim.”

Collins looked him over but nodded. “That’s good for your leg. Build back the strength.”

“Pilots ‘round here need pulling out every now and again.”

Collins dropped his head but Farrier could see the smile. “Coffee?” He offered the mug he had been holding against his chest. “I got a thermos in my pack.”

Farrier hesitated. He didn’t know his place. But Collins wasn’t running so he stepped closer and reached for the mug. Their hands brushed over the exchange. Collins’ was warm. He watched him closely, waiting for the twitch. But there was no recoil.

“Still that acorn shit,” he said after taking a sip. He settled next to him, shoulder to shoulder and looked towards the water. The fog was so thick he wasn’t sure if he could actually see it.

“Only the best.”

“Can’t remember what real coffee tastes like.”

“We’ll get so used to this we won’t like the real stuff when we get it back.”

“We’ll get so used to being soldiers we won’t know what to do without a war.”

“Good thing there’s another one on the horizon. They’re saying Greece is about to collapse. They’re getting planes ready to send.”

“Not saying much. Greece is always about collapse.”

“Fucking true, ain’t it.” Collins laughed. “We just got done pulling their royal family out and now we’re back at it pulling out another set.”

Farrier brought the mug to his mouth to hide his smile. He liked making Collins laugh. “That first round all went a became Nazis.”

“Shit.” Collins turned towards him and grabbed his arm. “I forgot about that. Fuck.”

“Just call it a day mate.” Farrier shrugged, moving his arm against Collins’ grip, settling into it.

“You’ve made your mark. Western Civilization. The Olympics. Aristotle.”

“But now it’s just Nazis.”

“Now it’s just Nazis.” Collins dropped his hand and thread it through his hair. “It’s not a good look if the founder of Western Civilization is no longer in the West.”

“Neither is atomic war.” He waved the mug at the apparatus standing in front of them. “What’re you doing?”

“Ah, RADAR,” Collins said turning back to the instrument. “ASI is still unreliable so we’re using RADAR to record the speed. Everything has to be verified. Pencil pusher crap until my wrist heals.”

“They’re flying in this?”

“Na. Fog’ll burn off in an hour or so. I come down early so the girls don’t spot me. Even asked if I could wear civilian clothing.”

Farrier laughed. “Dedicated bunch.”

“What about you? When your leg heals. The guys said you asked about re-upping.”

“Na. Wasn’t thinking straight.” Farrier stepped away, towards the pack Collins had set on a rock. He pulled out the coffee thermos and refilled the mug he had emptied. “I don’t know if this will ever heal.”

“If you actually go for that swim, it might.”

Farrier took a small sip and then handed the full mug back to Collins. Steam rose off the black surface obscuring his face and mixed with fog hanging in air around them.

“We could use you,” Collins said.

Farrier shook his head. “I haven’t flown since Dunkirk.” The fog held his words. They sat on the cool, dewy air in front of him and slowly seeped around him. He couldn’t run but he didn’t want to. He waited for the panic but it did not come. The air was fresh and opened his lungs. The world had narrowed to the small pocket of beach where he stood next to Collins. “I know nothing about the Battle of London or the Bombing of Dresden. I don’t know Soviet tactics. I spent the war in a camp. It doesn’t feel like my air force anymore.” His shoulders dropped as he said it. It was defeat but it was also release.

Farrier had joined the air force in 1921. He was 20 and the RAF was still in its infancy. His superiors were transfers from the Flying Corps and the Naval Air Service after the restructuring following the Great War. He was one of the first true RAF pilots whose allegiance was to the sky and not the infantry or ships below. He had flown Buzzards, and Snipes, and Nighthawks. He had grown up with the fleet and was one of the first pilots to take up the new Spitfires in 1938. When the war brought a wave of new recruits, Farrier had trained them. They were young men, searching for their place in the world. They would not find it amongst hostile skies but Farrier vowed to show them something else, the grace and ingenuity of the planes, the comradery of a squadron, the endlessness of an open sky. But he had been captured and in those four years, the RAF had been tested more and grown more than it ever had in the previous two decades. Pilots, tactics, planes, history, it was all different now. He didn’t recognize it. He wasn’t apart of it. It was no longer his.

“It was just chaos, mate. Nothing to know. Just bombs and guns and smoke everywhere. The Soviets are daft. It won’t take a day to get caught up there. At least when it comes to the air. The Americans are running the show now anyways. We all feel a little usurped.”

“Who gave them the right.”

There was a pause before Collins answered. “King George, I reckon.” Farrier turned, surprised by the answer. Collins was holding the mug in front of his face but a quirk of a smile peaked out from behind it. “Well really it was the atomic bombs but on D-Day, rumor is Georgie wanted to cross with the troops. Parliament wouldn’t let him. Churchill wanted to hog all the glory. Could you imagine it though? That would have sealed Britain’s fate. The picture of him planting a flag or whatever would have gone down in history.”

Farrier chuckled. “Thought you were a republican.”

“Bigger enemy.”

“The Americans?”

Collins nodded and looked at him. “I’ll take an Englishman any day.”

Farrier raised an eyebrow. Was this another offer? Collins didn’t waver. “Bit out of touch, don’t you think?” That wasn’t enough. Not after last night. “Kings leading the charge. In the last war everyone thought the Tzar had lost it. And you said it, it would have been a photo shoot. Overshadowed the soldiers. And the resources diverted to keep him safe…”

“Would have been worth it.”

“You sure?”

“Aye, Farrier.” He tipped the rest of the coffee into his mouth and stepped back to his pack. He sat down on the rock beside it. “We’re lost up there.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

“A way of the fog?”

“I don’t think is there is a way out. Not anymore.”

Farrier turned around. Collins’ shoulders were slumped and his good hand clung to the empty coffee mug. The flap of his pack was left flung open beside him, various contents spilling out onto the sand, pencil, notebook, flare gun, empty cigarette box. His body rocked back and forth. Maybe that was Farrier’s imagination, a frame from a different reel cut out and stitched into this one in time with the steady roll of the waves.

Farrier tucked his cane under his arm and pulled out his lighter and a cigarette. He placed it between his teeth and lit it. “There never was. We just kept lighting the world on fire and burning it off.” He stepped towards Collins and placed the cigarette on his lips. “Through the night, it always resettled. Might be best to navigate it for a bit.”

Collins inhaled deeply. He set the mug down and took the cigarette from his mouth to exhale.

A roar sounded from up the beach and grew louder and louder. Farrier turned back to the water and the sound of the plane. “I should go. Gotta get back before my leg gives out.”

A hand knocked the back of his knee. Collins held the cigarette up for him. “Come back tomorrow. We’ll go for that swim.”

Farrier returned the next day as instructed. It was foggy again but Collins was easy to spot. His arm was wrapped in stiff neon orange fabric. “Bit garish.”

“Old life-vest,” Collins shrugged. “Keeps the cast dry. Works alright in the shower.”

Farrier blinked away the image of Collins in the shower. Injured Collins, who may need assistance. “That water’s freezing.”

“You managed it alright the other day.”

“You were drowning.”

“Well we’ll see how this arm hold up.”

Farrier furrowed his brow. “Don’t be doing stupid shit.”

“Ah, Farrier. Too late for that. I raided the uniform cupboard.” He reached for his pack and pulled out a pair of sweatpants and a jumper. They looked warm. And soft. And clean. “Something for after.”

“Alright,” Farrier smiled. He looked out at the water. It was like glass, still and smooth. It was waiting for them, patiently. It could be deceiving them, louring them from the sand. “Plot us a course.”

“To the pier and back.”

Farrier sat down on the rock behind him and slipped off his shoes. He followed his foot prints in the wet sand, uneven, escorted by a perfectly round circle, until they disappeared into the fog. The pier was nowhere in sight. It was far. Farrier wondered if he would have thought so five years ago. He pulled off his trousers and then his shirt, setting them on the rock beside him. Collins navy battledress fell on top.

His body was lean. There was more muscle than Farrier remembered. His white cotton shorts hung low, framing his hip bones. They jutted out from his thighs as if his torso was a plate of armour. The smooth groove created beneath was the perfect place to rest his thumbs as he curled his fingers around his waist.

Collins reached out his hand. Farrier took it and allowed himself to be pulled up, leaving his cane resting against the rock. They walked into the water. The chill stung, cutting his skin as if its surface really was glass. It was paralyzing. Collins waded further though so Farrier followed. With each step, the salt water lifted more of his body, forming a brace around his leg. His limp straightened. When the water crept around their shoulders, Collins dove under in the direction of the pier. Farrier took a deep breath and did the same.

The pins and pricks faded until his limbs were numb. He wasn’t in pain though. Adrenalin had kicked in. It wasn’t carrying him to a drowning pilot. It was carrying him to the man in front of him.

He kept pace with Collins to the pier. Collins swam to the far post but he turned at the first, holding it for a moment to catch his breath. He was slower heading back. Collin pulled out of view at one point. He didn’t know if he managed to catch up or if Collins had noticed and waited.

His lungs ached and his arms grew heavy and limp. He closed his eyes and imagined fire rising behind him as the enemy closed in on his burning plane. Bullets whizzed past his head. Home was just across the Channel. He could swim it. He could swim it.

“Woah, watch the wrist,” Collins winced. He stood facing Farrier in waist deep water beneath the lighthouse.

Delirious, Farrier had swum into him. “Sorry, sorry.” Farrier stood and reached for the arm Collins had tucked to his chest.

“You’re bleeding.” Collins grabbed his hand and inspected his palm. A long red sliver ran through the middle. Blood seeped from it and pooled in the cup of his hand. Collins guided it down and dipped it back into the water to wash away the excess blood. He inspected it again. “Doesn’t look too deep.”

“Must’ve been the barnacles on the pier.”

Collins swiped his thumb across the cut. Farrier tensed, expecting a sting. But his touch was soft. He cleared the blood from the wound again and lifted the hand to his lips. The kiss was light but lingered against his raw skin. Farrier looked up. Collins’ eyes blinked open. A water droplet clung to the tip of his long lashes. His blue eyes were clear and vibrant against the grey surround as if they had stolen all the colour, as if they held at the world in their depths. But it wasn’t time to fight for that light. It was time to live in the grey.

Farrier eased his hand out of Collins’ hold. “All better.”

“I have bandages in my pack,” Collins said. He turned and waded back to shore.

Farrier followed. The thin cotton of Collins’ white shorts had gone transparent and clung to his ass. It was round and firm and concave on the sides where the muscle built up. Farrier’s stomach dropped and his throat tightened. He felt guilty and dropped his eyes to the water.

Collins tossed him the sweat pants and jumper and pulled on his own uniform. Farrier let him wrap a bandage around his hand before walking back into town. “See you tomorrow.” It was the least he could do.

They swam every morning until the waters grew warm under the summer sun. When Collins’ wrist healed and he was moved off RADAR duty and put back in a plane, they swam earlier so he could make it back to base. When the water turned cold again they started running instead. They ran the length of the boardwalk, starting from the hotel, past the pier, half way to the lighthouse and back again. Then they ran further, down the road, all the way to the base. Farrier’s cane lived on the coat hook on the back of his door. He didn’t take it to London for his meeting at the RAF offices. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used it. He passed his recertification and by March he had moved into the barracks.

‘The gravity of the situation which confronts the world today necessitates my appearance before a joint session of the Congress. The foreign policy and the national security of this country are involved.

One aspect of the present situation, which I wish to present to you at this time for your consideration and decision, concerns Greece and Turkey.

The United States has received from the Greek Government an urgent appeal for financial and economic assistance…’

The BBC was playing President Truman’s address to Congress. Farrier’s attention cut in and out from the radio like static. He lay on his back, staring up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan. They spun slow. Too slow. If you could follow the motion of an individual blade, you would fall out of the sky.

‘…The British Government, which has been helping Greece, can give no further financial or economic aid after March 31. Great Britain finds itself under the necessity of reducing or liquidating its commitments in several parts of the world, including Greece...

…Since the war Turkey has sought financial assistance from Great Britain and the United States for the purpose of effecting that modernization necessary for the maintenance of its national integrity…

…The British government has informed us that, owing to its own difficulties can no longer extend financial or economic aid to Turkey…’

Now, there were no blades.

‘…As in the case of Greece, if Turkey is to have the assistance it needs, the United States must supply it...

…I believe that it must be the policy of the United States to support free peoples who are resisting attempted subjugation by armed minorities or by outside pressures...’

“Ready for your lesson?”

Farrier hummed a non-response.

Collins walked down the neat row of cots, an un-lit cigarette dangled from his mouth. He reached Farrier’s cot and switched off the radio that sat on his bedside table.

“Oi.”

“We got more important things.” Farrier’s flight jacket hung on the bed post and Collin’s dug his hand into the front pocket and pulled out his lighter.

“That was important,” Farrier said. Collins rolled his eyes and lit the cigarette. “America just handed out a blank check to the world al la Kaiser Bill.”

“Aye.” He returned the lighter and tossed the jacket onto Farrier’s lap. “So we should get our flying ace back in the air.” Before Farrier could protest, Collins popped the cigarette into his mouth. “Hanger. Three minutes.” Collins patted his leg before walking back out of the barracks.

Farrier watched him leave. His boot steps were heavy, his shoulders back, stride long. He ran his fingers through his hair and then slipped his hand into the pocket on his trousers. He looked confident, more confident than Farrier had ever seen him. He inhaled sharply. The nicotine was warm and coated the back of his throat.

He stood, put on his jacket, and walked out to the hanger.

They walked around L-London, their plane for the morning, an engineer guiding them through the final checks before Farrier climbed into the front cockpit. Collins climbed into the rear and they taxied to the runway.

“Set the trim to neutral,” Collins said over the radio in his ear.

“Trim to neutral.”

“Open the high and low fuel cocks. The low cock is tricky. Ye’ have to reach ‘round the center control. Doesn’t like to be moved.”

Farrier twisted his arm and gave it a good tug. “Fuel cocks open.”

“Activate booster pump.”

“Booster pump activated.”

“Set the flaps.”

“Flaps set.”

“Retract the air brakes.”

“Air brakes retracted.”

“We’re good.”

“Control, this is L-London requesting takeoff.”

“Clear.” The red light on the control tower switched to green.

“Watch the jets,” Collins said.

The ocean pooled at the end of the runway. It beckoned him forth as if had when Collins’ had gone down and when they had stood on the beach in their shorts contemplating a swim. But it was a lie. The ocean wasn’t calling. It was the sky that called, its message reflected upon the waves.

Farrier opened the throttle and they zoomed down the runway far quicker than he anticipated. It was like being shot out of a canon, zero to one hundred before he could take a breath. His body was slammed against the seat so hard he expected to be blown back into the second cockpit and into Collins’ lap.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn ye’,” Collins laughed as Farrier eased the control column up and a cushion of air caught the underside of the wings, lifting them off the ground.

“Christ.”

He lifted the left aileron and the plane banked right, making for the beach. Collins talked him through the controls as they passed over the pier and the lighthouse. They were different to his Spitfire and the plane was more responsive. It had been six years but flying was flying and flying was home.

“Alright, give it go,” Collins said.

Your waiting for flames to engulf it. The controls have a mind of their own.

Farrier opened the throttle. He felt the acceleration, the pressure on his chest. He glanced at the ASI. It climbed. 700m/hr. 800. 850. It started to jump and wouldn’t settle. Everything shook. The vibrations ran up his leg and it throbbed. The horizon bounced and twisted and blurred out of focus and he lost it. The plane was moving too fast and world too slow and Farrier was caught in the middle, being ripped apart at the seams.

The plane banked left. He fought the center column and pulled it right. The plane banked further to the left. They were losing height. He was losing control.

Farrier pulled back on the throttle and jammed his foot on the right rudder. The plane jolted back to center. They were feet above the water and Farrier took a shaky breath as he climbed to a more familiar altitude. That recovery wouldn’t have been possible in his Spitfire.

“Madness.”

“It’s just a bit o’ turbulence,” Collins laughed. Farrier could hear the waver in his voice. “Have another go.”

“You have a death wish.”

“Oh I have a wish, Farrier.”

Instead of circling back to the airfield, Farrier banked left over the ocean and then climbed through the clouds. He squinted, the sun’s rays were blinding after being conceal for so long. He banked the plane north and as they turned away from the sun, the blue sky panned across his wingspan, crisp and vivid, not a hint of grey.

They fixed the glass and the plane’s design was tighter, greatly improving the pilot’s sight lines. And still, as they flew, Farrier’s eyes were drawn to the odometer. Thirty-five miles from base and they would lose radio communication with the controller. They would be alone. It was their own sound barrier.

“Where’re we goin’?”

Farrier took a breath. “I used to watch the odometer after takeoff. I would watch until we passed out of radio range. And then neither of us said anything.”

He waited then, watching the odometer and keeping the heading north-east. It would be only minutes but in an open sky, minutes stretched out to infinity.

The odometer clicked over.

“There was a moment when I went down in the Channel, I was trapped and the cockpit had flooded.” Collins spoke quietly and slowly, as if he was thinking over each word. “I had taken my last breath. I closed my eyes and hoped it would be over quickly. I imagined you pulling me out. That you had jumped and had somehow got the hatch open. You were always able to get me out of a jam. Ended up being some kid on a boat. He smashed the glass with a fishing net hook and was holding it out for me. Took me a moment to realise it wasn’t you. You saw me through each run, Farrier.”

Farrier swallowed. He recognized those visions of deliverance. “Collins.”

“Go again.”

“Jack.” Farrier said. He wished the takeoff had blown him back. He wished he could look Collins in the eye. He felt resistance in the controls. Collins was holding them. “Y-your-” Farrier stopped himself. Collins didn’t want the plane. He opened the throttle.

“Tom.”

The plane accelerated and shook. The vibrations ran through his body, up his spine and down his arm. This time though, he had a ground. The control column remained steady under the grip of two. The vibrations radiated instead through the shackles and the chains and he heard them clatter to the floor. It was as if the headwind suddenly died, the drag cut in half as the vestige of Collins he had carried with him through the war burned up in the rays of the sun behind him.

They flew faster and faster and then there was a pop and everything was still and calm. They had pushed through the wall and it fell before them creating a smooth pocket of air that carried them forwards. It felt like floating.

“Holy shit.”

“Holy shit,” Farrier echoed.

When they landed and taxied back to the hanger, Farrier’s hand had cramped around the control column. He pried his fingers away and climbed out of the cockpit.

“How’d she fly?” the engineer asked.

“Good. Real good,” Collins answered.

“What did you get up to?”

Collins’ eyes drifted to his and did not leave as he continued the debrief. “The usual. Turbulence. Dive recovery.”

Farrier massaged his hand and watched as Collins grew more and more impatient, rocking back and forth on his feet, his hands balled in his trouser pockets. He lit a cigarette and walked towards Collins. The engineer had disappeared around the back of the plane, his questions echoing through the tin structure. Farrier placed the cigarette between Collins’ lips, and snaked a hand around his waist. “Come find me.”

He walked out to the low stone wall that surrounded the air field and looked out over the ocean. The breeze did its best to wash away the previous six years. It would never succeed. Farrier was okay with that.

Foot steps grew softly in the grass behind him. He turned around and Collins walked towards him without hesitation. He removed the cigarette from Collins’ mouth, pulled his hips close, and kissed him, hard at first but then soft as Collins’ body melted into his.

The days after came quickly. They were moved to Germany. From Bad Oeynhausen, the capital of the British zone, they listened to the BBC coverage of Princess Elizabeth’s wedding to Philip.

“Guess not all the Greeks became Nazis,” Collins said.

“A Mountbatten’s not much better.”

They sat on Farrier’s cot. Farrier rested against the head board, Collins against the footboard so as not to arise too much suspicion. Collins’ foot often ended up in his lap and Farrier often massaged it idly while they listened to the radio that sat on the bedside table.

Snow fell outside the barracks in late December as they listened through the static of King Michael’s forced to abdication and flee to Switzerland.

“I remember the day he flipped,” Collins said, nursing a cigarette. “He sent the Americans working their way through Italy coordinates to all the SS command centers in Bucharest. Eleven hundred hours, he requested. The planes flew over on the dot and bombed out every building. The shouts from the American barracks, you would have thought the war was over.”

“Kick out one dictator, get swallowed by another.”

“When does it end.”

Farrier looked across at Collins. He was around the same age as the deposed King. Far too young to have faced such horrors. Far too young to fade into the hopeless grey.

Apart from the Gatow Air Disaster, it was quiet until summer. The door to the barracks burst open the morning of June 25th. “Farrier. Collins. Command, five minutes.”

They dressed quickly, Collins in his navy battledress, Farrier in his flight jacket. “It’s happened. They’ve put in the blockade,” the flight commander said. “They aren’t just delaying shipments anymore. Four days ago they turned around an American supply train. They’ve loaded the cargo onto planes in Frankfurt. We’re flying everything in. The Americans are short on personnel so you’re flying support. Support only. Do not shoot unless shot at. You’ll meet the cargo plane in Frankfurt and escort it into Tempelhof and back again.”

They walked from command to the hanger. The maintenance crew was already doing final checks on the two Vampires. Farrier followed Collins around the back of one of the planes. “If they shoot, that’s open war,” Collins said. “They wouldn’t chance it.”

Farrier nodded. He looked around for prying eyes before steeling a kiss. “Wouldn’t chance it.”

He wasn’t so sure but he knew Collins wasn’t either. The Soviets flew their fighters like buzzards around the West Berlin airfields. They were there to intimidate and to distract the incoming planes trying to maneuver the tight corridors between the apartment blocks and down onto the runways that were too narrow and too short. But now that their commanders were intent on starving out the city…

The red light on the control tower turned green and Farrier followed Collins down the runway and into the air. They flew South and then East, towards Frankfurt and then Berlin, beyond the Iron Curtain, into the unknown. But in to it together.

#Dunkirk #Farrier #Collins #fanfiction #Sound Barrier #tom hardy #jack lowden

0 notes