Chapter Text
“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here,” a voice comes from outside the training facility. Ilya looks over at another boy approaching him. The first thing that hits him is those freckles. Like stars scattered across gently tanned skin. He couldn’t be older than seventeen, the same age as Ilya himself. Ilya grunts and lets out another puff, giving the stranger deadpan look to hopefully drive him away.
It doesn’t work as the boy continues to approach. He sticks out a hand, tilting his head just a fraction as he grins. “I’m Shane. Shane Hollander. You must be Ilya Rozanov. One of the Russian candidates.” Ilya stares at the hand for a moment before taking it. They shake briefly before breaking apart. The Russian stomps out his cigarette and leans against the wall.
“Da,” he says simply. He’d heard of Shane Hollander. He had been a top candidate from Canada for the Jaeger Program. Ilya had heard from some of the supervisors that Hollander had one of the highest strategic IQ’s of the entire program, beating out even experienced rangers in the sims. “I’ve heard about you. Will be shame when I put you in ground during training.”
Hollander’s brows furrow, a competitive glare flickering in those deep brown eyes. “You’re not going to win that easily, Rozanov,” he bites back, though he’s still grinning. “Good luck with the program, though!” With that, Hollander ducks back inside the facility and out of Ilya’s sight. He sighs and goes for another cigarette, lighting it up as he watches the stars twinkle in the sky.
The next morning, the Russians and Canadians are paired up with the Americans for sparring drills. It was a test of strength, but also a compatibility for the drift. Ilya doesn’t see Hollander for a moment, but catches him sparring with another Canadian on the far side of the room. The other boy seems a bit older, but it doesn’t stop Shane. He’s all lithe movement and quick defense. The Canadian seems to catch on quickly and grins, the two taking turns attacking as if they were siblings. Hollander always seems to gain the upper hand, pinning his partner down nine times out ten. It’s almost repetitive, in a way.
Ilya breaks his gaze away to look at his own partner. An American named Cliff Marleau. He was the same height and build as Ilya, though that wasn’t hard to match as everyone trained to take the strain of being in a jaeger. The Russian settles into a grappling position, Marleau following suit. They circle one another for a few seconds, testing for reactions. The two teens end up attacking in sync. It’s magnetic, the way Ilya seems to match Marleau in combat. Neither can pin the other down for long, and Ilya finds he’s actually having fun. He grins as they separate to move on to other partners. But Ilya thinks he already found his. Or at least one of his top choices.
That is, until he finds himself in front of Hollander. Ilya moves back into his grappling, but the other doesn’t follow suit. Hollander’s foot shifts back lightly, but he doesn’t actually seem to be prepping for an attack. Ilya takes that as a sign to move first, going for a lunge. He lets out a grunt of surprise when he closes around empty space and is quickly put down on the floor. Shane stares down at him. “One zero,” he says smoothly, getting up and helping Ilya to his feet.
The Russian’s lip pulls back in a sneer as he settles in again. Now he wanted to do nothing more than break that control Hollander seemed to wield so well. He attacks first again, but watches as Hollander’s foot moves and adjusts mid motion. Ilya swiftly brings the other down, pinning him to the mat with a smug smirk. “One one,” he chirps back. As they settle back into place, Ilya notices a small wrinkle in Hollander’s brow. “Shane Hollander,” he drawls, his smirk growing. “Will you disappoint them?” He nods to the crowd of spectators, who have now started to watch instead of sparring with each other.
Hollander adjusts his stance while shaking his head. He has a small grin of his own, almost like it had been dragged out of him. “Nope.” Hollander lunges first this time, bringing Ilya to the ground in a heap. They grapple for a bit but Hollander gains the upper hand and pins him to the mat. He’s helpless to stare up at the now fiery look in the Canadian’s eyes and that matching feral grin. Like that carefully crafted control had cracked and Ilya was finally seeing what was underneath. “Two one,” he says before sliding off and getting back to his feet.
He holds a hand out for Ilya, but he doesn’t take it as he peels himself from the mat. His own competitiveness starts to rage under his skin. This wasn’t like sparring with Marleau. This was fire, danger, everything Ilya shouldn’t want. It was everything he craved. He kicks at Hollander, watching him dodge out of the way. The Canadian turns into a low heel spin, trying to keep Ilya off balance. Ilya lets it happen, but shifts so his fall brings Hollander down as well in a pin. He breathes hard, staring down at his sparring partner. His grin is menacing and more like baring his teeth. “Two two. Looks like we tied, Hollander.”
The man pinned beneath him just grumbles and weakly kicks at him. Ilya takes it as a sign to get off and does so, sitting beside him to catch his breath. He hadn’t had to fight that hard just to tie before. Glancing over, he finds that Hollander hasn’t gotten up yet. He would be concerned if not for the distracting way he looks while laid out on the mat. Broad shoulders that taper into a lean waist. Well toned legs and matching arms. Ilya wanted to bite. Watch marks appear on that pretty skin under his touch and teeth.
He’s pulled out of it as one of the supervisors calls it for the day. His bunkmate walks over and shoves Ilya to his feet, clearly expecting him to go another round. The Canadian makes his way over to Hollander, helping him to his feet. Hollander gives a small Ilya a small grin before walking away with the others. The Russian is almost helpless to watch, looking back at Marleau from earlier with a nod.
Sleep doesn’t seem to find Ilya when it comes for everyone else, leaving him staring at the ceiling of the small dorm he’s in. He vaguely recalls a fitness center somewhere in the massive facility. With a sigh, Ilya gets off the bunk he’d chosen and slips out of the dorm. The halls are quiet and dimly lit with the weakly enforced curfew. Most of the directions are in English, leading Ilya in circles that make him more frustrated than anything.
Finally, he reaches the decently sized gym. The first thing that caught his eye was the mat in the center. Likely to connect with partners and reinforce drift bonds. What further catches his eye is he’s not alone. On an elliptical is Hollander, completely oblivious to Ilya standing there. Every move is graceful, controlled in a way that he didn’t realize someone could move on an elliptical. The ellipticals were essential in training cadets how to move their Jaegers. Hollander’s stride was smooth, despite the obvious weight resistance. Ilya watches each step fall, moving closer until he is on the neighboring elliptical.
Hollander startles and looks over, though his expression doesn’t really change. Ilya matches his pace quickly, both in speed and weight resistance. His own steps aren’t nearly as fluid, more like he’s trying to shove himself forward. Hollander ups the pace, and Ilya follows. His steps start to lose their grace, starting to match up with Ilya’s. Or, Ilya’s pace starts to match Hollander’s. They end up in sync, somewhere between Hollander’s fluid stride and Ilya’s harsh rhythm.
Nothing else matters in that moment, not when everything quiets in Ilya’s mind for a minute. Hollander’s breathing is his tempo, and he matches it without really thinking. It’s natural, competitive. Hollander ups the pace again and Ilya reacts on instinct to keep up. He gives Hollander a smirk, and the Canadian scowls back. His freckles scrunch up and Ilya is hot with another urge to bite. To watch those brown eyes lose their calculated focus again and regain the fire he’d gotten a glimpse of earlier that day.
Eventually the two teens end up on the ground, stretching and groaning at their legs for becoming shaky. They don’t speak, but it feels like they don’t have to. Ilya still grins, and this time Hollander smirks back at him. Their feet brush against one another and Hollander jumps, pupils blowing for a moment. Almost as if he’d been struck by lightning. Before Ilya can ask, the Canadian is gone and headed for the communal showers. Ilya is forced to follow, craving to see that look again.
One awkwardly hot shower encounter and conversation later, Ilya is following Hollander back to the dorms. He’d apparently lucked out with no roommate, citing being “too much” when asked about it. The door shuts and locks with a soft click before Ilya is on Shane, pressing him to the wall beside the door. His mouth is on the Canadian’s immediately, feeling Hollander melt against him and the wall. It was better than Ilya had imagined, kissing Hollander. His lips were soft, slightly chapped. He was eager to please and happy to let Ilya control the pace. They pull back and Ilya grins, watching Hollander sink to his knees. Neither of them last very long that night.
The following few weeks follow a similar pattern. Ilya and Hollander become the top two candidates for the Jaeger program, finishing each simulation with ease. It had come time for drift compatibility and finding your ranger partner. Over the course of the following week, Ilya was in and out of a Jaeger simulation, testing neural handshakes with other cadets he was compatible with. None of them fit right, like the edges of a puzzle piece that didn’t quite line up. The only one that felt close to right was Marleau, though that was a given after their bonding in the physical portion of training.
Ilya steps up to the motion rig, preparing himself for another failed handshake. At this point he might as well tell them it’s Marleau or nothing. “Second cadet on board,” the automatic voice calls, causing Ilya to meet the eyes of the next poor cadet. He stops short as he stares into doe brown eyes with a smattering of freckles. Hollander raises an eyebrow in silent question before stepping into position. The boot locks snap over his feet as he puts on the helmet. Ilya shakes himself out of it enough to step into the other motion rig, attaching his helmet. He closes his eyes and lets the memories flow over him.
Mama is always the first thing to cross. Her smile, chasing Ilya around the garden. A brief flash of a pill bottle and a limp hand. Ilya doesn’t chase it down, letting it wash over. He gets a few glimpses of Hollander’s life. Two loving parents, hockey, getting bullied. A brief flash of screaming, but Hollander doesn’t follow the rabbit either. They jerk back into the real world with synchronized gasps. There’s nothing there. Ilya’s never felt nothing before. He’s lifting his hand in time with Hollander. He raises the other to match and there’s no delay in Hollander’s reaction. The supervisors chatter, but Ilya turns his head to gaze at Hollander. The Canadian takes a moment to look over, once again cocking a questioning eyebrow. Amusement fills Ilya, and he can’t tell if it’s his own or not, still not sensing Shane’s presence in his mind. The test is over quickly after that, and Ilya feels something like a wave receding from his mind and soul. It’s different from what he’s felt with other drift compatible partners, and Ilya doesn’t know how to feel about that.
Hollander looks over at Ilya, a small grin on his lips. For the briefest of moments, Ilya can see the ocean in his eyes. He blinks as Hollander calls his name, lip pulling back into a smirk automatically. “Surprised I did not see us.” The words are teasing, but Ilya is immediately taken by the flush that erupts beneath those freckles.
“I try to keep some things private.” Hollander meets his gaze again with a bit of fire in his eyes. “I didn’t see us in yours either,” he argues, stepping out of the boot locks. Ilya does the same, taking off the helmet when the yellow liquid keeps him from seeing the boy in front of him. A supervisor clears her throat from the entry door of the simulation.
Hollander flusters again and quickly leaves, Ilya following at a more relaxed pace. The Russian easily catches up to him. “You still have room to yourself?” He says softly in Hollander’s ear. The flush that erupted was more than enough of an answer. “I’ll swing by tonight. See if I can break through that memory wall of yours.” Hollander sputters but doesn’t say no. Ilya grins and turns towards the mess hall, leaving Hollander to keep walking back towards the dorms. That night, Ilya keeps his word. Though the lingering feeling of nothing made him wary.
The final week comes faster than Ilya would’ve liked. He’d narrowed his pool down of possible partners, drifting with each of them a final time. Hollander had been doing the same, leaving them to be the last to drift together. As they connect, the familiar wash of memories drip through like a well timed faucet. The more he had drifted with Hollander, the more he got to see. Seeing their shared nights from Hollander’s perspective had almost caused Ilya to follow the rabbit, chase the memory down until he could pick it apart entirely. He doesn’t, returning back to the empty feeling. It was less empty now, but it felt deep. Vast in a way that made Ilya more scared than he should. They step apart and leave the simulation a final time, and Ilya makes his choice.
Ilya and Cliff bond quickly over the design of their Jaeger. It was large, powerful, bold. Black with gold accents and a silver visor. The weapon was no joke either, a short range plasma cannon that was meant to obliterate through Kaiju armor. After days of arguing, they came up with the name Boston Raider. Boston, as an homage to Cliff’s hometown. And Raider as a nod to how they would be fighting Kaiju on their own turf.
Hollander had apparently paired up with another Canadian prospect, Hayden Pike. He’d been the one that was closest to Ilya in terms of physical compatibility… according to the research Ilya had snuck a glance at when Hollander hadn’t told him who he’d paired up with. They had a sleeker model. Blue with red accents and visor. It was built for speed and flexibility, to outmaneuver a Kaiju. Their weapon was a sword that emerged from the wrist mechanism of the Jaeger. Its name, much to Ilya’s amusement, was Montreal Voyager.
Boston Raider got stationed in the U.S. with Marshal Hunter. Ilya enjoys poking at the Marshal, teasing him for being ancient by ranger standards. He also forms a bond with Hunter’s husband, Kip. The former ranger turned technician. It was nice, much different than what Ilya had been expecting when entering the Jaeger program.
He and Cliff were always on deck for Kaiju drops near the U.S. coast. Sometimes, it came a bit too close for Canada’s liking and Montreal Voyager was deployed. The current leaderboard between the two was neck in neck. Raider had more drops, but Voyager had a better efficiency score. The rivalry was known world-wide, each Jaeger only being in first place until the next drop occurred. Toys were made, ads were filmed. Propaganda appeared with their Jaeger’s facing off like some sort of sports match. Anyone would think it was intense. Ilya called it foreplay.
Sometimes after said battles, one Jaeger team would return to the other’s Shatterdome for repairs and rest. During those times, Ilya always managed to tease and poke Hollander into falling into bed. It was always some of the best rest he’d gotten when he woke up beside the Canadian. They never talked about it, just got redressed. One would always say “see you on the other side” and that was that. It was easy, casual. Quick hookups between monsters. Sometimes they texted, though it was usually to make plans or brag about their latest drop.
Alarms blare through the Shatterdome, jerking Ilya out of his dreams. He groans and rolls out of bed, looking at the alert. Adrenaline quickly replaces the rog of sleep as he practically bounces over to Cliff’s bunk. “Wake up, Marley. Kaiju. Category Three. Codename, knifehead.” Ilya’s grinning as Cliff groans and wakes up as well.
“What time is it?” He mutters, rubbing his eyes. The alarms are still going off around them, red light streaking across the room every so often.
Ilya cackles and slaps Cliff’s bunk again. “Two in the morning. Let’s go.” They both dress quickly, always on call when Kaiju’s are predicted this close. Currently they were in Alaska, covering for another team while their Jaeger was being repaired. It had cut into the time Ilya was supposed to be in Montreal, but there would be other meet ups. The drive suit slips on like a glove, tightening just right. Cliff gets fitted beside him, stretching lightly to wake up a bit more. These early drops were always brutal.
As they entered the cockpit of Boston Raider, Kip’s voice came over the speakers. “Good morning, boys. You ready to kick Kaiju ass?” His voice was bright, despite the god early time. He and Scott had also been sent here, though that was apparently because Raider was impossible to control if it wasn’t Hunter.
Ilya grins and hits the intercom with his free hand as he steps into the boot locks. “Morning, Kip. That dinosaur up yet too? It’s not good for elderly people to be up this early.” Kip’s laugh comes over the intercom.
“Fuck you too, Rozanov,” comes Hunter’s monotone. “I’m still your Marshal in case you forgot.”
The grin only widens as Ilya hits the intercom button again. “Just looking out for your health sir. Don’t want poor Kip to be a widow so soon.” This time, Cliff barely smothers his own laugh, putting his helmet on. Ilya follows, knowing Hunter is just rolling his eyes. The system engages, and Kip counts down calmly as the handshake proceeds. Ilya closes his eyes and lets the drift take him.
It’s like breathing now. Cliff in his head is like a cat brushing up against his ankles. Gentle, and non pressuring. Fleeting moments pass between them, nothing Ilya hasn’t seen. They’ve long since stopped trying to block memories from one another. They are deployed with no further fanfare after Kip confirms their handshake is holding in an acceptable range. As they make their way to the Kaiju, Ilya notices the ping of a civilian boat. “Hey, Hunter. There’s boat out here. A civilian fishing boat.”
Hunter’s voice comes over the intercom as the pair make their way towards the breach site. “That’s not a part of the mission, Rozanov. Do not engage the boat. You will not sacrifice thousands of lives for ten.” His voice is stern, making Ilya frown.
Cliff takes over and hits the intercom button. “Understood, sir. Rozanov and I will head to the point.” It clicks off and they look at one another.
Ilya’s frown turns into a small smirk. “You know what I am thinking?”
Cliff lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’m in your head, Roz. Of course I do.” Ilya just laughs and they continue making their way to the breach site. The two watch as the Kaiju circles the small boat, almost tipping it over with its massive wake. Raider scoops it up and settles in for a fight, skidding the boat away from the fight the moment they have an opening.
Knifehead roars as Raider beats down on it. Cliff and Ilya don’t speak. They don’t need to. Each thought is perfectly in tune with one another. The cannon forms around their fist and they launch shot after shot into the Kaiju, dropping it into the water. Ilya chuckles and hits the intercom. “Let Voyager know that we just beat their record for fastest category three drop kill,” he crows breathlessly. Cliff shakes his head, matching the grin on Ilya’s face. They turn to start heading back when Kip’s voice breaks over the intercom.
“Raider. It’s still active! The Kaiju is not down. I repeat: the Kaiju is not down! Get the boat and get out of there!” The words are nearly too late as a mutilated Knifehead erupts from the water and rips out the arm on Ilya’s side. Both rangers cry out, feeling the phantom pain. They are quick to recover, dragging the fight away from the fishing boat. Knifehead keeps digging into the new vulnerable spot, though its head pulls away for a split moment.
There’s the piercing screech of metal being torn and large claws appear on Cliff’s end of the cockpit. Ilya feels fear, anguish, defeat coming from Cliff as he turns to look at the Russian. “Roz, you gotta finish this fight. Don’t–” the rest of his words are stolen as he disappears, sucked out into the now gaping hole in Raider’s head.
Ilya screams in anguish at the sudden void where Cliff should be. It had been so sudden, like someone had taken a vacuum to his very soul and ripped away half of it. Knife head roars and starts shoving the Jaeger back, Ilya gasping as warning lights and alarms start going off around him. Every move is agony, every thought disjointed. With shaking hands, he swaps the control to his right hand.
The battle passes in blurs. Ilya can feel the Kaiju shove him up against an icy bluff, chunks of rock and ice falling around him. Knifehead digs into the exposed joining where Raider’s left arm used to be. Ilya starts charging up the plasma cannon, pushing it into overload as the kaiju roars. With a terrifying scream, the blast is launched and Ilya’s world finally goes dark. It doesn’t last. Moments later, he’s groaning. He has to get back to the dome. Alone, without Cliff. The neural load is starting to press down on Ilya, making his steps sluggish.
Distantly, he can see a beach. It’d be close enough to call for help. Ilya just has to get to the beach, then he can stop. The Jaeger comes crashing down, jolting Ilya out of his stupor. Weakly, he disconnects himself from the piloting system, hitting the front visor of Raider with a pained groan. Voices can be heard outside, though Ilya could not tell you what they were saying. He shoves himself up onto shaking legs, exiting the brutalized Jaeger. In front of him is a pair of civilians. Likely grandfather and grandson.
The older man is talking to him, but Ilya can barely process his own thoughts, let alone English. Ilya stumbles onto the beach, looking around helplessly. His helmet is gone somewhere, leaving him to feel the cold air on his face as dawn just barely starts to break. Though it truly never seemed to set, considering this was Alaska. All Ilya can do is stare blankly. “Marley,” he breathes. Ilya falls to his knees, the old man following him down. Apparently he’s bleeding, but Ilya doesn’t stay awake long enough to be sure. There was no Cliff, so there was no more Boston Raider.