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Mika's mind is cool and crisp, bisected by moments of sharp wit and the almost blinding eagerness to do good– to be good. It completely contrasts Michael's whirlwind and rainstorm; his need for adrenaline and exhilaration and speed and to punch motherfucking monsters in the face for destroying their homes.
And yet.
It's easy.
The thought echoes in dual tones, and Michael doesn't know if the surprise is his or Mika's, doesn't know if the mirth underneath it is a result of finding another person they're drift compatible with or the fact that it's with each other.
You're thinking too much, and this, Michael knows, is Mika. It's odd that the words were said in Finnish, yet he had understood each inflection as if they were having the conversation in German.
You are just the same, Engel, and Michael could feel the all-encompassing eye roll in their shared mindscape, but there was no protest. Michael's booming laughter follows suit.
That sets off a memory, one Michael realizes stars him at the center of it. It's the mess hall: packed with trainees and other jaeger pilots, technicians and engineers, but atop the stairs that leads directly towards the training area is him descending with his sparring buddy. Rubens must have said something hilarious – David got smacked around in training by a newbie today, Michael helpfully supplies, and Mika gives him a mental slap. Stop terrorizing my co-pilot. Michael sniffs disdainfully, former co-pilot. – because he's booming the same laugh he had just done through their shared connection.
Mika! His glee cuts swift through the memory. We hadn't even met yet and you were already looking at me?
You're hard to miss, comes the drawl, but it's tinged with something almost-not quite coy. Such laughter. Such chin. The Michael and his record-breaking kaiju kills.
Michael does the mental equivalent of snaking into Mika's embrace, and like instinct, Mika curls a hand around his waist. You are such a cat, Mika murmurs, too fond for his own good.
Strange, Michael replies, many of the juniors had called you a golden retriever.
Mika hums. Perhaps I should not have gone easy on the new recruits.
Another chuckle bursts from Michael's soul, his mind, his heart, now so very entwined with Mika's. How easy it is for someone to feel like home.
The warmth spreads and spreads and spreads, until it turns into the yellow ceiling lights of the aforementioned training room – except here it looks much cleaner. New, even. A much younger Michael sits crossed leg among a crowd of other juniors, hair curling against the back of his neck. His expression is rapt and bright-eyed. He's watching–
"Five to one." An even younger Mika proclaims, one end of a bo staff almost jabbing his opponent's neck. The cadet scrambles away with their cheeks red. His mouth is set in a hard line.
This was a week before he'd met David, Mika realizes. He'd gone through a list of other juniors to spar with, to test the waters and see if they were drift compatible. Michael already had his own co-pilot figured out months before this, so why he was here watching Mika's session was beyond him.
I have been looking at you for far longer, Michael supplies helpfully.
Mika blinks. That's–
A burst of amusement and satisfaction and smugness permeates their shared space. One side of Mika's lips pulls up, the poster boy image for the European Shatterdome's star jaeger pilot. Haughty. Cocky. Ready. The suddenness startles Michael.
So competitive. The words slither around, slick and pleased.
You are just the same, Engel, Michael echoes, but this time it's met with levity.
Hm, we are drift compatible, Mika teases.
Mika's mind is beautiful, brilliant, clean – everything Michael loves about him. Mika reflects the sentiment back, just like he always does.
"Well, boys," Jean wipes his brows, looking almost delirious, "highest neural handshake to date at 97.2%. I'd say I'm surprised but it's you two."
Michael bumps shoulders with Mika and he watches one side of his new co-pilot's mouth curl up in his familiar, self-satisfied smirk. It smooths back into neutrality just as easily, but Michael knows his thoughts are racing a mile a minute.
Jean doesn't look all too impressed though. "Just– could you both stop flirting so blatantly? You're turning our engineers sick."
"Oops," Michael says, not at all contrite. Mika on the other hand looks properly repentant, eyes glinting.
When Jean turns his back on them to survey more data, though, the two new co-pilots share twin conspiratorial grins. Oops, indeed.