#basically they're like. fighter pilots who use battle plans hidden in their long-term memories

[bettercostume]

i reread ur neymessi space AU probably 10 times a month and i’m so serious it’s so perfect i love it sm

thank youuuu i am plowing through trying to finish the main story but here's a treat lol:

“Can someone please explain the point of this, again,” Neymar says. He’s surly, antibacterial slime from the tank still dripping from the ends of his dark curls. 

“The Last Hope of the Americas would like to lodge a complaint,” Geri says, “He thought being a point member of an elite squadron meant all the pussy he could ask for, not the torture of being entrusted with lightspeed accelerated alien technology."

"You an Leo are out here tooling around in Lambo 4440s and we're stuck on bikes,” Luis says.  Leo supposes this is an accurate assessment; only he and Ney have ships that are part of them, wired into their brains and being.

“Yeah, yeah,” Neymar says. “That doesn’t mean I like bathing in this shit every day. I mean, I thought wetware was illegal.”

“Where, earth?” Rafinha laughs from the showers.  

“Hey, no more mission debriefs,” Geri says, toweling his head off. “You should be happy, I’ve seen you doze off in enough of them.” 

“I’d rather be flying,” Neymar says, and Leo turns away before Ney can catch his eye. The way they’ve been looking at each other recently feels like the ramp-up to a fight. Or something. Leo feels strange all over, when he’s caught in Neymar’s gaze. 

He showers quickly, sloughing off the ooze from the training tank. It’s a cell-rich slime that contains genetic information from their ships.v It's supposed to allow the two of them to focus their mental power on the program.

Everyone says he’s the best at it, but he has his doubts. Ramos started the rumor that his long-term treatment with the neuro implant is a cover, that he has some kind of extra xenomorphic advantage.  

The truth is, lately, Leo has trouble revisiting his training memory. It’s a simple one implanted when he was ten. He easily sets the necessary time points, but then something goes awry. Instead of going back to his childhood interview with Pep, he returns to these showers. Neymar usually is one down, his coconut conditioner and the various oils he uses to keep his hair healthy in the dead air of the station creating a pleasant cloud of scent. If he looks to his right, he’ll see Neymar soaping up. Neymar will ask him something and he’ll look over and his skin will be wet and his face will be beautiful and then someone clangs on the tank and pops the connection to reset it, making Leo’s head ring. 

He’s supposed to go for a debrief with Pep. He gets the feeling that the conversations he has with Ops are different from the others. Pep came to visit him after the first treatment in lieu of his parents, with a package of retro-flavored jelly that Leo thought no one knew he liked. It had mattered. Back when he was still expecting weekly messages from his folks, back when he’d thought homecoming was a when, not an if. 

But the thought of sitting in Pep’s office and hearing him say, it's not like you to lose focus, Leo; I know this isn’t the best of you, is interminable. He pauses in the bustling vee that splits command from the service quarters. For some reason he can’t bear it, the trip up the levels between him and Pep’s quiet consideration. So he does something he’s never done before: he skips.

They have one rec room for their squadron, a big open space with a conversation pit, holo table, and privacy booths for calls home or movies or gaming. Leo gets a tablet and tries to avoid as many people as possible and hones in on the booth at the farthest end of the room, behind the lemon trees that Xavi is trying to cultivate. He sets up his mate and his thermos and adjusts the chair and the headset, as usual. He has two hours before lights out. He pushes his hair behind his ears and presses BEGIN.

The sim he likes is the basic, no-frills mission challenge. He usually prefers computer challenges, sensorless or with engine failure, but his weekly stat check revealed a player named Joker was doing as good as he was, so they’ve been PVP battling in their free time, dogfights so intense that he sweats through his shirt. 

Joker is there, waiting, and without wasting any time he blasts past him, battering his ship with gravity waves. 

“Show off,” Leo mutters, and executes a dive toward the planet below and its needlepoint mountains. 

It takes what feels like hours but finally, the target lock noise sounds: he’s caught Joker in a blind corner. He smiles and pulls the trigger. 

He hears a string of Portuguese curses just as Joker explodes. Leo pops off his headset and listens closely. It’s coming from the cube next to him.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Leo stands on his chair and looks over the privacy wall. There, legs splayed on the table and gesticulating at the screen where his ship is smoking, is Neymar.

“Neymar?” Leo says.

Neymar whips around and tries to bring his feet down from the table at the same time. His controller goes sprawling, and his chair almost tips over. When he rights himself, he looks guilty. 

“Uh, yeah,” he says, and laughs nervously. Leo hangs further over the side of the partition, hair falling into his face.

“You little fucker,” he says, grinning. “I thought you were DiMaria from Group P.” 

“Come on, I have more style,” Neymar says.

“I even bitched him out over internal comms last week for the back-brake maneuver you pulled,” Leo says. “Shit.”

Neymar still looks a little guilty, fidgety. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Leo asks.

Neymar shrugs. 

“Didn’t want to make it weird,” he says. 

Neymar is the least weird person Leo has ever met, effortlessly popular and easy to talk to. People gather around him in the cafeteria, jog to catch up to him in the walkway, his laugh pealing through any quiet room. In contrast, Cesc used to just tell people that Leo was mute, back when they were in the same squad. It’s not that he didn’t like people, or like talking, it was just that he could never figure out how to make it happen naturally. 

Natural progression, though, as his youth spent in hyperbaric chambers and injecting modified GH into his spine had taught him, was overrated.

“Do you want to get dinner?” Leo asks him. 

Neymar hides a smile in his hand and yawns. 

“Sure,” he says, stretching, faux casual. His hair flickers pink. “Let’s hit it.”

#neymessi space au #basically they're like. fighter pilots who use battle plans hidden in their long-term memories #as their alien enemies can read minds based on certain telelogical measurements