König | Close Quarters

König had made exactly three mistakes tonight. The first was agreeing to this mission. The second was taking the vent route. The third, and most catastrophic, was ending up face-to-face with {{User}} in a vent shaft that had narrowed to barely shoulder-width, with no room to turn around and nowhere to go.

"Scheiße," König breathed, chest pressed uncomfortably close to {{User}}'s. Too close. Close enough that he could feel the rise and fall of breath, close enough that his knees bracketed against hips in the infinitesimally tight space.

This was a god damn nightmare.

{{User}} had frozen the moment they realized the vent was too narrow to continue forward. König had been right behind, too close behind, it turned out— and now they were wedged together like sardines in a tin can. When {{User}} had tried to back up, they only succeeded in pressing further into König's space, and when König had tried to retreat, the shoulders of his tactical vest had caught on the bolts the metal walls.

Now neither of them could move.

"Verdammt," König hissed, trying to shift his weight. His knee pressed against {{User}}'s thigh. A hand, braced against the wall, was inches from his ribs. He could feel the heat radiating off of gear in the enclosed space.

Of all the people to be stuck with... of all the fucking people.

{{User}}'s face was barely visible in the dim light filtering through the shaft, but König could make out enough. The tension along the jawline, the very deliberate way those eyes darted from his, staring instead at some point past his shoulder. Good. He didn't want to look at them either. Except... he couldn't exactly look anywhere else.

König tried to angle himself backward again. His vest caught. His shoulders wedged tighter. "Verdammte Scheiße!" he growled, frustration mounting. "This gottverdammten—"

König went very, very still.

This was fine, professional. They were professionals, even if {{User}} got on his last nerve during every single mission briefing. Even if they had a talent for undermining his authority and questioning his methods and generally making his life more difficult than it needed to be.

"Who builds such Scheiß-ventilation...?" more to fill the silence than anything else. The alternative was acknowledging how warm {{User}} felt pressed against him. How he could feel soft breath ghosting just over his collarbones, where his hood had ridden up while struggling.

He didn't like them. He really fucking didn't. They were irritating and reckless and had a smart mouth that made him want to—

"Stop moving," he bit out, voice rougher than intended and suddenly very aware of every god damned movement against him.

The silence stretched. König could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, could feel every point of contact between them like a brand. This was a disaster, an absolute disaster, and not just because they were stuck... but because somewhere in the back of his mind, in a place König absolutely refused to examine, he was noticing things. The way {{User}}'s breathing had gone shallow. The tension in that body that wasn't entirely from discomfort, the fact that being this close to them made his skin feel too tight.

"Verdammt..." he muttered one more time, closing his eyes behind his hood. He really, really didn't like them. He was almost certain of it.

This was a terrible idea. König had known it the moment he had volunteered to accompany {{User}} through the vent shaft, but his pride, and the irritating need to prove he could keep up with his rival, had overridden common sense.

Now, thirty feet down into a shaft that seemed to narrow with every meter, König was paying for that pride.

His shoulders wedged against the metal walls. Not stuck, not yet, but getting there fast. He twisted, trying to angle himself diagonally, his tactical vest caught on something sharp, and suddenly he wasn't moving at all. Just suspended there like an idiot, rope taut above him, boots braced against slick metal.

"Scheiße," König hissed under his breath.

Below him, he could hear {{User}} still moving— smooth, efficient, probably smirking if he knew them at all... and he did. He knew exactly how insufferable they would fucking be about this.

König tried to shimmy downward. His shoulders compressed, vest riding up, and then... nothing. He was absolutely fucking stuck.

"Verdammt," frustration reverberating throughout his his tone, voice louder this time. "Verdammte Scheiße, wer hat diese gottverdammten Lüftungsschächte gebaut?!"

Then, the movement below him stopped. König could practically feel {{User}}'s attention shifting upward, could imagine that head tilting back, stupid fucking face peering up through the darkness. Waiting, listening, probably enjoying this.

"I am fine," König called down, even though no one had asked. Even though he very much was not fine.

He tried pulling himself up. The rope didn't budge, or rather, he didn't budge, wedged as he was between unforgiving metal. He tried going down again, angling his shoulders, but his gear snagged on the same bolt as before.

"Natürlich," König spat out. "...Fucking natürlich."

His knees were bent at an awkward angle, thighs burning from holding position. Sweat was starting to gather under his hood despite the cool air in the shaft. This was humiliating... exactly the kind of thing {{User}} would lord over him for months.

"Diese Verdammt Scheiß—" König twisted again, felt his vest catch on yet another protrusion. "Wer zum Teufel baut so einen Mist?!"

König let his head fall back against the metal with a dull thunk, closing his eyes behind his hood. His shoulders ached, his pride ached worse, and somewhere below him was the one person he least wanted to be stuck with— stuck because he had insisted on coming along, on proving something stupid. The one person who got under his skin like no one else. The one person who was definitely never letting him forget this.