Work Text:
The roar of the surrounding flames drowns out any rational thought as Ravi revs the chainsaw, the engine sputtering to life with a guttural roar, the vibration rattling through his gloves, adding to the thrum of adrenaline just below the surface of his skin.
Opposite him, Han from the 133 waves his arms animatedly, helmet slightly askew, soot streaking his cheek, the confident grin of someone who thinks he’s in charge plastered on his face.
“We’re venting the roof!” Han shouts over the sirens blaring in the background, gesturing towards the weak spot with the easy authority of someone used to being obeyed.
Ravi narrows his eyes, revving the chainsaw louder, almost in defiance. Oh, he thinks he’s the boss? “No. We need to cut a strip. It’ll stabilise the flow paths better and prevent flashover. "
Han closes the distance, boots thudding against the strained beams. "Yeah? Well, I’ve got command. We vent."
Ravi’s fingers tighten around the chainsaw handle. Doesn’t this guy understand basic fire behaviour? "Command doesn’t equal correct. Basic fire dynamics - genius ."
Han snorts. "Oh, a textbook firefighter. Cute."
Ravi squints. Cute? Is that an insult? Probably. Stay sharp, Ravi. He glares daggers at Han, despite knowing the mask will hide his withering look, chainsaw roaring to punctuate his point, when their bickering is abruptly punctuated by the fire flaring dangerously from Han’s vent hole. (Science: 1, Han: 0.)
Ravi’s smug look, hidden beneath the mask, radiates ‘I told you so’ with such intensity it could spark another fire, and Han is forced to relent, grudgingly allowing Ravi to cut the strip, which - predictably - works like a charm. But Han’s grin remains, annoyingly amused, like this entire confrontation is the highlight of his day.
Infuriating.
The strip cut lets them climb back off the roof, seconds before it collapses, Han’s eyes meeting Ravi’s once their boots hit the ground and the roof collapses inwards.
Back at the station, Ravi vents - frequently and dramatically - about 'that guy from 133.'
“Han?” Eddie frowns, the first time he hears it, glancing between Ravi and Chimney, “ Albert Han?”
“Albert Han? More like Albert Can’t. ” Ravi delivers the punchline with precision, though oddly, no one laughs at the joke like he expects. No matter. The truth speaks for itself. “Who gave him command? His tactics are sloppy. He compromises structural integrity-”
“Ravi,” Buck starts cautiously, “you know Albert is-”
But Chimney, with the glee of an evil mastermind, sidetracks him with the offer of snacks. Nice timing, Ravi thinks absently, though he’s not one to be easily distracted. Still, the chips are decent.
It becomes a routine. Ravi starts on Han, and like clockwork, someone intervenes - not to support, but to distract. Bobby suddenly needs to do some paperwork. Hen ‘remembers’ the ambulance needs restocking. Buck feigns confusion about basic equipment, forcing Ravi to shift gears. It’s all a bit strange, but Ravi’s sure it’s just all coincidences. After all, someone should focus on the real issue: Albert Han.
And if all else fails, Chimney is always ready to jump in with enthusiastic curiosity. “Hey, Ravi,” he says, grinning like he genuinely wants to know, “tell me again how much you hate Albert Han. It’s fascinating.”
Finally , Ravi thinks, someone who gets it.
The team’s strategy is both survival and sport. Ravi’s vendetta becomes an unofficial team hobby, and they bet on how long he’ll last before launching into another ‘Han monologue.’ Buck keeps a tally on the whiteboard.
It’s not mockery. It’s accountability, a testament to Ravi’s dedication.
‘Ravi’s Han Rants: Today’s Count – 3 (Record: 7 in One Shift)’
Bobby pretends not to notice. Hen rates each rant for creativity. Eddie adds doodles. Chimney? Chimney is the ringmaster, nurturing Ravi’s grudge with careful precision, fanning the flames with sly comments and well-timed smirks.
Ravi remains oblivious to the coordinated effort, his fiery disdain burning brighter with every distraction. And really, it’s not even about Han anymore. It’s not personal (okay, maybe a little ), but someone has to call out incompetence. Oddly, the team seems more entertained than outraged, but Ravi assumes they’re masking their frustration with humour. Professionals. It’s the principle of the thing. The smug, infuriating, soot-streaked principle.
When Bobby announces the Firefighter Muster during their next start-of-shift briefing, Ravi’s heart races when he learns that the 133 will participate. His obsession sharpens. The universe has handed him a mission. Competition. Honour. A chance to annihilate Albert Han on the field.
Ravi is quick to volunteer to run the Muster training sessions, and he drills the 118 relentlessly, his singular fixation on one thing: crushing Albert Han.
It’s been said to Ravi before; during game nights, trivia quizzes, and treasure hunts, he can get a little competitive, and a little too enthusiastic about the rules, and - apparently - the Muster is no exception.
He gets very competitive, drafts schedules and keeps running Muster drills with military precision, dragging them through endless hose drills, ladder raises, and even synchronised bucket-passing techniques. The team seems oddly resistant, but Ravi chalks it up to their lack of Han-driven motivation.
Hen mutters, “It’s like being coached by a very intense spreadsheet.” High praise, Ravi assumes.
But Chimney proves a surprising ally. He stokes Ravi’s determination with casual remarks like, “Albert’s squad is training too. Bet he thinks he’s better than you, Ravi.”
Ravi’s jaw tightens as he grits out a stern, “He’s not.”
Chimney even starts leaving little notes around the station: "Albert was here. Probably outsmarting Ravi." Or changing Ravi’s mug to read "World’s #2 Firefighter."
Subtle? No. Effective? Absolutely.
But Ravi’s certain the team respects his dedication - after all, they’re always listening so intently.
Ravi becomes so centred on the Firefighter Muster over the following weeks, his attempts at dating turn into near comedic disasters.
He tries to focus, to be suave, charming, flirtatious, even. But instead, every conversation loops back to Albert.
“…and then he insisted on venting the roof. Can you believe that?” Ravi rants over tapas with Trina, fork waving perilously close to her face, her polite smile growing tighter with each emphatic wave.
On another evening, Ravi sits opposite Jamie at a steakhouse, ignoring its Instagram decor as he attempts to be charming. But mid-sentence, he slips. “Albert thinks he’s so clever with his ‘strategic approaches.’” He saws through his steak with such aggression that the plate emits a threatening crack.
Jamie blinks, brow furrowed. “Who’s Albert?”
“Oh, just my nemesis,” Ravi flushes, waving his hand and clearing his throat as if that’ll erase the slip. It doesn’t.
On one occasion, Ravi finds himself at a trendy little bistro, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs, sitting across from Derek - a perfectly nice guy with perfectly nice hair - a place Chimney innocently recommended. The hum of soft music floats through the air, and Ravi should be relaxed.
Except he’s not.
Because sitting at the next table, with infuriatingly perfect posture and an obnoxiously charming smile, is Albert Han , looking irritatingly perfect in a casual button-down, sleeves rolled to reveal toned forearms that are absolutely irrelevant.
Albert’s with a date too - some effortlessly attractive guy who laughs at Albert’s jokes like they’re revolutionary.
When Ravi is shown to his seat, Albert’s casual, "Oh, hey Ravi! Looking good. New shirt? It brings out your eyes," leaves Ravi blinking. Wait, is he mocking me? No. Maybe? Focus on the date. Not the shirt. It’s a perfectly fine shirt. A shirt he now irrationally hates. Stop thinking about the shirt, Ravi.
Ravi tries to pay all of his attention to Derek. "So, um, you said you work in tech? That’s-" His gaze flickers involuntarily to the side, catching Albert’s eye.
Albert raises his wine glass in a silent, smug toast.
Ravi’s jaw tightens. "-fascinating." What’s Albert’s game? Coincidence? Sabotage? Secret psychological warfare? Definitely sabotage.
What follows is less of two separate dates and more of a gladiator match - each trying to out-charm the other while their actual dates slowly lose the will to live.
Ravi laughs too loudly at Derek’s mildly amusing story, trying to outdo Albert’s effortless charm. Albert counters by leaning in and squeezing his date's forearm.
Derek sips his drink, exhausted. “Are you… competing with that guy?”
“What? No. Absolutely not.” Ravi’s voice cracks like a teenager’s.
Eventually, Derek and Mr. Attractive storm off, leaving Ravi and Albert, naturally, to argue about whose fault it is.
“This is sabotage!” Ravi accuses, gesturing wildly as they both try to hail the same taxi, the cool night air does nothing to temper Ravi’s simmering irritation.
Albert grins, annoyingly charming, "Sabotage? Nah. If I wanted to distract you, I’d just flash my smile. Works wonders. You’d be defenceless."
Flustered, Ravi ignores the warmth creeping up his neck, his brain short-circuits for half a second. What-? Concentrate. This is war.
So, obviously, Ravi steals the taxi Albert hailed, slamming the door triumphantly.
He rolls down the window, breathless but victorious. “See you at the Muster, Han . Hope you’re ready to lose.”
Albert leans down, resting his (still irrelevant) forearms on the window frame, smile softening just enough to be devastating. "Oh, I’m looking forward to it. And don’t worry - I’ll be thinking of you."
The cab pulls away, and Ravi pointedly stares ahead. Smug. Infuriating. Ridiculous. Definitely not charming. Nope.
Albert’s laughter echoes behind him, irritatingly warm, lodging in his chest.
Infuriating, Ravi thinks again - an unfamiliar flutter alongside the irritation.
It’s the day before the Muster, and Bobby stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, methodically stirring a simmering pot, the smell of garlic and herbs making Ravi’s mouth practically water in hunger as he sits at the island, coffee in hand. Bobby’s stance is relaxed, weight shifting from one foot to another.
Then, without missing a beat, he drops an absolute bombshell.
“Albert’s coming by later. Said he’d grab coffee with Chim-”
Ravi freezes mid-sip, his mug hovering halfway to his lips, eyes narrowing, and confusion knitting his brows. “Why would he grab coffee with Chimney?”
Chimney shrugs, a little too innocently. “Oh, didn’t I mention? He’s my brother.”
Silence.
Ravi’s brain screeches to a halt. He blinks. Once. Twice. Words form in his head - simple, basic words - but none make it to his mouth. Instead, he chokes on his coffee, sputtering dramatically as Buck slaps his back, more amused than helpful.
“…What?” Ravi croaks, voice an octave higher than usual.
Chimney sips his coffee with infuriating calm. “Yeah. Albert’s my little brother.”
Ravi’s mouth opens, then closes. His brain attempts to reboot. “Your. Brother?”
Hen nearly spits out her drink, coughing between chuckles. “Oh my God, how has it taken you this long?”
Eddie smirks, leaning against the counter with crossed arms. “I mean, they don’t exactly keep it a secret. They’ve got the same name, Ravi.”
Ravi’s eyes bulge. “It’s a common name!” He gestures wildly at Chimney, words failing him spectacularly.
He stares, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like a malfunctioning goldfish. His brain attempts to reboot. No thoughts, head empty, just static. “No. Nope. That’s - no. That can’t be right.” He points aggressively, as if his finger alone can disprove reality. “You’re joking. This is a joke. A long, elaborate prank. Classic Chimney.”
Chimney grins wider. “Nope. 100% real.”
Hen snorts into her drink. Buck coughs to hide a laugh. Eddie’s trying so hard not to smile, his face looks like it’s cramping.
Ravi runs both hands through his hair, ruffling it into chaos. His face cycles through five distinct stages of disbelief: shock, confusion, denial, existential crisis, and finally, pure despair. “But - but the smugness - the-”
Buck snorts, unable to contain his laughter anymore. “Ravi, you need to process this in stages. Do you need a PowerPoint?”
Hen nods solemnly, hands spread in front of her as if outlining the slides. “Slide one: ‘Shocking Family Revelations.’ Slide two: ‘Why Ravi’s Life Will Never Be the Same.’”
Chimney beams. “Makes sense now, right?”
“ No ! It makes less sense!” Ravi groans dramatically, collapsing forward, forehead thunking against the island with a resonant thud. “I need a minute,” he mumbles into the countertop, voice muffled but drenched in existential exhaustion.
Chimney pats his back sympathetically. “Take all the time you need, champ. Oh, and Albert thinks you’re adorable, by the way.”
Ravi lets out a muffled scream into the counter as Chimney throws in a victorious little dance, hips wiggling with zero shame, while the room dissolves into chaotic laughter.
Bobby continues stirring his pot with the same steady rhythm, his face impassive. “I’m just glad this isn’t about someone setting the toaster on fire again. This is progress.”
They’re cut off, however, by the sound of the alarms, saving Ravi from another potential meeting with Albert.
The day the Muster arrives, tensions are high, and their rivalry has reached near-theatrical levels. The first event is the Hose Lay. Ravi stands at the starting line, adrenaline thrumming through his veins. The whistle blows, sharp and piercing. He explodes off the line, sprinting across the gravel course with explosive speed. His boots pound a steady rhythm as he reaches the first hose length, dropping to one knee to couple the lines with precision - connect, twist, lock. His fingers move with practised ease, muscle memory kicking in.
Albert is a blur in his peripheral vision, matching him pace for pace, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Why is he smiling? Priorities, Ravi. Go faster. Ravi darts to the next section, dragging the hose like it's an extension of himself, connecting the next coupling with a satisfying metallic click. Sweat beads on his brow, but he doesn’t slow, racing to the nozzle finish line. The 118 finishes seconds ahead of the 133. Ravi lets out a triumphant shout, shooting Albert a victorious glare. Albert’s only response? A wink.
What does that even mean? Is he smug? Or… something else?
Next is the Bucket Brigade. The goal: transfer 25 gallons of water from one container to another using only buckets, spilling as little as possible. Ravi positions himself mid-line, muscles tense. The first bucket sloshes into his hands - heavy and awkward. He grips tightly, passing it with precision to Hen.
Across the field, Albert moves with fluid grace, his sleeves rolled up, forearms glistening with sweat. Is he showing off? No. Concentrate. Ravi’s hands sting from the repeated passes, water splashing onto his boots. They reach the thrower, Buck, who expertly hurls the water onto a pitched roof, the runoff flowing into the collection barrel.
133's coordination is flawless. Albert’s steady rhythm, calm commands, and - is he flexing? - lead them to victory. Albert saunters over, dripping slightly, smirking. "Nice form, Panikkar. I’d offer tips, but watching you work is… entertaining."
Entertaining? Is he mocking me again? Ravi fumes.
During water breaks, Chimney ‘casually’ positions himself so Ravi and Albert keep ending up near each other. Ravi notices. He also notices how Albert’s laugh is too loud, his hair annoyingly perfect even when wind-tousled.
Albert nudges Ravi’s shoulder with his water bottle. “Didn’t spill a drop. Impressed?”
Ravi snorts. “Congratulations on mastering basic motor skills.”
Albert leans in slightly, grin widening. “Admit it. You’d miss me if I wasn’t here.”
Ravi’s mouth opens, but nothing logical comes out. “Miss… the sound of your voice? Highly unlikely.”
Buck walks up, muttering under his breath, “You keep talking like that, and one of you’s going to propose by accident.”
Ravi frowns. “What are you—”
“Pay attention, Ravi.” Buck grins, getting into position.
Chimney coughs suspiciously, hiding a smug grin behind his paper cup.
The final event is the Response Contest. Teams start in street clothes. Ravi’s heart hammers as they wait for the sirens to blast. The tension is thick. Both teams are tied. Ravi’s mind should be laser-focused, but Albert’s close proximity short-circuits his brain.
As they line up, Albert leans close, whispering, “Winner gets bragging rights. Unless you’d prefer dinner?”
Ravi’s breath catches. “I- What? Pay attention, Han.”
“Oh,” Albert looks him up and down slowly, “I am.” He winks, turning to line up with his own team, while Ravi watches him leave with nothing to add but a splutter.
Hen mutters to Chimney, “I swear, if this doesn’t end with them kissing, I’m demanding a refund.”
The sirens blow, and they scramble into turnout gear, yanking on their turnout trousers, snapping suspenders in place, and tugging on their coats with rapid, practised motions. Helmet secured, Ravi bolts to the engine, hopping aboard as the team pushes forward to the simulated fire ground.
Jumping off, Ravi grabs the 2½-inch hose, sprinting with Eddie to stretch it towards the target. Hen connects the hard suction hose to the engine intake while Chimney handles the pump operations, drafting water from the portable tank. Ravi’s muscles scream as he hauls the heavy hose, drops to one knee, and opens the nozzle wide. The water blasts out with a forceful surge, the stream arcing perfectly to knock down the target.
Out of the corner of his eye, Albert is right there, matching every move. Their eyes lock briefly, competitive fire raging between them. Why does he look like he’s having fun? Is this fun for him? This is supposed to be war. Ravi pushes harder, muscles burning, breath ragged. They’re neck-and-neck.
With one final burst of effort, Ravi edges out Albert by a heartbeat, the target tumbling with a satisfying clatter.
Victory .
Caught up in celebration, Ravi turns, adrenaline surging, heart pounding. His gaze finds Albert instinctively, like gravity pulling him in. Their eyes lock, and the noise around them fades, the cheers becoming a distant, irrelevant hum. Albert’s grin is wide, triumphant despite defeat, but there’s something softer in his eyes.
Ravi steps closer, not thinking, just moving. His hand reaches out, fingers hesitating for a split second as they brush the edge of Albert’s turnout coat. The warmth radiating from Albert feels like a magnetic pull, the space between them charged, electric. Ravi’s breath catches, heart thudding in his chest like a drumline.
Albert doesn’t move away. His smile falters slightly, replaced by something more vulnerable, eyes flickering down to Ravi's lips and back up again. The world slows. Ravi can feel every detail - the rapid beat of his pulse, the faint scent of smoke and sweat, the rough texture of Albert’s gear under his fingertips, the cool metal of a buckle pressed against his knuckle.
Then, as if the tension snaps like a taut line, Ravi closes the gap, his hand fisting Albert’s coat, pulling him in. Their lips meet, hesitant, searing intensity. The first touch is a spark - soft, testing - and then Albert responds, pressing back with a fervour that steals Ravi’s breath. His hands find Ravi’s waist, gripping tightly.
Their helmets clatter, the hard edges digging awkwardly into their temples, but neither cares. Ravi feels the scratch of stubble against his own skin, the slick slide of sweat cooling under the press of their lips.
The world blurs around them, cheers erupting from their teams, but it's distant, muffled under the rush of blood in Ravi’s ears. Every nerve ending lights up, the intensity of the moment searing itself into his memory - Albert’s mouth is warm, insistent, his grin palpable even against Ravi’s lips. Ravi’s fingers curl tighter, heart racing, terrifying and exhilarating.
When they finally break apart, breathless, Albert’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, a grin curling at the edges of his swollen lips. He leans in, resting his forehead against Ravi’s, grinning. “Took you long enough.”
Ravi blinks, chest heaving. “Was that… were you—”
“Flirting? The whole time.” Albert’s grin widens, impossibly smug.
Chimney, somewhere in the crowd, fist-pumps triumphantly, grinning like the evil mastermind he absolutely is.