Chapter Text
The Corporal couldn't seem to stop himself from punishing the brazen omega, raising his Shinai instinctively whenever the omega stood tall, raised his chin and met his eyes without fear or caution. He'd never before seen such a strong proud omega, it made the man beautiful in a way Watanabe couldn't describe. The omega was addictive, clouding his thoughts at the worst of times and drowning his senses - his alpha instincts clawing at his brain to hurt, to claim, to protect.
And so, he punished him. Drawn to the omega in the dead of night, whipping him with his belt and harshly demanding, "Why do you make me hit you?"
Punishing him by having all his comrades beat him near to death, watching as said comrades turned green at the idea of hitting not just one of their own, but one of their omegas. An act so inherently wrong it caused bile to bubble up their throats as if self-cleansing for their committed sin.
He punished him by getting in his space, always lingering on the edges of the omega's periphery, always watching, always there. He wanted the omega to fear him, to always be on edge, aware of his every movement.
And yet at the same time jealousy and deep want burned within him, observing as the omega's fellow soldiers clapped him heartily on the shoulder, wrapping him with a blanket whenever a shiver rolled through him, smiling fondly any time the blonde omega (Miller was it?) would pull him begrudgingly into an omega huddle - seeking contact and reassurance despite the Olympian's determination to seem as unaffected by their situation as their strongest alpha captain.
He wanted to be the one to hold the omega, the one to pull him in close and sooth his bruised muscles, clean away the blood painting his skin and massage the tension coiled deep within.
The Corporal had tried to indicate his interest, when handing the smaller man a tissue to mop his bloodied temple with, but when he'd seen the shuttered terror in the omega's eyes, ocean blue gaze sharp, wary and untrusting - effectively resigned to that next strike, he'd felt the bitterness sting at him and let the belt swing a third time, heart lurching and stomach clenching at the omega's pained cry.
He hadn't missed the weight of the hate-filled gazes looking down upon him, soldiers and officers equally disgusted by his abuse of power. Abuse of both his military station and his gender designation. The timid blonde omega shivering in fear, silently reaching to help his friend but clearly too terrified to move any closer should the Corporal take notice of him also.
Watanabe wasn't interested in him. He was weak, bowed to authority so easily, a typical omega. Japan was full of omegas like him; meek, cowed, obedient to a fault. The ideal omega most would argue.
But Zamperini.
He was something special, truly unique.
He bowed for no one. He didn't stay down, no matter how many times he was pushed back.
Even when he was weak with exhaustion, body desperate to just give in, he would clench his jaw and hold firm.
He was stunning. He was everything Watanabe had sought; his ideal friend, his perfect mate. He was everything the alpha had ever desired.
But he was the enemy. Japan's enemy. He went against everything Watanabe had been taught. He was an abomination by Japanese standards.
And for that he must be punished.
His promotion brought both pride and dismay; knowing his father would be impressed by his growing superiority, the increased trust placed upon him by the Japanese military, but also saddened at being removed from his omega.
He had been sure Zamperini would congratulate him upon delivering the news but the omega remained stone-faced, shoulders high and tense where they were pressed against the Corporal's. A simple tilt of his head and guarded gaze was all Watanabe had been offered, his heart had panged painfully at the rejection.
He'd known they were destined to meet again however, two souls perfectly designed for each other could not be kept separate. Fate had determined they were built for each other and thus the Corporal was absolutely sure he'd be seeing his cobalt-eyed mate soon.
Unsurprisingly, Naoetsu rarely had omegas, most had not survived that far or they had instead been taken as concubines for Japanese command. The two he'd seen had died within weeks of entering the camp. Weak.
When he'd been given his latest orders to receive the Omori inmates, Watanabe had felt a contentment he'd not felt in many months overtake him. As predicted his omega had returned to him, it was inevitable after all.
Setting his eyes upon him for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, a thrill ran through his blood when his gaze met Zamperini's - said omega's eyes abruptly rolling back and knees weakening, the worn man then promptly collapsed into his beta neighbour's hands in response.
Overwhelmed by his very presence, how flattering.
The beta, (Tinker?), cradles Zamperini carefully, helping to get his footing once more, concerned frown reflecting just how oblivious he was to Watanabe's approaching arrival.
He watches avidly as the omega struggles to steady himself, visibly shaking, eyes closed as if to block out reality and breath rasping in and out of him unevenly.
The sergeant approaches, satisfaction coiling beneath his breast as he notices the blonde omega instinctively shy away when he recognises him, but his omega? No - he continues to stand tall, defiant. He lowers his gaze but does not cower, no scent of distress, he accepts his fate like a true soldier.
The pleasure that rolls through him at the sight of the smaller man prompts him to ask, "Why don't you look me in the eye?"
The omega does not meet his stare this time, doesn't challenge him like on previous occasions and a rush of fiery anger spurs Watanabe to whip his Shinai hard against the omega's cheek, sending the other sprawling to the icy, snow-and-coal-dusted ground with a resigned groan.
Watanabe thrives in the fervent disgust he feels blazing within the surrounding prisoners at his violent actions, the blonde omega making as if to kneel by Zamperini's side but stopping himself at the last moment, wringing hands held close to his chest instead, head lowered. Knowing his place.
His omega slowly rights himself, unbalanced and wobbly as he weakly clambers to his feet once more. The heavy dark bags beneath his eyes somehow more apparent when he sluggishly stands to attention once more. The sergeant thumps his Shinai against his own body, mostly as a pointed message, observing with gratification the way Zamperini instinctively clenches his jaw tight, preparing for another blow.
Instead he moves on, allows the new inmates to be dismissed to the barracks, watches (always watching) as Miller immediately huddles into Zamperini's side, arm wrapping around the other omega and guiding him to place some of his weight against the blonde.
Zamperini acquiesces.
This singular moment of weakness throws the sergeant, the idealised vision of his resilient omega flickering and faltering before him, a sick possessive desire churns his gut - urging him to strike his omega, punish him for giving in, for allowing even a single second of fragility.
However the man is already locked away within the inmate barracks by the time Watanabe comes back to himself, so the alpha swallows back his fury, granting his omega one night of reprieve. One night only.
The following weeks of hard labour cause a slump to develop in Zamperini's shoulders; that once fierce resistant glint in the omega's eyes dulling, skin blackening with coal dust and raven hair turning limp and greasy. He was losing his will power, Watanabe was sickened to acknowledge.
He becomes aware of a growing concern between the omega's comrades; sharing looks with each other at the man's unresponsiveness, worry painting their expressions when they see Zamperini's grim acceptance at watching soldiers fall or crumble to their deaths around him. Hands jutting out as if to catch the omega when he stumbles or stalls, but the man simply rights himself and trudges resolutely onwards.
A man normally so full of life, so dedicated to the care and defence of others, now seems devoid of his humanity.
Watanabe watches when one of his men (a known omega hater) shoves Zamperini from the ramp, watches as the omega clutches his shattered ankle but still manages to muffle his pained cries through sheer force of will. He turns away before the omega seeks him out, not wanting the man to be aware of his concern, his approval.
Zamperini continues his duties with a distinct limp, broken ankle dragged behind him limply, expression dead and eyes empty. This facsimile of defeat enrages the alpha, why won't you just break? Why won't you give in? Why do you keep toiling and suffering? When will you finally stop? Why are you so beautiful?
He has the omega brought to him, like a man to his execution. This will be his ultimate punishment, this will break him, show him to be the unworthy omega he is. Not strong, not beautiful, but broken. Weak. Undeserving of Watanabe's obsession and yearning. Not his equal, not his other half. Nothing.
The omega stares dully at him, uncomprehending of his commands, stumbles and clutches the plank, exhaustedly forces it atop his shoulders, unsteadily lifts it in the air, resignedly closes his eyes when Watanabe orders, "If he drops it, shoot him."
He watches.
He watches the omega almost over balance.
He watches the shaking of his limbs, the strain taking its toll.
He watches the tears slip down his dusty cheeks.
He watches as the omega does not bend, does not break.
He watches as the man raises his eyes to meet his own, the alpha's breath catching at the sight of his deep ocean blue determination, his vivacity, his strength.
The omega is so exquisite in that moment, Watanabe is forced to swallow back the self-hate he feels beginning to overcome him.
Zamperini's echoing yell of resistance unmoors the alpha, abruptly feeling cast adrift upon those twin stormy seas pointed direct at him.
"Don't look at me," he demands, disgusted by himself as the omega stares unflinchingly back, plank held aloft like a trophy.
A prize for Watanabe's defeat. A prize for the unbroken omega, the omega who stands taller and stronger than an alpha could ever hope to be.
He barks his command over and over, but the omega doesn't back down, doesn't flag in exhaustion or fold in submission. He watches Watanabe, watches him crumble, watches him break.
He's beating the omega before he's even aware of his own movements, screaming down at his battered body, raining down punches and kicks on the omega's exposed flesh, blood splattering his shoes as he loses himself in his fury.
Only once he's fallen down on his knees beside the near lifeless body of his omega does the alpha consider his audience. Only then does he realise his weakness and his omega's strength was on show for all and sundry.
He had failed. Failed as a soldier, failed as an alpha.
He was nothing.
Japan's surrender shortly after had felt fitting then; his nation had grown weak and splintered not unlike him.
His beautiful strong omega was the enemy, but he was the champion and that was all that mattered in the end.
In those last moments before escaping into hiding, Watanabe stood at a distance and watched his omega. Watched as the American planes flew overhead, as the soldiers cheered wildly, as Miller pulled Zamperini into an elated huddle and as his omega turned his face to the sky in relief and smiled softly.
Such a radiant smile on an unbroken omega. His omega.