Chapter Text
A bump jostles Zanka from sleep. Darkness sweeps away into a foggy trash horizon line. Another bump. It clunks Zanka’s head against the window and smudges frigid dew over his brow. Unrelenting, one last lurch sends him bouncing in his seat, and Zanka is reminded of every kink left on his body from the mission today. He groans, and the carseat squawks back.
“Yo.” Zanka knows who greeted him, but needs to look anyway. He thought he’d be used to it by now, but the front seat has him feeling exposed and isn’t broken-in like the second-row-right. At least it gives him a new view of Enjin. Less discreet, but he’ll live. Maybe. With only one hand on the wheel, it’s no wonder Enjin’s as rough of a driver he is. But in profile, Zanka can see the apple of his throat bob between smokes, and the full length of Enjin’s discolored scar.
One sideways glance later and he’s missing the distance from the back seat. Zanka straightens. “Ugh. ‘Sup. How far we got?”
Enjin plucks the cigarette from his lips and delivers it to the window between two knuckles, tap-tapping the ash away. Smoke trails from his grin to the crack. It’s showy in a way Zanka abhors so he fists his eye and turns away. Trash piles pass by.
“Just up here. Meant to wake you up.”
“Bull, but okay.” It was too early in the evening to have reached Canvas Town yet, and Enjin’s driving isn’t something he’d classify as intentional.
“Hadn’t done it yet.” Ha? Zanka looks in time for Enjin to palm the steering wheel and roll to the left. Two rotations send the car into a screeching turn, pitching them over a bump and onto a side road once obscured by a trash hill. His seatbelt locks and cuts into his neck, and Enjin has the gall to snap them in the other direction. This time Zanka is ready to throw his weight and counterbalance.
The car settles with a bounce. Zanka’s craned over the gear shift, choking on the strap when Enjin leans in and coos around his chewed up cig, “Mooornin’.”
“Dick,” he bites. But Zanka’s scowl drops when he watches Enjin’s eyelash tangle on his crow’s feet. He whips his head away to hide a sudden flush. Faced with the windshield, Zanka squints.
…at the overflowing parking lot of a cheaply-decorated motel which was definitively not Canvas Town.
“What happened to meeting with Gris and the others?” But Enjin’s already popped open and kicked his door closed. He doesn’t answer, just raps once against the window and points up:
The Sphere creeps closer, trash launching from turret-like shoots. Zanka flicks the latch and scoffs.
The receptionist doesn’t seem particularly interested in two lone Cleaners while a trash storm has stranded enough groundlings to pack the place. When Enjin and Zanka finally make their way up to the counter, all he asks is how many rooms, “One or two?”
It’s a surprise there’s enough available for the option. Okay, Sure, Yeah, he would prefer not to share a room with Enjin. Nijiku privacy-priveileges aside, Enjin stinks, among other things. He agrees apparently, as they answer together, “Two.”
Their word is the same, but Zanka’s lacks the lascivious curl elongating the other. He looks to Enjin. Enjin’s looking away. Leaning forward, he follows his eyes to… a woman in a skirt. Yuck.
Enjin’s neck turns to flaunt a skeevy grin at him. Zanka lifts his wrist and fans him away. He doesn’t want to hear anymore of that.
Famous last words.
The room’s barely wider than the bed, and must’ve been turned over in two minutes. Oh well, Zanka taps his Lovely Assistaff to the floor, wall, and scrawny end table tucked into the corner. Swipes it along the cot to check for dust, of which there’s not much, and lets her come down to dent the pillow. It’s dense. He punches it. Again. Then again. Then Zanka lifts the pillow up and whacks the whole damn thing against the bed. It’s not the pillow’s fault that he can’t get stranded with Enjin properly, but he throws it anyway.
Dust puffs from the wall where it strikes, and Zanka's side zings. Such bullshit. If he was better, he would’ve dodged a dead beast in front of Enjin. He releases a moan worthy of a mangled crow, strips, and collapses on the mattress.
Fuckin’ A. Even in a packed room, the grub was gruel when he knew Enjin was fishing at the bar behind him, it wasn't worth it. He should be writing their report now, not flirting with some rando. Unless it was a quick writeup? More likely Enjin forgot – maybe he can do it on the ride home, or get it out of the way now. He'd say, Thanks, that really helped me out. You really helped me out.
More like, why'd you waste your time on dumb shit like that?
Zanka’s knee bounces. Normally, demolishing trash beasts and leaping over dilapidated architecture with Enjin leaves him battered and exhausted, but tonight he can’t quite come down. It’s his punishment for napping earlier. He didn’t want to, alone in the car with Enjin, but the front seat recliner wasn’t to be underestimated ever again.
A hollow knock sounds through the wall. Then, a giggle.
Right. Of course, the walls were thinner than plastic wrap.
“Easy, easy, Babe.”
And of course, Enjin was booked on the other side.
Well, now could be a good time to kill himself. The room has the tools: one rickety stool and the strap on his bag. But it would make his Lovely Assistaff sad, and he cannot imagine Rudo of all people unlocking some hidden potential in her. There must be something else Zanka can do besides listen to Enjin fuck some bitch. Even now, the roguish murmuring was vibrating under his skin. He could call him - no, cockblocking is just pitiful. Rummaging through his pack produces earbuds and polish, and makes enough noise that Zanka can pretend he doesn’t hear the low whistle. He tosses a few extra rolls of gauze on the bed and settles on the edge with the Lovely Assistaff between his legs.
Another bump. The girl moans. Enjin laughs. Bumpy on the fucking road and bumpy in the fucking bed, does he mind? Zanka rolls out his radio-player and drowns out the sticky tack of Enjin’s fingers in honeypots some paces away.
“The only woman in my life. How are ya, Partner?” Zanka twirls the Lovely Assistaff between flat palms, but he can’t hear her antler’s windy response over Too Lily. Oh well, she doesn’t need to tell him about today’s dents, he can feel it. Running one hand from her cross-section to her feet, Zanka waits for splinters to test his fingertips. Two lift up, but don’t indicate any longterm damage. He buffs the area with clean gauze, and blows any dust away.
“Did you have fun today?” She sliced clean through an armored serpent-type’s helm - a perfect crescent as the monster split in half. And like an idiot, Zanka turned his back to see if Enjin saw. But no, Enjin saw Zanka lashed in the back by a stray tentacle. The beast wasn’t even alive, just trash-carcass exploding into bits.
Zanka leans over, resting his head against a comforting knot of wood.
Before he could fall, Zanka’s was buoyed from behind while the beast that brought them there disappeared beneath a cloud of rubble. Swirls of anima wrapped around their feet in a moment of free-fall before Umbreaker unfurled and swung their bodies into weightlessness.
“Yeehaw!” Enjin whooped. Zanka tried to grab hold of Enjin’s coat, but gravity reached him first. It hooked his ankles in slow motion, caught his tassels, until Enjin kneed his fucking stomach and shucked him back up.
“Whoa there, you’ll blow away. Hold tight.” He tried to follow orders, but sweaty hands slid uselessly until Enjin’s hooked under his bottom instead. He kicked, wrapped, and locked his legs around Enjin’s waist. When Zanka looked up, the red sun stared them down high above the trash sea. And though it blinded him, Zanka could feel the fingers curled in ass flex, could still hear Enjin’s licorice-smug, “Ope, Whoopsie.”
“Oh yeah, right there! Yes, yes yes!” Reverie interrupted. Zanka swipes some change from the side table and launches it at the whiner.
The drywall cracks. It goes quiet. He tries not to feel proud, but as soon as it stops, a firmer, insistent squeaking replaces it. Then the cloying, unintelligible moans.
“Shh… Would you just - heh, ohhkay. Fuck, sure. Just. Hold your breath. Yeah.”
His ribs open to Enjin’s words, sucking in air that sticks to his throat like syrup filling. He shifts, but the bed’s too stiff to accommodate it. The woman shuts up, for now, and Zanka wonders if that was the point of her swallowing her breath all along. Did Enjin not like loud women? No, he seems messier. Not that he cares. Zanka blows out the air and turns back to his Lovely Assistaff, propping an earbud back in until,
“Lower. There we go… Uhn…”
That stray utterance twists under Zanka’s ribs. It was the satisfied, lingering purr of sliding seamlessly into place. Worse, Zanka can’t hear anything more. No, not worse. Better. He wedges Lovely Assistaff between his thighs. Zanka knows he should adjust it, and intends to, but his hand wanders between his legs and over himself.
Slow, deliberate rocking shakes the wall. It clashes with Too Lily’s beat. So does the pounding in his ears. Neither quite match up to the creaking, but the interweaving beats give him something to get lost in. Zanka rubs the heel of his palm up and down the swelling under his clothes, and pinches the fabric around, inhaling. Metal drums, heart pounding, rocking. He exhales. It couldn’t be enough relief to concentrate, could it?
Zanka scoops a dollop of polish with two fingers and places it into his other palm, kneading until the putty’s melted and pliable. He deposits it onto a small dent in the hardwood, courtesy of their kill today. Theirs, and Enjins… He massages it in, grease caking under his nails, watching the exposed, virgin wood soak up the oil. A few more coats will seal the memory.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A few more coats.
Thump, thump, thump.
Just a few more coats.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump –
“Fuck it.” Zanka grabs Lovely Assisstaff by her crown and announces his apology with a grave affect. “I’m sorry, this isn’t for your ears.” Resting her on the sheets, he shimmies next to her, swipes in the polish, and pulls out his dick.
Enjin’s fucking some other girl, huh? He fists his base, working higher until the pissed off pressure fills him out. That bitch didn’t fight alongside Enjin, didn’t fly with Enjin’s arms around her waist. Drifting to the Ground, Enjin didn’t let Zanka’s legs reach the dirt. Just one stoneset hand on his waist melded Zanka to Enjin’s body. Even weak and wet with sweat, he’d hook his ankles, grab Enjin’s arms, no - take Enjin’s collar, and thank him with his lips.
If they were like this though? With Enjin beneath him, cradling him… Securing a mitt around his throat. Zanka pinches his neck and thinks of Enjin’s teeth sinking in, sucking, his tongue wetting the center of purple marks. He wants evidence, and Enjin to soothe where he hurts. Zanka rolls his shoulder to abort the last earbud left to finally give into the source shaking the walls.
It’s like Enjin knows. “Oh yeah? Show me.”
Performing for the Enjin… His thighs flex. Zanka twists and fans long fingers around his head, smearing oil around before stroking down and squeezing his shaft. From behind, Enjin would reward him, envelop Zanka’s hand with his own and demonstrate new ways to make a man squirm. Whisper corrections, praise.
“Let me taste.”
Zanka’s dick weeps pearls. Lanky legs stretch out further on the bed. He tries to be pretty, even his cock. Would Enjin ever put his grinning lips against it? Maybe, if he impressed him. Wrapping his silver tongue around his length like a cigarette and sliding to the edge.
“Ah…” Zanka’s dick twitches, and he bears down on nothing. He needs Enjin, everywhere. Forming two fingers in a ring and rubbing over the lip of his head, he twists back and forth, straining for Enjin’s voice only to hear the honeysuckle ah ah ah of his plaything enjoying what Zanka is sure is a fat, tatted cock. He reaches down, palming the soft skin of his sack and the smooth, rounded surface further south. It buzzes in his joints. Lower, the meat of his fingertips dimples into his entrance. He rolls in a circle. Then, with polish-slick hands, dives.
Zanka sighs. A moan is smothered. Enjin admonishes her through the drumming and Zanka seethes with jealousy.
Shit, he wants that. He rubs his walls gently, then pulls halfway. It’s nice, even telegraphed. Enjin wouldn’t be so predictable, though. He’d lift his hips, bounce Zanka from below and behind - he knows he’s big enough to hold him like that. Was Enjin’s cock pierced? Would he feel it at his rim? Stretching his edge before snapping back inside him? Fuck, he’s a wide guy, what does it feel like to be opened up like that? He’s been kicked, beaten, and whipped so many times, insides rebounding against abuse. But from inside? He pushes his fingers deeper, reaching until he crests the swollen hill of his prostate, and pushes.
“Oh yeah, baby, I’m close. Don’t move. Mm, yeah…”
Zanka grits his teeth. Enjin doesn’t do the same on the other side, finally heaving a husky, satisfied groan. It’s relieved, and shakes Zanka’s skin until he shrinks on his fingers. Stuffed, Zanka moves his other hand back on his cock, and pumps himself with a mean fist. Tried and true flashes of memories and fantasy urge him: Enjin’s hands on his waist, Enjin’s breath on his ear, Enjin’s tongue around his cock, Enjin’s cock in his hole. Enjin’s cum inside him. Zanka’s dick jumps, and his hips follow. When his ass hits the cot, he gasps, and spills over his hand in spurts.
“Shit.” Cock twitching, heart pounding, he leaks into his hand. He squeezes his eyes shut, head pounding in darkness. “Shit…” Zanka gingerly cradles his base as he flexes his toes, bends his knees. Feminine sighs come on the either side, and Zanka’s neck tenses, peeved like someone’s intruding on their private moment. He opens his eyes to the solitary room.
“Yeah? Heh, yeah, okay…” Enjin can chew rocks for soaking up whatever praise he’s accepting right now. Bastard doesn’t even know it's a show. Zanka braces his elbows and gathers his shirt, using the makeshift cloth to wipe all he relieved and sweat from his body. The scummy sensation won’t leave until a proper scrubdown, but, really, does it ever? Like a gross fanboy. It’s not his first time fantasizing about Enjin, nor the first he’s been envious and incensed by one of Enjin’s girls. But he feels pretty fucking snubbed not learning what Enjin sounds like when he comes for himself, dammit.
Zanka folds, rolls, tucks himself in, and secures the shirt into a ball beside his bed. Whatever, it’s Enjin’s fault for fucking so loud.
Dry hands pop his earbuds back in, Too Lily comes back with some of her twee bullshit, but Zanka doesn’t really hear it. Just Enjin telling him to prove it, to handle it, to hold his breath, until he passes out.
He wakes up to the fuzzy call of his choker.
“ – Sst. Zanka?” He’s halfway out of bed when Enjin’s next words arrive, side snapping once again in a cruel pinch. “Answer me buddy, where’s your room?”
Zanka presses into his choker, eyes adjusting to the darkness. “Enjin? You gotta be kiddin’ me. I’m next door, you idiot.”
“Ay, keep it down, I’m serious – “
“Me too, on your right, genius.”
“On my?” Enjin says, through the wall, then sent through to Zanka’s choker. Not his next muffled words though. “Shit, so that was…?”
Zanka’s grogginess loses to his bite. He pushes his choker, and doesn’t whisper. “Ha? What was that?”
“Shhhh-” Enjin’s panicked hiss is a glorious reward. Footsteps creep outside, and Enjin whispers to the door directly. “Pss. Emergency. Let me in, now. Now-now.”
Zanka’s feet are already swiping away dust on the ground, and he’s still complaining when he unlatches the steel with a flick, “Just what did you – “
First, the door caves in, and bare feet smack across his cement floor. Then, hot flesh collides into his chest and a couple of objects clatter. Enjin barrels in, and Zanka falls forward into the door to keep his balance. It shuts under his weight, and Zanka turns back just in time to see a grimey boot splat on his floor.
Above it, very naked calves connect to the very naked ass of the very naked Enjin the Ensign. Who bends back down, grabbing the shoe as spinal bones and scapulae spike and pop, centered in black and red painted muscles. Zanka follows the dotted lines down the center of Enjin’s back. There, triangulated by sculpted hips and stamped to his lower back is a motif of black clouds. On either side, dimples. At the center, through his thighs, something dark swings. Zanka gawks. Then, Enjin’s heel comes down and His Everything jiggles.
“You’ve seen my high jump, man. Eyes up.” Enjin turns around, swinging not a cock, but the Umbreaker into view. Zanka follows the direction in a snap, up the shaft of Enjin’s vital instrument into an anachronistically serious expression.
“What. What?” The sound is pitifully dry. Enjin rolls his eyes with a smirk, and turns back around to survey the space.
“Sheesh, your room is nice. This clean?” Enjin lifts up whatever is on Zanka’s seat. His bicep stretches towards his elbow beneath more black ink. Zanka hasn’t seen his full sleeves in awhile. Took a long time, too. Enjin wasn’t allowed in any of the public baths back home.
“Yeah.” Zanka says, then looks at the balled up fabric in Enjin’s grip. The shirt he used to wipe his hands after eavesdropping on Enjin fucking how many hours, minutes, ago? “No!” he yelps, jerking forward as Enjin unfurls it with an eyebrow up. “It won’t - It won’t fit.”
Zanka knows he’s already too late when Enjin’s eyes flick from the shirt to the ceiling, “Uh huh. Loooks like it. Damn.” Then tosses it on the bed and shakes his hand. Zanka rubs his eyes, breathes, and pretends he isn’t beginning to smell the wafting stench of cigarettes, BO, and sex from the man in front of him.
“At least we’re both covered in -”
“Do not finish that sentence, please.”
Fist obscuring his face, Enjin has the decency to at least feign sheepishness. A cold spell washes over Zanka’s body.
“Enjin. Care to explain?”
“I gotta crash here. Got any extra pants? You mind if I take the floor?”
“No, I mind what you’re doing in my room with your balls out!”
Enjin hisses. “Please, she could hear you.”
“You. Think. I. Care?” Zanka seethes. With one deep breath, Zanka channels Hell's rage into wild, flailing gestures. His hands collide, finger in hole, punctuating each silent gesture with gnarly flesh-smacking, ‘I’VE BEEN HEARING YA FUCK ALL NIGHT.’
Releasing a much needed, airy chuckle, Enjin waves his hands, bringing them together at the palms. At the very least, he bows his insufferably tall head and it's infuriatingly charming in every way possible. “You're right. Sorry. Thanks, man. Really saved my hide.”
“...S’fine.”
Enjin rubs his hand over his face, and squeezes his ass and bare balls into the stool with Umbreaker squashed between his thighs and his coat haphazardly slung over his knees. Between the wall and the bed, Enjin’s muscles strain to fit. When he looks back at Zanka, his eyes flick down, and back, as if Zanka’s the ridiculous one. And –
He never dressed up from his briefs. Shit.
Fuck, his ears burn. Even though it’s his room, Zanka feels as though he’s presenting himself to Enjin now. And Enjin notices, with the way his eyes widen.
Heart pounding and eyes steady like a passing predator, Zanka circles Enjin to the opposing bedside, and dives into his pack. He throws his haori at Enjin, buying enough time to rustle up his pants, and slip them on. Even bending at the waist feels inappropriate while Enjin can see. Zanka flexes, not consciously - oh, who is he kidding? He wants Enjin to like what he sees, doesn’t he?
Over his shoulder, Zanka catches Enjin giving a curious sniff to the haori. Freak. At least that's clean. Even so, Enjin holds it up and raises a brow. “These ain't pants. You’re shortin’ me, and,” he points to Zanka with an accusatory finger. “Flaunting. Trade me.”
“Flaunting?! You’re – leering!”
“I’m problem-solving, because neither of us want me going commando.” Enjin sighs, “I know it’s kinda…”
Nope, "It's. Fine." None of that either. “Just turn around.”
“Really? I barely got in the damn chair -”
“My room, my rules.” With an exasperated laugh, Enjin shakes his head and leverages his body from the wooden prison.
Zanka turns around himself, as if it'll do anything. His heart was pounding again, wired with Enjin not just beside his room but behind him, and naked, too. He said Zanka was flaunting? So he does like his body, or the pants? Zanka takes a breath, before slipping the clothes back down his thighs. The fabric falls softly in the deadened room, silent except for it and their breaths. He peeks over his shoulder.
Enjin looks back, eyes over his shoulder and backside on display. Zanka bristles, about to bark, but he’s peeking, too, and Enjin knows it with his bastard wink. Zanka turns back, fisting his arms through his top.
That is how Zanka ends up with his haori wrapped tight down to his thighs, and Enjin wearing only Zanka’s once-baggy pants stretched low over his waist. Jutting bones point towards a well outlined bulge that requires his concentration not to evaluate. It is… somehow, more lewd than when they were both in their skin and skivvies. Zanka takes two steps onto his bed, tucking his knees underneath him in a mockery of manners while Enjin slouches in his seat, legs spread enough to risk the seams. He pats an annotated box of cigarettes. Better not be that bitch’s address.
“Of course, lost your whole damn fit but you still managed to hold onto your smokes. I don’t even have a window.”
“Ugh, mercy…” Enjin flicks the flint-wheel twice for a light.
“You came into my room.”
“Yeeeah. Sorry ‘bout that. Women.” The cig catches. Enjin’s cheeks pull around bone as he sucks in the fresh tobacco. When it hits his blood, Enjin rolls his eyes upwards and Zanka looks away. “This is why you never bring ‘em home.”
People have never lined up for Zanka’s room. Not until today, at least. “I don’t see the problem. Kick’er out and go get your clothes.”
“No way, females are scary when you can’t give ‘em what they want. ‘Specially when you’re a sucker-magnet for crazy eyes like me, seriously. What the hell,” Enjin mutters.
“What the hell?"
“Seriously. I love pleasing a woman,” he makes a wet noise with his lips, “But every man has his limits. And… sometimes it’s better to dip than to deal with. All that.”
“So gross.” So says the man in his second’s pants, snuck into a windowless motel room. It’s a bit too pathetic. Sure, Zanka’s happy Enjin is here now, but, “It could not possibly’ve been that bad.”
“I repeat: every man has his limits, even me. Listen, Zanka,” Enjin’s look harks back to doom. “I don’t like rain, or showers of any kind.”
Zanka stares. Enjin ran into his room butt-naked, because… “What, you made her cry?”
“No, I’m not a baby – it was,” Enjin wipes the haunted look from his eyes. Zanka lifts his brows, and whatever Enjin was going to say next, he acquiesces instead. “No yeah, sure. Something like that.”
Without Riyo or Semiu to chastise him, Zanka is never certain what strategy to approach Enjin with when he starts about women. It has a way of reminding him of all the grease in his hair, so he passes. “Big deal. Whatever.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Enjin agrees. Then exhales, leans back, and sucks up another long drag. It fills his diaphragm, expanding his belly beneath a swirling tattoo that still shimmers with sweat. Has he been fucking all night? Did he sleep after their first round, or did he only just finish? Zanka is hypnotized, watching his skin stretch around a set of abs that he wants to spit on and ruin. Instead, he fists his hands at his hem. Enjin watches it with a face obscured by smokestacks. What are they even supposed to do now? Sleep? How?
“I see the steam spewin’ from your ears. Need me to leave?”
“No. Why?”
“You’re…” Enjin scratches his head. “Hm.” Looks to the left. Scratches his nose, and gives Zanka a meaningful look. “...Not used to sharing rooms, right?”
Dammit. It’s such an easy out, but Zanka has too much pride to just say yes. “That’s ridiculous.” He bites his lip.
“Mhm.” Enjin keeps smoking, keeps watching. And what is he supposed to say? Enjin is stretching out his clothes, Zanka isn’t wearing any pants, and they both smell like bad, pathetic sex already. He should have kicked Enjin out when he had the chance. But then he’d miss his chance.
His chance to… Zanka looks back at Enjin. Enjin has a fist to his mouth and a pitying gaze.
His chance to kill himself, evidently. Zanka caves, “Just. Cover up and go to bed, please.”
“Aw, Mhm…” Enjin leans forward and grins. Zanka swears he flexes each pectoral. They cause two curved barbells in the nipples to swing. If only Amo had had the same reaction. “Not used to guys?”
Fanning his fingers at Enjin does nothing to cool the atmosphere or douse Enjin’s ego. “Don’t be an idiot. You’ll get a cold.”
“Nah, I run hot.”
“I know.” Shit, shit, shit. Stay cool, be mean. “You’re a hot mess. Finish your smoke and sleep already, or I'll put it out on your tongue.”
It’s an overcorrection. But.
Enjin’s eyes widen, then squint with a wolfish glint that pilfers the scowl from Zanka’s face. He murmurs,
“Aren’t you getting good at that...”
It snipes him with acknowledgement that feels truer than wandering eyes. Zanka, face flushed and expression uncontrolled, couldn’t look away if he wanted to. Enjin’s attention doesn’t wane until the flame bites the butt of his cigarette. He could probably light the next one off Zanka’s cheek, or put it out. If he wanted.
Eventually, the smoketrails settle and find their way under the door.
“Well, if I'm gonna follow orders like a good Cleaner, I guess I should be going to bed.” Enjin stands, cracks, and tosses his coat on the ground. “Woof, this is gonna hurt." Unceremoniously, he turns his back to Zanka to sit, and taps out his cigarette on the cement floor. “G’night.”
Did his opportunity fly by that fast? No, it’s rare that enemies give Cleaners time to think in a fight. Raider or beast, if they turned their back, it’s something Enjin encouraged him to take advantage of. And now that the ambush of Enjin’s bare skin has lost its surprise, Zanka can reflect on what’s worked, and what to do next. He puffs up.
“On the floor like a dog? You’re so old, I won’t be able to sleep with your bones cracking.” Zanka braces his knees and steps off the bed, marching all of two steps with as much authority as he can muster. He looks down on Enjin at his feet. “Up. On the bed.”
Usually Enjin’s hair is styled back, honest and inviting. In the dark hours, though, it falls and hides whatever his face holds, slowly roving parallel from Zanka’s toe, knees, and higher. Goosebumps crawl over his thighs wherever Enjin’s breath ghosts over his skin. Can Enjin smell what Zanka did earlier? Can he look any higher into his haori? Can he see his dick twitch? Not until he’s looking up at Zanka do his bangs part and reveal his gaze. It’s accusatory. And Zanka knows why. A crush like this should just die, it’s too risky for their team, for his… everything, summarily.
A shiver rocks his shoulder, an embarrassing crack of will just as Enjin rises to his full height and leans in, bare chest radiating heat. Face to face with swirls of bloody shadows that reek of old cologne and sweat, Enjin’s lips hover over his ear, "What are you asking me, Zanka?”
Always passing the fucking turn. This time, he doesn’t fight the shiver that waves over his body. Feels like battle, trying to keep cool and chat.
“Go deaf already? Get on the bed.”
“You don’t strike me like the type who lets the dog in the bed.” Yeah, he wouldn’t, unless it was Enjin.
“Even one with a collar?”
“Especially one with a collar. You got no idea where he crawled out of. Could have someone else still on his skin.”
“And?” Zanka takes the shot before he pussies out. “If you didn’t?”
He can’t really believe he asked. Enjin seems… peeved that he did. His smile isn’t nice.
“Then I’d have taken a bath, Zanka.” And catches that bullet in his teeth.
They’re not touching, it would be disgusting, but he wants to claw his hands in Enjin’s eyes for how he manages to make Zanka feel like he’s offering something while denying him everything. Zanka gets the picture, the finality, but he takes the last word, too.
“Then until you bathe, I'll take the chair. For now, I’ll take your coat.”
Finally, the upper hand. Enjin balks. Zanka nods his head down and scowls until Enjin bends his knees, a few cracks popping as he reaches and recovers the coat. He dusts it off with two pats, wide palms slapping the leather in a way that makes Zanka’s lungs scream.
“Lost all my drip, and you’re still gonna repo my coat? The greed.”
“You said it yourself, you run hot. And I layer up.” Zanka yanks it, and to his credit, Enjin lets him. Enjin lets him steal his coat. Scurrying with his spoils, Zanka settles into the chair, and extends his calves onto the bed. Enjin’s coat falls over him, heavy and still warm. It puffs the same consuming musk that Zanka strains every fibre in his being not to huff it in like a sex trafficking creep. The position’s ass, his back will hurt, but it’s worth having a blanket to hide under that conveniently smells - he really is sounding like that freaky bitch.
The bed nearly crunches up in two under Enjin’s weight, but he grins and swings his legs over to kick onto Zanka’s. Zanka kicks back. Enjin shoves his dusty feet under the coat and onto his, and they are nowhere near as hot as he let on.
“Ugh! Asshole.” Zanka kicks back out, long legs like switchknives that retract as fast as they came under his coat.
Enjin laughs, and leans back on his elbows. Zanka pulls the coat further up, settling in. The suede lining of the coat feels like a secret sliding over his calves. He mutters something with an earnestness that fills Zanka’s head with clouds.
“Cute.”
“...What?”
But Enjin shakes his head with a guilty look. “Night, Zanka.” It’s not up for discussion, and he’s covered his face in his arm before Zanka can return the sentiment.
Cute. He stays awake under Enjin’s coat, memorizing every stitch and stain. Cute. When soft snores roll through stale air, Zanka peaks over the collar to commit every curve of Enjin’s body-art to memory. Cute. The swirling clouds must lull him, because next he’s asleep, awake, and submerged under the coat.
Something warm is tucked against his leg.
It’s… nice. It’s… feet? Enjin’s soles must cover half his calf. There may be toes in his knee, Zanka can’t quite tell what’s what, and he’s not sure he minds either way. Zanka wiggles his other toes, and brushes his calf over Enjin’s. It’s such a small, soft press of muscle, but it sets every nerve on Zanka’s body on fire. He blames the leather’s suffocating musk and tobacco haze.
The bed creaks. Zanka holds his breath. And just as he relishes the touch, Enjin’s feet pull away.
There’s soft stepping, and shoelacing tossed together. A soothing weight falls on his back, another on his leg. Wide fingers, Enjin’s fingers, curl into his body and secure his flesh. Then, weightlessness. It’s a more intentional cradle than when he caught Zanka in the wastes. His head settles on Enjin’s chest. Oh, the smell. Hell, he can’t breathe, can he? Maybe if he goes slow. The hand on his leg flexes, thumbs fidgeting where his clothes bunch up at Zanka’s thighs. It tickles, and Zanka’s nerves twitch. It's heaven and agony, but as soon as he’s secured, he’s left, placed back on the bed, bereft.
A hand settles on his elbow from over the coat. It slowly, gently smooths up the fabric. It – Enjin stalls, and spreads his palm over Zanka’s shoulder: a thumb at his collar, a few to his neck. Zanka gasps, swallows. The hand squeezes lightly. Then, after a thought, turns over the back of his fingers, and trails back down.
Enjin’s never touched Zanka like that. Slow, deliberate, heavy, petting. Zanka exhales shakily, face flushing, pass by pass until he’s finally relaxed. Down, Back up. Until two fingers stroke his cheek.
“Sorry ‘bout all this,” Enjin whispers, then steals the coat.
The draft is a brutal reminder of their positions. He has the decency to replace it with Zanka’s sash, at least. When he hears Enjin’s boots muck away and the door unlatch, Zanka bolts, but Enjin is out the door before his eyes can land.
They don’t address each other’s unique layering the next morning, and Zanka doesn’t ask how long Enjin’s been sleeping in the car. But they do find a dingy laundromat before heading home to take care of the… illuminating piss smell haunting Enjin’s recovered clothing. Zanka wishes he had a little more time with his recovered pants.
Turns out, they don’t have time to do much at all after that. Not until Zanka’s been speared sideways on Jabber’s Mankira, sent through Heaven and Hell in every Hallucination, and returned to sender at Eishia’s infirmary. He bit through his tongue three times, tripping and kicking on toxins for the better part of a week. Riyo told Zanka she shot Jabber. Now that he can move, skin sensitive as ivory embossments, he comprehends the urge to raid the Hell Guard Armory and unload a few rounds. Meditation helps him visualize better than any shortcut substance.
As if on cue, Enjin finds his way into Zanka’s room, clothed this time, and with gifts, personally.
And again he falls asleep first.
Zanka… isn’t sure what to do with that. So he projects, marches his way to Rudo, and lectures about role models and reaching out all the while wondering what reaching he’ll be trying on his role model when he gets back to his room. The steel door stares back.
Once, he wanted to wait and do an elegant confession, something cool for Enjin once he really excelled - maybe after slaying a Super… Super Beast or something. But the only thing that's ever served him is trying now and trying hard. So there’s nothing else to do but unlatch the door. Time’s short.
Enjin still sleeps on the cot beside his. Zanka grips the bedframe, braces his arm, and shakes.