Hard Feelings

by numberoneisagifan

Summary:

Enjin’s having a sex drought.

A desert one might say, the kind where tumbleweeds roll by and mirages of oasis babes shimmer just out of reach, only to dissolve into more goddamn sand.

It’s not like he’s trying to set some kind of celibacy record. He just can’t get it up.
____

Enjin’s got a problem. Zanka might be the solution when his choker connects to his in the middle of the night.

Notes:

Note: This is not medical erectile dysfunction btw enjin just has an emotional disconnect between what arouses him and who he subconsciously desires. I was kinda inspired by the scene where Enjin runs into Semiu at the club and she’s like damn you finally have time to go smash and you decide to sit here and drink and stare at your choker. He’s so lame. Also he is misogynistic in this but not really that much more than canon

Enjin’s having a sex drought. 

A desert one might say, the kind where tumbleweeds roll by and mirages of oasis babes shimmer just out of reach, only to dissolve into more goddamn sand. 

It’s not like he’s trying to set some kind of celibacy record. Hell, if there was even a badge for that, he’d burn it on principle.

But life’s been a nonstop parade of new stuff to deal with that makes cleaning up trash beasts look like a vacation.

It’s technically not his fault.

He just doesn’t have time these days. 

How could he when he’s surgically attached to Rudo at the hip while they try to unravel his whole Sphere mess. Who drops from the sky with gloves that have that much raw anima and expects everyone to just roll with it? Not Enjin, that’s for sure.

So he’s got zero bandwidth to hit the bars, scan the crowd for that perfect woman, and charm his way into a noncommittal night of stress relief. 

Nope, instead, he’s making sure his team of fragilely balanced teenagers doesn’t implode after being knocked out of equilibrium. He barely has time to sleep, let alone go find one night stands.  

And that’s before factoring in the very minor detail that he’s almost died, like, four times in the past few months.

Which honestly? Is starting to feel a little excessive. Even considering his line of work where death is no stranger.

Let’s not gloss over the trash beast in the jungle that nearly turned him into a kebab, then twice from the Raiders pulling some bullshit ambush, and that one time where Amo took him down and only Tamsy and Zanka’s quick thinking saved all their asses. The reaper’s been flirting harder than any lady, and Enjin’s not in the mood to reciprocate.

But here’s the cherry on top. He just can’t get it up.

Enjin only really pieces together the full nightmare after a visit to the medical ward post Doll Festival. 

He pushes through the ward doors that evening, coat slung loose over his shoulder and a bag dangling from his hand. Snacks. Drinks. A couple things he’s noticed Zanka likes over the years.

He schools his expression. He’s trying to play it cool as if his stomach isn’t in knots, heart hammering against his ribs hard enough to bruise the bone.

Eishia is hovering near the far bed like a nervous bird. Her cord is slightly crooked around her neck, hair frizzed. She looks up when she hears the door and freezes for half a second before rushing forward.

“Enjin—” Her voice wobbles. “He’s stable. But… he won’t be back up for a while. Maybe another day. Or two. The wounds were really deep. There was internal damage.” She fidgets with her hands. “H-He’s sleeping it off.”

Enjin nods.

That’s it. Just a nod. He finds that when he tries to speak, he can’t. 

He swallows the lump in his throat as he stares at Zanka’s peaceful face. He doesn’t even look like someone who nearly died. If anything, he looks like he’s getting some much needed rest, chest rising slow and steady under the thin blanket. His lashes rest softly against his cheeks.

Fuck.

Enjin needs a drink just to erase the sight of that injury Zanka suffered. 

Seeing him laid out like this, pale skin against the sheets, usually meticulously pampered hair disheveled and his earrings dangling limp—it makes Enjin feel like his stomach is swallowing itself. 

He steps closer without realizing it, the plastic crinkling softly in his grip. He sets it down on the small side table next to the bed. There’s some protein bars and candies, little offerings that won’t fix anything, but might make waking up a little less bleak.

Maybe it’ll make him feel like someone is there, just in case nobody’s around when he finally comes back to consciousness.

“Good work. We’d all be screwed without you,” he says as he turns to Eishia and forces a smile on his face.

Eishia flushes instantly. “I-I just did my job! I mean— I’m just glad we got to him in time—”

She stammers through some more humble words and Enjin listens. It’s all he can do to not stop and stare at Zanka like he can will him to wake up with the power of his mind alone.

He tries to look anywhere but the bed, and spots Lovely propped carefully against the far wall.

Her polished surface catches the lights, gleaming faintly. She looks out of place. A weapon waiting patiently beside a boy who can’t even lift his fingers.

Enjin hesitates. His feet move before his brain catches up. He stops near the staff, then glances back at Eishia. “Hey. Uh. Is it alright if I… move that next to him? Don’t wanna mess up any of his lines, but I think it’ll make him feel better to have her near him.”

She follows his gaze. “Oh?” She considers for a second, then nods. “Of course. That shouldn’t interfere with any of his IVs or monitors.”

Enjin exhales. He crouches, carefully lifting the staff with both hands. She’s lighter than Umbreaker, but still solid. Familiar, almost like Zanka. He walks her back to the bedside and sets her down next to Zanka’s reach on the bed over the blanket, angled so his hand could find her easily when he wakes.

He stands there for a second longer than necessary.

Something about the symmetry gets to him. Zanka and Lovely. Side by side. Like they’re supposed to be.

Enjin mutters a thanks to Eishia, ruffles her hair lightly, and slips out before he can dwell.

The hallway outside feels too loud. His ears ring like he’s just crawled out of an explosion.

He barely registers the walk to the bar until the first burn of alcohol is sliding down his throat, and it doesn’t help.

It’s a dingy joint with neon flickering lights and smoke thick enough to chew, but at least they can serve a strong drink. None of that watered down crap is going to be enough to remove the hollow drop in his gut that whispers, You almost lost him.

Enjin has buried people. He has mourned teammates, friends. He knows how to shoulder death. He’s learned how to compartmentalize it, box it up, slap a lid on and move forward because if you don’t, it eats you alive.

But this is different. The idea of Zanka being gone doesn’t feel like that at all. It feels like amputation. Enjin thinks losing anyone in Akuta would feel like having an organ ripped out from him.

He shakes his head and stares into his whiskey.

He swirls it around the glass, watching the amber liquid climb the sides and slide back down, slow and lazy. Dramatic. Overindulgent. Kind of like him, honestly.

“Get it together,” he mutters under his breath.

Because this whole brooding, spiraling, existential dread thing is not his brand.

He’s not built for sitting still and thinking about mortality and fragile human connections. And yet here he is. Nursing a drink like a washed up detective who just lost his last good lead.

Zanka’s fine.

He has to keep telling himself that.

Physically, Zanka is in top shape. Eishia worked her miracles, patched him up like nothing ever happened. Zanka will bounce back faster than most grown adults ever could. He’s strong. Resilient. Stubborn as hell. He’ll be back to swinging that staff around and scolding people for improper form before Enjin can blink.

Zanka is fine.

Enjin is the problem.

He tips the glass back, lets the burn settle in his chest. It doesn’t chase away the thoughts, but it does make them fuzzier around the edges, which is the best he can hope for.

This moping shit isn’t helping anyone, least of all Zanka. The last thing he needs is Enjin treating him like he’s already a ghost.

He exhales, rubbing a hand down his face.

A nice looking lady catches his eye almost immediately, curves in all the right places, dark hair cascading like a waterfall, full lips painted red and smirking. 

Enjin throws an easy line about her drink looking lonely without company.

Usually, that’d do it. Instead, Enjin feels vaguely… guilty. Which is new. Since when does he feel guilty about flirting? That’s one of his favorite things ever.

She laughs, asks about his tats (the chicks dig it), tells him a bit about her job, and blah blah blah before he knows it, they’re tumbling into a cheap hotel room nearby, clothes shedding.

But Enjin Junior won’t cooperate. At all.

He’s got her pressed against the wall, hands roaming, grabbing her ass and fondling her tits. He stares at her full lips, imagines them wrapped around him, traces every inch of her body with his eyes and fingers.

Nothing. Zilch. She notices when she rubs at his crotch through his jeans and pulls back with a frustrated huff, eyes narrowing. “What the hell? You drag me here and can’t even—”

Enjin holds up his hands. “Whoa, easy. Just gimme a minute, please?”

The woman’s patience lasts a few more minutes of making out before irritation replaces interest. “What, am I not doing it for you?”

“No, no—shit, no, you’re gorgeous, I swear,” Enjin rushes. “This has literally never happened before. Swear on my life.”

She crosses her arms. “Uh huh.”

His pride’s been destroyed in all of about five seconds during what should’ve been a few rounds capped with a cig after. The only thing he can do is offer to eat her out because dammit, he refuses to leave a woman unsatisfied. Principles, you know? “You won’t have to worry about me. I’ll make it worth your while.”

She eyes him skeptically but shrugs, and he dives in, tongue working to salvage the night. She moans, grips his hair, and yeah, she gets hers—multiple times, because Enjin’s nothing if not thorough. But as she’s coming down, panting, she shoves him off with a glare. “That was… good. But get out. I didn’t come here for a half-assed pity play.”

He looks away, pulling his shirt back on. “Look, it’s not your fault. Something’s wrong with me tonight.”

She studies him, sharp eyed. “You got someone?”

Enjin’s never been tied down in a relationship ever. The answer should be simple, because it’s the truth.

“No.”

And technically, it is. So he says it. But it feels like lying anyway.

She shrugs, already pulling back. “Your loss. You should get home soon.”

That’s polite woman-speak for get the fuck out of here. Enjin doesn’t need to be told twice.

Kicked out like a simpering dog with its tail between its legs, Enjin slinks back to HQ. Semiu’s at the desk when he arrives, of course, her glasses perched on her nose. Her judgy glare hits him like a spotlight and he starts to sweat. 

One look at his face and her eyebrow shoot up. “Wow. You’re back early. That bad?”

“Don’t,” Enjin warns.

“Oh, I’m definitely doing.”

He groans and hurries past her. “Chicks don’t have this problem. You wouldn’t get it.” 

She doesn’t get to judge him. She’s a lesbian, and they never go flaccid. Their dicks are always hard via the magic of silicone. Enjin’s only a man made of flesh and blood, and if his blood doesn’t feel like flowing in the right direction, why’s he to blame, huh? It’s not fair.

She snorts, looking back down at her magazine with a self satisfied shrug. “Man can never replace machine.”

”That’s not the saying, Sem,” he grumbles.

”It is now.”

Maybe he just had too much to drink. He’s heard that happens to some guys—whiskey dick, they call it. That’s gotta be it.

He crashes into bed that night, convincing himself it’s a one off fluke. No big deal. Tomorrow’s another day, another chance to prove Enjin Junior’s still got it.

He doesn’t think too much of it until it happens again, a few days later. Another bar, another smoking hot girl. Tall and flat (which he seems to like a lot more than he used to lately), athletic build, eyes like an ocean, the kind who could wrestle a Raider and win.

Enjin’s feeling optimistic. Today’s a new day, he left his team stable, Eishia said Zanka’s starting to show signs of waking up with stable vitals, and there’s nothing to stress about when he’s one glass of scotch in. 

He charms her easily, and they end up in her apartment across the street, sheets rumpled before they even hit the bed.

Same story. No rise to the occasion. He doesn’t even bother trying to make excuses this time and lets her sit on his face. It’s fun, in a smothered way, her thighs clamping his ears, and she tastes good enough. 

But being suffocated under someone’s ass is also a really good place for self reflection. It’s dark, muffled, nothing but your thoughts and the occasional gasp for air. 

Enjin’s mind wanders despite himself. What got you here, man? Stress? Age? That time you inhaled those toxic fumes in No Man’s Land without a mask? 

He brings her off spectacularly, twice, but as she rolls away, satisfied and a little let down from a lack of penetration (trust, he is too), he’s left staring at the ceiling, wiping his face with the back of his hand. 

He’s unable to pretend anymore. This isn’t a fluke and he has to face the music that this is a real problem that needs a solution. 

So the whole ordeal is terrible. 

It’s humiliating. Mortifying. The kind of thing that makes a guy question his manhood. He doesn’t tell anyone this, of course. Pride’s a fragile thing, and Enjin’s got enough of it to build a fortress. He can be almost as bad as Zanka to a certain extent. 

The only one he can’t hide it from is Semiu. That woman’s glasses might as well be X-ray specs. She peeks at him while he’s lounging at HQ after his third failed attempt during a hookup, pretending to read a report but really just zoning out on a cigarette craving. Her eyes narrow behind those frames, and she leans over the receptionist desk with that smug, knowing smirk.

“Enjin,” she says, voice dripping with faux sympathy, “you’re looking a little… deflated. That’s what you deserve for being such a horndog all these years. Maybe it’s because you smoke. Tar up your pipes.”

“Why don’t you use those glasses for something productive instead of being a pervert, hah?” He flips her off without looking up. He knows it’s not his smokes. He’s been puffing tobacco since he was old enough to steal his first pack, and back then, he was always raring to go. He could get hard from a stiff breeze or a well timed wink. 

No, this is something else, something insidious gnawing at his libido. He just can’t figure it out. 

He very well can’t go to Eishia about it. Sweet, shy Eishia. Asking her to diagnose his downstairs dysfunction would scar her for life. She’d probably faint, or worse, try to heal it with her vital instrument and accidentally turn his balls into balloons or something. Plus, August might even try to beat him up for ruining his little sister’s innocence. No thanks. 

And equally, he’s not sure hitting up Eishia’s deaf grandma, Dr. Stilza, is a solid plan either. The old bat’s got a voice like a foghorn, and he can already hear her bellowing “Erectile dysfunction?!” loud enough to echo across the entire Ground. Cleaners from every team would be snickering for weeks. Pass.

He’s pretty sure it’s caused by stress. Pure, unadulterated, soul sucking stress.

He has an entire team to manage, after all, and Akuta’s not exactly a walk in the park. They’re a ragtag bunch of misfits with a whole bunch of baggage, and as their leader who somehow got stuck with the responsible role, Enjin feels every ounce of it pressing down like gravity.

Take Rudo, for starters. The kid’s a whirlwind of issues, a mirror Enjin didn’t ask for but can’t look away from. Orphaned young, just like Enjin was back in the day.

He sees himself in the little brat. That raw anger bubbling under the surface, the chip on his shoulder, the way he punches first and asks questions never. But Rudo’s got this insane potential, not just for strength, but for empathy. Enjin knows, bone deep, that if he doesn’t steer the kid in the right direction, all that power will go nuclear. 

He wants to make sure Rudo doesn’t end up jaded or broken. So he sticks close and worries like a big brother he never had. It’s exhausting, but he knows it will be worth it to see Rudo grow.

Then there’s Riyo. Ex assassin. And a teenage girl. That should tell you enough. 

He worries about her isolation sometimes. He teases her, includes her in team hangs, but it’s another weight to make sure she feels like family, not just a weapon.

And Zanka…

Jeez. Where to even start with Zanka Nijiku. 

The Nijiku family’s a pressure cooker of prestige. Hell Guards to the core. Kyouka and Goka are probably off being perfect somewhere. 

Enjin sometimes daydreams about shoving the rest of the Nijikus into a very small bottle, shaking it up, and tossing it into a toxic waste spill. Plop. Gone. Problem solved. It’s a petty fantasy, but it makes him chuckle to himself during long missions.

If only he could’ve found Zanka sooner before all that pressure left marks on him forever. 

But it also took all of that pressure and hitting rock bottom for Zanka to find him. They might’ve never met if not for his older siblings, so Enjin can’t hate them too much. 

Zanka gave up, met Enjin, got inspired to join the Cleaners and leave it all behind, but that family of his is a stubborn bloodstain on a white carpet. It still shows in how Zanka acts. 

Zanka pushes himself relentlessly for approval, not just from the Cleaners, but to prove he’s worthy of ditching that legacy. He’s the best jinki handler in the team, Enjin’s said it himself, but Zanka treats every mission like it’s his last chance to prove himself. 

Then he almost died to Jabber twice, and it’s pretty self explanatory how that made him feel. Then the Doll Festival clusterfuck to get impaled by Mymo’s attack. A hole straight through his stomach, blood everywhere, and Enjin still gets queasy thinking about it.

Even through all that, Zanka’s passion fires Enjin up.

Zanka resents the effortless. He works harder than anyone and refuses to blame others for what he views as shortcomings—it’s inspiring. Zanka’s matured since they first met. He’s grown up.

Enjin finds it oddly endearing how Zanka’s pride is so important to him, but above all else he still needs reassurance. If Enjin ever told him how much he really impressed him, Zanka’d probably keel over from shock, face redder than Riyo’s hair.

Clearly, Enjin has a lot to manage among the three of them.
____

He decides he needs a bit of experimentation. Scientific method. See if it’s performance anxiety, the pressure of pleasing someone else making Mini him nervous. That could work. 

He’s gotta test the solo waters where he won’t be pierced through the heart with judgmental glares if things go south. He’s done it in weirder spots before. Being a horny teen growing up in a group home kind of demands you get creative (don’t judge). 

Privacy’s more of a luxury than a requirement around here too, so he has to seize the chance he has in not having any missions assigned to him for the rest of the day.  

So, he stalks up to Semiu at the receptionist desk, eyes locked on the stack of glossy mags peeking out from under her paperwork, and snatches the top one. 

It’s got a cover with a lot of naked ladies on it. This’ll do. 

Semiu chokes, slamming her mug down with a splash. “What the hell!” she barks, voice echoing through the lobby. She sticks out her hand like he’s a misbehaving child stealing from the cookie jar. “I need those to get through the day, Enjin, give it.” 

“You can survive without one for a day.” Enjin waves her off with a lazy grin, tucking the mag under his arm. “Share your vitamins, Sem. Consider it team bonding.”

He heads for his room without breaking stride, ignoring her sputtered protests. “Don’t get your nasty germs on it! That’s limited edition. If I see even one crease—”

He locks his door behind him with a satisfying click, the sound cutting off her tirade. HQ’s walls are thick, but these nosy Cleaners have ears like a bat. Enjin kicks off his boots, flops onto his bed, a creaky mess of tangled sheets and discarded clothes, and exhales a plume of imaginary smoke. 

He could use a cigarette.

He’s not the kind of guy who needs to get in the mood or light a candle, ambiance is for romantics. 

He cracks open the magazine, pages fanning out with a glossy whisper. There they are, pretty lingerie clinging to their bodies like second skin, girls with boobs squished together in poses that defy gravity, swapping spit. 

Blondes, brunettes, redheads, every flavor under the Ground’s smog blocked sun. Normally, this’d be good fuel, and there would already be warmth blooming in his stomach, his heart picking up tempo and heat prickling the back of his neck, followed by a tent in his sweats, easy as breathing.

But nothing’s happening.

And it doesn’t seem to be just physical. There’s no stir, no spark, no anything. He pries back his waistband and stares down at the traitor like it’s a disobedient pet. “Yo. Wake up.” 

Nada. His stomach stays cold. All he feels is dread pool in his gut.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he whispers, scrubbing his face with the rough palm of his hand which should really be rubbing something else by now. “We’ve had a good run. You do not get to do this to me.”

Panic creeps in, slow at first, then snowballing. He starts worrying about other factors like his age. Is twenty eight old enough to start losing testosterone? He’s heard horror stories from guys way older than him, but twenty eight? That’s prime time! 

It isn’t that old. 

Is it?

He’d never thought of himself as aging before, and frankly, he does not appreciate the concept. Wasn’t he twenty five, like… three years ago? 

Or what about the chemicals on the Ground? That one mission in No Man’s Land to grab Rudo, where he yanked off his mask for a second to say hello—did he breathe in some soft penis drug? 

That place is full of weird shit, who’s to say there isn’t something like that out there. 

He tries flipping the pages faster, focusing on the kinkier spreads, even imagining the models in motion. Nothing. 

Maybe he needs some of that knockoff Viagra he always sees those sixty year old pensioners buying at the pharmacy, but he refuses. No way. Pills are for quitters, and Enjin’s always been a natural. His pride won’t let him stoop that low. Not yet.

He groans into his forearm.

Maybe it’s guilt.

Maybe dragging strangers into hotel rooms for pleasure while one of his teammates is lying unconscious in the med ward has… unforeseen consequences.

He frowns at that.

Since when does his conscience have that much power?

This is not about Zanka. It is absolutely not about Zanka.

It’s about stress. Team stress. Leadership stress.

He slaps the magazine shut.

Then reaches over and carefully smooths it out. Believe it or not, he doesn’t want Semiu to murder him.
____

His days blur into a frustrated haze of self inflicted misery after that.  

He avoids bars, dodges Gris’s invites for drinks in case he runs into either of those two women, and buries himself in team busywork.

He trains Rudo until the kid’s gloves are smoking and his arms are shaking, runs Riyo through her own drills until she’s cursing him, and checks their logs so obsessively Semiu starts side eyeing him.

Anything to keep his mind off the traitor in his pants. He tells himself he’ll deal with it later. 

Later never comes. Corvus finds him on the roof chain smoking, trying to destroy his hangover with nicotine. 

The wind’s carrying ash across the cracked concrete, and Enjin’s halfway through his fourth cigarette. He’s upped his intake lately, anything to fill the empty hours. The soft scrape of footsteps behind him makes him tense.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t need to. Only one person moves that lightly in HQ, besides Riyo.

“Enjin,” Corvus says without raising a decibel. “You’ve been up here a lot.”

Enjin exhales a long plume of smoke, watching it twist into the gray sky. “Fresh air’s good for the lungs. Or so they say.”

Corvus doesn’t laugh. Instead, he steps up beside Enjin, arms crossed over his broad chest, gaze fixed on the horizon of the Ground like he’s trying to figure it all out. His gray eyes always seem to see a layer deeper, like he knows the punchline before you’ve told the joke.

“Zanka’s awake,” Corvus says without preamble. “He’s been back to training since this morning.”

Enjin freezes mid drag. The cigarette nearly falls from his lips, burning a hot spot on his finger before he flicks it away. It arcs into the gray below like a dying star. 

“What?”

Corvus shrugs, arms still crossed, expression as unreadable as ever, like he’s discussing the weather instead of the kid who nearly bled out on their watch. “Eishia cleared him yesterday evening. Light duty only, but you know how he is. Pushing himself, as usual.”

Enjin’s brain shorts for a second. Relief floods him first, dizzying, like he can finally breathe after holding it for days. Then confusion. Then something hotter, angrier. “Nobody came and got me?”

Nobody even told Enjin, and they sure as hell didn’t tell him that Zanka is already back to training. Because of course he is. Why wouldn’t he take some time off and rest like a normal human being. 

Corvus raises an eyebrow, finally glancing sideways at him. There’s no judgment in his eyes, but there’s knowing, like Corvus has a direct line to everyone’s bullshit and just chooses not to call it out most days. “We tried. Multiple times. You’ve been keeping to yourself for days.”

Enjin exhales through his nose, reaching for another cigarette to give his hands something to do. His fingers shake just a little as he lights it. “Yeah. Well. I’ve been busy.”

“Busy brooding,” Corvus corrects. He leans against the low wall, staring out again, like he’s giving Enjin space to squirm without watching him do it. “You’ve been pulling away since the festival. That’s not like you.”

Enjin takes a drag, holds it until his lungs burn, then lets it out slow. He shakes his head and laughs. “Since when do you play shrink, Boss?”

Corvus doesn’t rise to the bait. He tilts his head slightly. “Since one of my best Cleaners started acting unlike himself.” He pauses, voice dropping. “You blame yourself for what happened to them.”

Enjin’s jaw tightens. He stares at the cigarette between his fingers, watching the ember eat away at the paper. “Shouldn’t I? I’m the one who’s supposed to keep them safe. But Rudo was forced to transform and Zanka got a hole put through him because I wasn’t there.”

Corvus hums, a low sound that could mean anything. “We can’t be everywhere, Enjin. Not even you. Rudo has volunteered to be apart of this fight. And Zanka’s tough, he’ll heal. But you? Keep this up, and you’ll burn out.” There’s a pause, like Corvus is deciding if he should continue. “Or is there something else eating at you? Something you’re not saying?”

Enjin’s stomach twists even if it’s not accusatory. Corvus always does this, drops these observations like he’s peeled back your skull and read the wrinkles of your brain. Does he know? No, that’s impossible… unless Semiu told him? But she’s Enjin’s friend as much as she’s the Boss’s secretary, she wouldn’t spill his secret. 

“Nah,” Enjin mutters, flicking ash over the edge. “Just… tired. That’s all.”

Corvus nods once, like he expected that answer. “Tired’s fixable, we have coffee to thank for that. But isolation isn’t so easy to make right. Go see him. Before he notices you’re avoiding him too.” He pushes off the wall, turning to leave, but pauses at the door. “And Enjin? Whatever’s really going on… don’t take it on alone. That’s what the team’s for.”

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Enjin alone with the wind and his smoked cigarette.

He stands there for a long minute. The boss always knows more than he lets on, he has since the day Enjin joined the Cleaners. It’s creepy, but Enjin’s devoted his life to this organization, all-seeing boss included.

He doesn’t run to the training yard, he’s not that desperate, but he walks fast enough that his boots slap the concrete harder than necessary

Something tells him he shouldn’t interrupt Zanka while he’s concentrating so hard, and Enjin always follows his gut. But dammit if he doesn’t want to rush up to him and make sure he’s okay. 

He watches like a stalker from the window of the floor above instead, where he can see the yard clearly. It’s a miracle Riyo doesn’t feel him staring, with her assassin’s instincts and all that, but it could be because Enjin’s not staring at her, but at Zanka.

He can’t overlap this version of Zanka in front of his eyes to the one he saw barely a month ago.

Riyo’s circling Zanka like a predator playing with prey, scissors flashing in lazy arcs. Zanka’s in the center, Lovely a blue blur, every movement precise and punishing. He looks… sharper than ever post recovery. Leaner, maybe. Hungrier. Like the hole in his stomach was just a brief inconvenience and now he’s trying to make up for lost time by beating the air into submission.

He watches Zanka parry one of Riyo’s strikes, twist, and counter with a sweep that nearly takes her legs out. Riyo laughs and flips backward, landing in a crouch.

She says something to him, and from the way her lips move Enjin knows it’s something taunting. 

Zanka doesn’t answer with words, whipping Lovely forward in a crescent that forces Riyo to vault away. The staff sings through the air, and Enjin can practically hear the note it makes, the same one it always makes when Zanka’s pouring everything into the motion.

Enjin presses his forehead to the cool glass.

He’s glad Zanka seems to be back to normal, but he knows he’s probably beating himself up internally. Not to mention both his older siblings saw his defeat. That’s got to sting. 

He should go down there. Should say something. Should at least make sure Zanka’s not pushing too hard too soon. 

But his feet won’t move. Because the second Zanka sees him, everything will change. 

He massages his temple hard enough to bruise.

He’s not ready for the conversation they’re going to have. Not ready for Zanka’s inevitable I’m fine delivered through clenched teeth, or for the sad flicker in his eyes when Enjin inevitably says something stupid like You should rest and Zanka hears You’re weak instead.

He turns away from the window.

Later. He’ll check in later.

He’s got bigger fish to fry than the inevitably awkward conversation they’ll have as Enjin tries to comfort him (probably only reopening his wounds) and Zanka either spontaneously combusts or refuses to take the praise because he feels like a failure. 

It could be either or. Zanka’s pride is a hair trigger these days, and Enjin’s never been good at threading that needle without drawing blood. 

He’s just not mentally prepared for that right now. He doesn’t think he could stomach the distant look in Zanka’s eyes when he thinks he’s let him down no matter what Enjin says.

“Great fucking leader,” he mutters to the empty hallway.
____

Eventually, he caves. Swallows his ego (what’s left of it) and heads to Dr. Stilza’s clinic. Enjin slips in during off hours, coat collar up like he’s incognito.

“Doc,” he starts, voice low as he shuts the door. “You can’t be loud today. This is a sensitive matter.”

She peers at him then shouts at the top of her lungs. “Okay! What do you got that’s too delicate for me!”

He sighs, pinching his brow. This isn’t going to work, he knows it. But he’s desperate. “Look, you’ve been treating me forever—since I was a teen, and that time I drilled my own foot by accident. So… this is weird to say.”

“SPIT IT OUT, BOY! I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY!”

Enjin blurts it, face heating. He can’t remember the last time he felt embarrassment like this. “I can’t get it up. Like, at all.”

She stares, then bursts into laughter that rattles the shelves. “Casanova can’t get it up! Ha!”

“Inside voice,” Enjin hisses, horrified. He sinks deeper into the examination chair as she keeps cackling. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Just fix it. Please.”

She wipes a tear, still chuckling, but waves him behind a screen for a check up. It’s clinical, awkward as hell, prods, questions, her gloating the whole time. “Don’t worry! Nothing I can’t fix!”

It’s really not to comfort him so much as to brag about her own skills, but it is a bit reassuring to be in the hands of the best doctor on the Ground. 

She draws his blood and checks off some items on her clipboard and Enjin tries to figure out his diagnosis by the look on her face, which doesn’t work, because she always looks perpetually angry. 

She finishes, straightens up, and snaps her gloves off. “Well, nothing’s wrong with your pecker.”

“Please don’t call it that. I can’t handle any more violation today,” Enjin shivers, pulling up his pants now that he’s been thoroughly molested. “Then why…?”

She shrugs, plopping into her chair. “Maybe stress? Team weighing you down? Or hey, maybe your tastes have changed.”

He scoffs. “Changed how? I like all women.”

He doesn’t really have an exact type. As long as they don’t expect a relationship with him after a quick fling, and they’re not needy enough to ask for a call back, and they aren’t high maintenance, then he likes them all. That’s not that many requirements.

She looks at him.

“Men.”

Did she just diagnose him with gay? Enjin pauses, then shakes his head. “No… no, I don’t think so.” 

He imagines the men in the Cleaners. Bro with his bandanna and burly vibes, Gris and his grip that could crush exoskeletons, all bulky and manly with chest hair peeking from collars. Nothing against it, live and let live, but it doesn’t stir a damn thing. No heat, no spark. Certainly no boner. “Definitely not.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes like she doesn’t believe him for one second, which he doesn’t appreciate at all. “Well, if you’re really stressed, I recommend figuring out the cause and dealing with it first. Talk it out, meditate, whatever. Or I can give you pills.” Her voice booms even louder again. “AND STOP SMOKING! YOU BETTER WORRY ABOUT LUNG CANCER MORE THAN WORRYING ABOUT GETTING YOUR DICK WET!”

Enjin slaps some bills on the counter, enough to cover the consult and buy her silence (ha, fat chance), and bolts. “Nope! No pills. See you, Doc.” 

He peeks around the hallway, heart pounding, but it’s empty. All thanks to Stilza’s insane price gouging. It’d be a miracle if she kept a customer who wasn’t a Cleaner for longer than a month with her bedside manner. 

He wanders to a collection of food stalls and grabs a hot dog from the first place he spots. As he chews, he thinks over his sexuality a bit, because there’s no better place to do something as horrible as that than at a bus stop. At the big age of twenty eight. Eating a hot dog. 

If this isn’t rock bottom, it’s at least the scenic overlook.

He turns it over in its bun like a puzzle piece that won’t fit. He doesn’t like anything sausage shaped. He’s sure of it.

If it’s not girls who interest him anymore, then who? He runs through his usual types.

Voluptuous, confident women who know exactly what they want and aren’t shy about demanding it. The kind who grab him by the collar in a dark corner and tell him precisely how they want to be taken apart.

Then there are the smart ones. Girls who can run circles around him. Brainy, mouthy.

Naughty chicks, too, the ones who like being pinned down and told exactly what they’re going to do next.

He even dabbles in those goth girls with the black lipstick that smears all over his skin and those piercings, tongue, septum, nipples, clit, wherever they could stab metal through skin. Phew.

Punk, bookish, lofty, athletic, short, tall. 

He likes variety. 

Then his mind drifts to slender frames, taller builds, slim hands gripping weapons with precision, and sharp, serious eyes that cut through anything. 

Personality matters too, doesn’t it? Fire, drive, passion. Being a good person deep down. Enjin likes someone who will crawl through mud to keep fighting. 

He sighs, shakes his head, and shoves the thoughts down with another bite. 

That can’t be it. He never got to know his dates beyond a single night and sometimes a morning round. If he was attracted to their personalities, he’d ask about their lives and not the color of their bras.

But more than the sex, more than the bodies, the moans, the scratches down his back, Enjin liked the company.

Enjin has always liked company—craves it, really, the way some people crave nicotine or caffeine or the burn of a good fight.

He’s one of those people who goes twitchy when left alone too long. Like a houseplant that starts drooping the second you forget to talk to it. He’s never been good at solitude. Never liked empty rooms, quiet nights, the sound of his own thoughts rattling around with no one to bounce them off.

Bars were never just about getting laid. The noise, bodies, laughter, someone’s elbow bumping his while they shouted over the music, perfume or smoke curling around him like proof he wasn’t an invisible husk lost in the crowd. 

He likes waking up to someone else’s breathing. The way a woman would stretch against him in the morning, mumbling something sleepy before stealing the blanket. The casual brush of fingers when passing a lighter, someone leaning into his side on a couch. 

He likes not being alone.

He finishes his dog, lights a cig (screw the Doc’s advice), and heads back to base. His choker chirps again, and he slaps at it like it’s a mosquito on his neck. 

“Acting up again,” he grumbles, shaking his head and tossing his greasy napkin into the nearest garbage can, which misses and falls to the floor.

He’s really off his fucking game.

Enjin shoves through the side door of HQ with his shoulder. The lobby air hits him, stale coffee, motor oil, and that faint metallic tang of someone recently sharpening something. Home sweet fucking home.

Dr. Stilza had slapped that blood draw tape on him like she was tagging livestock at auction. He rips the bandage off the crook of his arm with a sharp hiss, baring the small dot of red beneath it.

He never wants to think about that appointment ever again. 

He crumples the bandage and shoves it into his pocket as he heads for the stairwell, passing by the common area when he hears chatting. 

Enjin slows.

Zanka’s there. He’s in lounge clothes, his hair still damp from a shower, strands clinging to the nape of his neck and curling slightly at the ends where they’ve started to dry. A few droplets slide down the side of his throat and disappear under the collar. 

He’s leaning one hip against the back of the couch, arms loosely crossed, talking to Follo. Something about metal maintenance, from the way Follo’s gesturing with a whetstone like it’s a baton. Zanka nods once, mouth curving in the barest polite smile.

Enjin’s entire body feels like a fist unclenching after being balled up for weeks.

Follo notices him walking over first, eyebrows shooting up. “Hey, Enjin—”

Enjin lifts a hand without breaking stride. “Hey. Mind if I steal Zanka for a sec?”

Follo blinks, glances between them, then grins. “Yeah, sure. I was just asking him about how he takes care of the metal on his staff when it transforms.”

“She,” Zanka corrects and turns his head. Their eyes meet.

So many things flicker across his face, Enjin can’t catch them all. Surprise, maybe relief, uncertainty. Hard to tell with him sometimes. They’ve been through a lot lately, so Enjin doesn’t blame him. He’s gotten better at holding himself together, but Enjin has had years to get to know all his subtle expressions.

Enjin jerks his chin toward the hallway. “C’mere.”

Zanka follows without protest. They step around the corner into the narrower corridor that leads to the lockers. It’s quieter here, only the distant hum of the ventilation and their footsteps.

Enjin stops and looks at him. Zanka’s standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets now, and he tilts his head slightly, waiting.

“You’re awake,” Enjin says. 

Zanka’s mouth twitches faintly. “That tends to happen after you sleep.”

“Don’t get smart with me,” Enjin shoots back. “Nobody told me you were up.”

He’s kind of lying. He’s known since this morning, but he can’t exactly say Sorry, I was too much of a pussy to come and find you.

Zanka rubs the back of his neck. The motion pulls the collar of his shirt aside just enough to show a fading cut along his clavicle, a souvenir from the festival. “Eishia discharged me right after I woke up. Said my wounds are all closed, and I couldn’t stay cooped up any longer or I was gonna go nuts.”

Enjin laughs breathlessly. “You could’ve waited, you know. For me to get there. I deserve at least a dramatic sprint down the hallway.”

“I’ll try to schedule my coma better,” Zanka replies dryly.

“There it is. Thought you lost your sense of humor in the med ward.” Enjin lets out a breath, pressing a hand to his chest. “Ah, man. You have no idea how relieved I am.”

Zanka’s gaze drops to the floor for a second, then flicks back up. “I saw your stuff, by the way. Thanks for that.”

Enjin shrugs one shoulder, trying to play it off. “No problem. Look, I—”

The rest jams in his throat. He forces his voice steady.

“I’m glad you’re alright, Zanka. You scared me shitless for a second.”

Zanka looks away fast. Toward the wall. Toward the flickering exit sign. Anywhere but Enjin’s face. His throat works visibly. When he speaks his voice is quieter than usual, almost careful. “Did you leave Lovely next to me?”

Enjin raises a brow. “Oh. Yeah, I did. Why, did you roll over onto her or something?”

Zanka shakes his head once. “Nothin’ like that.” He hesitates, fingers flexing in his pockets. “She really helped when I woke up. Made it feel like I haven’t been gone too long.”

Zanka’s cheeks have the faintest flush creeping up them, barely there, but noticeable against his pale skin. 

“You sure you’re alright?” Enjin asks, stepping half a pace closer without thinking. 

Zanka’s eyes snap back to him. “I just trained. Corvus won’t let me on any missions for a while so I’m tryna prove to him that I can handle light duty without falling apart.”

Enjin exhales through his nose. “Well, you haven’t had an injury like that since the poison. Even Eishia struggled to heal you fully this time. You’re still healing, man. Take it easy.”

Zanka’s jaw tightens. Classic. "I feel fine.”

“Never said you didn’t.” Enjin keeps his voice level. “But I don’t. If you injure yourself we’re right back in the med ward and I’m—” He cuts himself off. Rubs a hand over his mouth. “I’m not doing that again if I can help it.”

Zanka stares at him for a long beat, unsure what to say. “Okay,” he decides. Not giving Enjin much to work with, sheesh. “I’m just ready to be back already.” 

They stand there a moment longer than necessary.

Enjin considers ruffling his damp hair. The urge is there. His hand lifts an inch, then stops. 

He drops it instead and jerks his thumb back toward the lounge. “Welcome back,” Enjin says lightly. Their shoulders brush as they walk.

Maybe Enjin’s too touch starved, cause it feels pretty good. He matches his pace with Zanka’s.

Zanka doesn’t move away either.
____

So that’s where he’s at now. He hasn’t had sex in an entire month. And sure, people go longer than that, like monks, ascetics, folks with actual self control. But Enjin? Enjin’s not that kind of man. 

He can’t go on much longer. 

It's like taking Semiu’s skin mags from her, or telling Rudo he’s banned from candy. Or telling Zanka to take a fucking break once in a while. An impossible addiction to wean off of. 

He just has to get his mind off of it. 

Training could be a good idea. He usually doesn’t think about sex when he’s training. 

He finds Zanka in the HQ yard, which is a patched together scrap of land that’s more dirt and debris than a proper arena, but it does the job. The sun’s dipping low, casting long shadows that make every swing of Lovely Assistaff look like an oil painting. 

Zanka’s going at it like a man possessed, staff whipping through the air with those gnarly spikes glinting, his body twisting in fluid motions that’s academy polish mixed with his Cleaner experience. 

Enjin could stand and admire him until the sun set fully. There’s always been something special about the way Zanka fights. 

But Zanka’s clearly overworking himself, sweat soaking through his uniform, his sash plastered to his back like a second skin. Enjin keeps watching from the sidelines, propped against his umbrella, tracking every move. 

It's great to see such grit, but it’s also a recipe for another hospital stint. He should intervene. 

“Calm down,” Enjin calls out. He steps in, intending to clap a hand on Zanka’s arm and stop the whirlwind of his next move before it spins out. “C’mon, we talked about this, Zan. You promised you were gonna chill out—“

But Zanka twists into another agile martial arts move that Enjin has no idea how to block, and Enjin’s hand lands square on his waist instead. Right there, fingers brushing damp fabric over lean muscle, pulling them close enough that Enjin can feel the heat radiating off him.

Zanka smells like incense. It’s earthy and ritualistic, like something from a shrine. That kind of clean, pure smoke doesn’t belong next to Enjin’s dirty tobacco from a bad habit. 

The feeling hits Enjin weirdly, a jolt sparking through him at something so basic as skin contact through cloth. It's unexpectedly electric, but gone in a flash. He pulls away immediately, forcing a smile, chalking it up to static or surprise or whatever his brain conjures.

Zanka’s already red in the face, cheeks flushed deep from exertion. Enjin figures he’s worked himself too hard, literally flushed with it, veins popping, breath ragged. He stares at Enjin like he’s an alien, eyes wide enough that Enjin can almost see his own reflection in them if he looked close enough. 

“You should take a break,” Enjin says placatingly, crossing his arms to hide the odd tingle in his fingers. The lines of Zanka’s eyebrows lift up in shock, earrings swaying in a swoosh as he turns to face Enjin. “Your skills are amazing. And they’re not going anywhere if you let your body rest and catch up to them.”

Zanka pauses, like his brain can’t make sense of praise and constructive criticism at the same time, gripping Lovely like a lifeline, eyes flicking up with hesitation. “But—“

Enjin cuts him off, firmer now, stopping the I'm not strong enough yet in its tracks. 

“No buts. You were just injured. I feel like shit seeing you overwork like this, thinking you weren’t good enough to save yourself when it’s me who should’ve been there to help. So if you don’t wanna take a break for you, then do it for me. Please.”

Zanka’s expression softens, and he sets Lovely to thump against the dirt. “I don’t blame you for not babysittin’ me or anythin’.” 

Zanka looks down at his staff, fingers tracing the worn edges like she’s his true love. Enjin’s eyes follow Zanka’s to the base of the staff, with her bandage wrapped wood and the groove of Zanka’s name patiently carved into it in graceful handwriting.

Lovely’s a beautiful thing, sleek, deadly, brimming with potential, and she suits her giver just as much. They’re both elegant and strong. Humble, more than anything, despite their worth. 

The realization hits him sideways, and he frowns slightly at his own brain. That’s… a weird comparison.

Enjin doesn’t know why that thought crosses his mind, but then Zanka looks up at him, and their eyes meet, and suddenly Enjin can’t really think about anything except how he always wondered how his eyes were so blue. He knew Zanka’s sister has the same shade, but he never felt like he needed a second look at hers. And Goka’s were a muddy green. Maybe Zanka just got lucky to get the color of stained glass. 

There’s a vulnerability there that Enjin only ever sees with Zanka and not that brat Rudo or even Riyo (neither of them respect him, it seems. Hm). 

But they’re mentor and mentee. It's to be expected Zanka would look up to him more than anyone.

Enjin rubs his nose and tries not to feel too smug about that little favoritism. It’s nice to feel appreciated. “I know you don’t blame me, but you really should. I’m responsible for you, and I never want to see you hurt. You did everything right in that moment.”

Zanka looks elated at the praise, eyes lighting up, a rare crack in his composed facade that he quickly smooths over. “Alright… I gotta tell Rudo I’m gonna miss our trainin’ tonight.” 

“You deserve it,” Enjin says proudly, clapping Zanka on the shoulder. “Good work today. You make the rest of us look bad.”

Zanka barely stifles a noise. It’s quick and helpless, a little burst of sound that escapes before he can stop it. Almost like laughter. He stops almost immediately, abruptly dropping it and straightening his face back into its usual controlled lines.

There’s something satisfying about watching Zanka try and fail to contain genuine emotion. Like watching a cat attempt to maintain dignity after slipping on polished marble. 

Enjin’s just happy to see him happy. It's rewarding to see Zanka not hiding his real feelings for the sake of his reputation. The reputation he used to be trapped and drowning in. There’s a reason Enjin found him trying to waste away for days in the bottom of a well.

He never got a scrap of recognition for his true self. It was always his accomplishments first. He had to meet the expectations set by his family, to succeed or be cast aside. 

The smile on Zanka’s face, no matter how quickly he hides it, makes Enjin feel like all of this is worth it. 

Zanka adjusts the strap of his sash, then shifts Lovely to rest against his shoulder. The movement is instinctive. The staff looks like it belongs there. Like an extension of his spine.

Enjin briefly sees a flash of bare skin and a toned line down someone’s pale back. He squeezes Zanka’s shoulder without meaning to, and when their eyes meet again, Enjin finds it hard to release the muscles in his hand. 

“Uh, you—” he says stupidly, shaking the image out of his brain. What the fuck was that? He’s seeing random things now? “You should tell Rudo you’re canceling before he flips out.” 

Zanka jerks his gaze away, then turns so fast he nearly clips a support beam with Lovely. He mutters a hurried apology to the inanimate structure, shoulders hunching, and practically flees across the yard. He snatches his jacket from the sidelines, holding it awkwardly over his waist like it’s shielding him from a sudden chill, boots kicking up dust as he goes. Halfway to the doors, he breaks into a jog.

His free hand presses his choker, the red band dangling like jewelry on his slim wrist, and he mutters into it, voice low over the comms. “Rudo, hey, somethin’ came up. Rain check on tonight. Wha— No I don’t give a damn about your time, Enjin told me to take off, so I’m gonna!”

His sash trails behind like a flag of retreat. Enjin watches his back disappear around the corner, happily bouncing with each step like he’s walking on sunshine, and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Training’s done for the day. His job here is finished, even though he practically did nothing anyway. He should go shower, grab food, maybe try to sleep for once.

Instead, he remains rooted to the spot, staring at the scuffed dirt where Zanka had been standing, feeling strangely… full.

Full. And hungry at the same time. 

Which is new, and unsettling. And frankly Enjin doesn’t have the time to think about it too deeply.

He turns, slings his umbrella over his shoulder, and heads back inside.

He really needs to get laid and take his mind off everything.

Maybe he can attempt to try and get it up again. He’s kind of been avoiding it, dodging bars and clubs like they’re hornets nests, but denial’s only so sustainable. 

Plus, he has a hunch about tonight being the night. He’s restless, but in an adrenaline pumping way. Maybe this is the recipe he needs. He’s not sure why Zanka happens to be an ingredient, but he’s not going to question a good thing. 

He heads to his room, the HQ halls quiet except for the distant clang of Rudo’s tinkering and Delmon’s booming laugh. Staring at himself in the mirror (at least he’s not ugly and impotent) he fiddles with his choker, the band snug around his neck, and taps it to call Gris. 

It’s funny, really, how they all started using their chokers again after Mymo got taken down.

There’d been that wave of distrust, everyone side eyeing the comms like they were bugs, thinking about all the things Gountess might’ve heard during his days of captivity doing Mymo’s bidding. 

Enjin had avoided the guy’s gaze for days, paranoia chewing at him. Who knew what that guy heard about Enjin’s past and how much he’d be willing to spill it. But then Gountess, all earnest and apologetic, told them all about how Mymo used his rule power on him, effectively making him forget what he’d heard before. 

That assurance seemed to work on everybody and they all started wearing them again. Gountess went off to be lovey dovey with Too Lily, the two of them vanishing into the sunset and living happily ever after. End of story.

Sigh… even Too Lily can’t get him turned on anymore. He just knows her too personally now, and respects her art form too much. And when he tries to imagine her without clothes? All he sees is that huge bra Rudo was holding from her after they pulled his raffle number. It was the size of his face. It’s just too surreal. Nope.

The choker buzzes after way too long. Enjin’s been having some trouble with it lately, so he expected it, but Gris finally picks up on the other end. “Enjin? What’s up?”

“Hey, man. Not doing drinks tonight. Rain check.” He shakes some of the gel in his hair loose as he speaks, watching it fall over his forehead in the mirror. “Sorry, don’t miss me too much.”

He feels bad not being honest, but he can’t exactly confess to Gris that he’s secretly going on his own later to test if he can still get hard. That’s a whole can of worms. 

Gris pauses. “Again? Did you find religion? Usually you’re all for a chance to flirt, but… I guess I’m worried about you too. You have a lot of responsibilities on your shoulders for someone so allergic to them.”

Enjin chuckles. “Thanks for the backwards compliment and your concern, but I’m fine, Gris. Just gotta deal with some stuff at base first.”

Gris hums, not buying it entirely. “Alright, get some sleep then. We’ll have a beer for you.”

“Have fun with the rest of the guys.” Enjin cuts the line, washes his face, cold water shocking away the day’s grime, and changes into sweats so he can relax a little before he goes out to find a hopefully forgiving woman. It’s still a bit too early to leave HQ without someone catching him sneaking around and asking why he didn’t go with Gris and the others. 

He gets in bed, rolls over onto his back, throws an arm over his forehead, and stares at the ceiling. He feels way too pent up, energy coiling with nowhere to go.

Suddenly, his choker crackles to life, static popping. Maybe Gris forgot to hang up? 

It’s just breathing at first, heavy and uneven, then shuffling of sheets, like someone’s tossing in bed. He’s confused for a bit, finger hovering over the button, but he doesn’t respond and waits to hear who it is. 

A pitched, choked out moan filters through, vibrating right from his own neck where the choker’s wrapped. Enjin blinks. Who the hell is that? Is… is someone jacking off or something? 

There are frantic slick sounds. Yeah. That’s definitely a familiar sound. 

He’s so fucking jealous. This random person’s  getting relief while he’s stuck like this? This sucks.

He puts a finger up to press the button and let them know they’re airing out their business to at least him. But before he can, more breathy moans spill out, soft and stifled, like they’re biting a pillow.

Then, “Enjin—”

Huh.

He… He knows that voice. That’s Zanka.

Enjin’s brain stops for a second, eyes widening in the dark. 

That’s Zanka, making pitchy sounds of pleasure Enjin knows he would rather die than have anyone hear. That’s Zanka, like, the Nijiku, the third youngest heir to one of the Hell Guard’s most elite families, moaning Enjin’s name. 

Now, he’s known for a while that Zanka has a lot of admiration for him—at most a little puppy crush, the kind where the kid hangs on his words during missions, eyes lighting up at his praise. 

But physical attraction? This? Zanka doesn’t seem like the type to even touch himself. He’s way too regal, a snow shrouded pretty boy, all noble poise and cold shoulders even while slumming it with the rest of the Cleaners.

Enjin kind of imagined him being born out of an oyster as a pearl or something, pristine and above grubby teenage hormones.

Then he sees it in his head, unbidden, Zanka pleasuring himself. Slender hands moving, his hair tousled on a pillow, brown lashes fluttering as his eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.

Enjin gulps, throat dry, readying himself to interrupt. All he has to do is tap the button, cough awkwardly, probably make Zanka bury himself underground in mortification or barge in to knock him over the head with his stick to induce amnesia. He just has to tease it off and pretend it never happened. Zanka will survive a bit of light hearted ribbing.

But then there are more moans, low and building, slick noises filtering through the choker, the one Zanka wears on his wrist. The sounds go up, and down, and up and down… rhythmic, insistent. 

There’s something wet too, a glide that makes Enjin’s mind race. Does Zanka go out and buy lube, all discreet in some shop? Or maybe he just uses those fancy lotions that make his hands real soft when he passes Enjin his umbrella, even though someone with a staff as their main weapon should have callouses the size of craters. 

He says it’s because he refuses to touch Lovely with gross hands. Enjin’s always teased him for that. There’s nothing funny about it now. 

And he’s definitely not a spit in his palm and fist his cock type guy like Enjin is, rough and ready.

He listens some more, Zanka’s sounds pitching higher, less controlled, and Enjin doesn’t know why, but maybe he expected Zanka to be more restrained. 

He’s a creep for listening to this, finger twitching toward the off button. Something stops him. It's the heat pooling in his stomach, a slow uncoil he hasn’t felt in weeks. He looks down, sweatpants tenting, and realizes he’s hard. After a whole month, he’s finally hard again. He’s so happy he could cry, a ridiculous grin splitting his face in the dark.

Wait. No. No, he should not be smiling or feeling any relief right now. Why is he hard hearing something as pervy as this? 

But… he doesn’t want to speak up and end the comm line for Zanka’s sake either. Zanka’s just a teenager, it’s not that embarrassing to have moments of weakness. Enjin shouldn’t interrupt his me time and humiliate him.

He also doesn’t want his miracle erection to go to waste.

Basically, he has two options. 

Let this beautiful boner turn into blue balls. Or jack off to Zanka’s voice. Which is unethical and frankly concerning, but he can imagine it’s a girl, right? Zanka doesn’t exactly sound feminine, but if he slaps some tits on the mental image then… it’s not that far off. He doesn’t have to violate Zanka’s trust in any way to do this. It's just masturbation. 

Enjin’s thumb hovers over the button like it’s a live grenade. One tap and the line dies. Zanka’s secret stays buried, Enjin’s hard on wilts back into nothing, and he goes back to pretending the world is still spinning the way it was five minutes ago.

He doesn’t tap it.

Instead, his hand slides down slowly and palms the obscene tent in his sweats. The first real touch in a month makes his hips jerk like he’s been tazed. “Fuck,” he breathes, so quiet it’s just air.

Zanka moans again, higher this time, needy, the sound cracking right at the end like he’s biting his lip bloody to stay quiet. The wet glide of skin on skin filters through the choker crystal clear, intimate and way too much.

Enjin shoves his sweats down just enough. His cock springs out, heavy, flushed dark, already leaking precum at the tip. He wraps his fist around the base and squeezes hard, trying to ground himself. It doesn’t help. The pressure just makes him throb harder. He’s too sensitive after so long. 

He tells himself, picture a girl. Any girl. She could be real or fake, maybe coincidentally Japanese. Or that tall athletic one from last week, the one with the brown eyes and the thighs that could crack walnuts.

But the second he tries, the image warps—her hair shortens, turns ashy blonde and brown with the bangs Zanka never forgets to fix after training. Her eyes go from brown to watery blue. Her lips stay full but get that sharp cupid’s bow Zanka has when he’s trying not to smile. Piercings appear like they were always there, tassels swaying every time the imaginary girl’s head tips back.

“Shit—fuck, that’s not—” Enjin growls under his breath, but his hand’s already moving, slow strokes from root to tip, thumb smearing the pre that’s practically pouring out of him now. Every slick sound from the choker syncs up with his fist. 

Zanka whimpers Enjin’s name again, soft and broken. “Enjin… ah—fuck, please—”

Enjin’s strokes speed up before he can chicken out. He’s gripping himself tighter than he should, the vein on the underside pulsing against his palm. He can see it in his head, Zanka sprawled on his narrow dorm bed, legs spread, one manicured hand working his own pretty cock—because of course it’s pretty, everything about that kid is unfairly pretty—while the other’s probably clamped over his mouth. Maybe he’s got two fingers in his mouth, sucking on them to keep quiet, drooling around them the way Enjin suddenly wants to see in real life so bad it hurts.

“Damn it, Zanka,” Enjin mutters, voice wrecked. His free hand fists the sheets. He’s pumping faster now, hips rolling up into his fist like he’s fucking someone instead of his own hand. The choker keeps feeding him everything—Zanka’s ragged breathing, the wet rhythmic schlick of his motions, the tiny hitched gasps every time he twists his wrist just right.

Enjin’s mind is a traitor. 

It keeps layering Zanka’s details over the fantasy girl. The line of his throat when he swallows, the way sweat beads at his collarbones after training, his uniform stripped down just enough to show a sliver of that pale skin he rarely shows off. Enjin wonders if Zanka’s nipples are sensitive like a chick’s are. If he’d make that same pleased sound if Enjin sucked on them.

He’s past pretending now. The woman in his head has completely dissolved. It’s just Zanka—Zanka flushed crimson from his ears to his chest to the tips of his toes, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes glassy and unfocused, lips parted on another moan of Enjin’s name like a prayer. “Need you, mmf—”

Enjin’s balls draw up tight. His strokes turn sloppy, frantic. There’s no way in hell he’s gonna last much longer like this “Yeah, just like that—fuck, say it again,” he whispers to the empty room, like Zanka can hear him. Like he’d want to.

Zanka does. Or at least the universe is kind enough to give Enjin that much. The moan that rips out of the choker is raw, high pitched, almost shocked—“Enjin—! I’m—ahh—!”—and then there’s the unmistakable stutter of breath, the choked off cry, the wet sound of Zanka coming so hard his voice cracks in the middle.

That’s it. Game over.

Enjin’s orgasm hits like a truck slamming into his ribs. He comes with a strangled groan, hips jerking up so hard the bed creaks. Thick ropes of cum stripe his stomach, his chest, even the underside of his chin because he’s been backed up for so fucking long. It just keeps coming, pulse after pulse, until he’s shaking and oversensitive and still stroking himself through it like he can’t stop.

On the other end, Zanka’s breathing slows into heavy, satisfied puffs. There’s the rustle of sheets as he probably rolls over, a soft sigh that sounds dangerously close to content, and then… nothing. Just the rhythm of sleep.

Enjin lies there, chest heaving, cum cooling tacky on his skin, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him absolution. His cock gives one last twitch against his thigh before it finally starts to soften.

He should feel gross. He does feel gross. He’s covered in his own nut and he’s pretty sure he just did something illegal. But underneath that there’s this bone deep, terrifying relief, like a knot that’s been wound too tight for weeks finally snapped loose.

He reaches for the box of tissues on the nightstand with the hand that isn’t covered in jizz, and wipes himself down as best he can without making too much noise. 

The choker’s still open. He can hear Zanka’s slow, even breaths, the occasional sleepy shift of fabric. He’s probably curled up on his side, one hand tucked under his cheek like he does when he’s exhausted after missions in the backseat while Gris drives. Enjin’s seen it before, Zanka fighting sleep and losing, head eventually dropping onto Riyo or Enjin’s shoulder because he trusts them that much.

Enjin scrubs his hand (the clean one, he’s not that gross) down his face. 

Zanka’s been through hell. Rock bottom, a family that treats him like a disappointment, nearly dying thrice in the last few months alone, and Enjin’s let him down more than he can count. Still, he looks at Enjin like he hung the fucking moon.

And here Enjin is, listening to him get off, coming harder than he has in years to the sound of Zanka moaning his name.

He’s a damn creep.

There’s no two ways about it. Shame churns in his gut as a wave of clarity smacks him in the face.

Enjin exhales, long and shaky.

“Fuck,” he says quietly into the dark.

He doesn’t close the line. He just lies there, listening to Zanka sleep, and wonders how the hell he’s supposed to look him in the eye tomorrow without remembering exactly how he sounded when he came.
____

The thing is, if last night was just a one time thing, a fluke born of pent up frustration and bad timing, then there would be no problem. 

Enjin could chalk it up to the lack of sex messing with his head, file it away under weird shit that happened, and move on. But whatever twisted force runs the Ground has other plans. 

The next day dawns with the same hazy light filtering through his cracked window, and Enjin feels it immediately. A hum of guilt settling in his stomach like undigested sludge.

He gets ready and moves to the common area, nursing a mug of whatever passes for coffee. It’s bitter, gritty, the kind that sticks to your teeth. Adult coffee. No cream and sweetener. Enjin really badly wants to reach for the sugar cubes, but he doesn’t deserve it. 

Rudo and Zanka are bickering nearby, as usual. Rudo’s gloves are clenched in fists, voice rising about some training drill gone wrong, while Zanka stands tall, staff leaned against his shoulder. “You can’t just punch through everythin’, Rudo. You’re a genius, sure, but even geniuses gotta think.”

Rudo growls, crossing his arms. “Yeah? And you’re the expert?”

Oof. Enjin knows that stings. 

Rudo probably would’ve thought twice before saying that if he knew Zanka’s history. It’s a little too close to home. 

Zanka’s eyes narrow, anger flaring, but before it escalates, Riyo catches Enjin’s gaze from across the room. She’s perched on a chair, scissors idly twirling in her fingers like a fidget toy. “Hey, Enjin,” she whines, grabbing his attention. “You look like you didn’t sleep. What’s up?”

Enjin shakes his head quickly, forcing a grin that usually disarms everyone. “Nothing, Riyo. Just caffeine not kicking in yet.” He sets the mug down harder than intended, the clunk echoing, and heads for the food. He spots the nearest protein bar and goes to snatch it up. Anything to occupy his hands. 

But Zanka breaks away from Rudo mid sentence and decides mercilessly to walk over to Enjin. Up close, his eyes are steady. Not brimming with tears of overstimulation. 

And his hair is brushed back instead of messily splayed across a pillow as he tucked his face against it to hide his sounds. His body is hidden under his Cleaner uniform instead of, well, being naked like he was in Enjin’s gross sex fantasy. 

“Enjin,” he says. Enjin can’t hear that accent without breathy, needy, calls of his name ringing in his ears, “you doin’ any missions today? I could come along, help out. Been itchin’ to test Lovely on somethin’ for a while.”

Enjin freezes while reaching for the protein bar, the memory of last night flashing behind his eyes. 

He laughs it off, a bit too forced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Haha… actually, I’ve got one lined up, but I was gonna bring Rudo. Just to get him some more experience, you know?”

Zanka tilts his head, not missing a beat. “I don’t mind goin’ along with Rudo, even if he’s a little brat. He’s just takin’ it out on me because he’s hittin’ a plateau. I still have to show him some ways to regulate his anima better.“

Enjin’s mind races with images of Zanka in the field, his hands sliding over Lovely, the strength of him tearing a trash beast to shreds. Too close, too soon after… whatever that was. 

“Well, I think it’s best if he learns how to walk on his own. Like a baby duck. Just until he figures it out himself.”

Zanka’s expression shifts, disheartened, a flicker of hurt before he masks it with composure. He grips Lovely harder, knuckles whitening against the staff’s sleek wood. “Okay,” he says tersely, voice clipped. “Understood.”

Guilt twists in Enjin’s chest, sharper than expected. He reaches out without thinking, patting Zanka on the shoulder, with the same hand he’d used last night, the one that stroked himself to completion. The contact lingers a second too long, warmth seeping through fabric, and Enjin forces a smile past his teeth, feeling vaguely disgusted with himself. “Did you get to relax last night?”

Zanka looks shocked for a moment, eyes widening, a flush creeping up his neck like he’d been caught. He glances away, adjusting his satchel. “Yeah, I did. Guess I was worked up, so I thought trainin’ more would be better. But… rest helped.”

Enjin nods, pulling his hand back like it’s burned. “Good to hear. I’ll be back later if you want to train again. A normal amount, you hear me? No pushing till you drop.”

Zanka nods, still looking a bit down but seemingly buoyed by the promise, that spark returning to his eyes. “I will. Thanks, Enjin.” He turns, heading off to whatever solo drill awaits, but not before casting a quick glance back, a silent question hanging there that Enjin pretends not to see.

The day drags after that. There’s a routine mission with Rudo that’s more babysitting than action. They’re trying to get Rudo better at defense, so they have his gloves reshaping trash into improvised shields while Enjin drills through a minor beast swarm. 

It’s straightforward, but Enjin’s mind wanders and Zanka’s face flashes behind his eye. His stomach flips like swallowed a bunch of snakes. 

By evening he’s back at HQ, muscles aching in that good, earned way, but he’s got a skull pounding migraine that’s worse than ever. Team dinner sounds like torture. Riyo’s staring problem, Rudo in general, and Zanka sitting there all composed and perfect like he didn’t spend last night moaning Enjin’s name into a pillow like a slut. 

Nope. Enjin mutters something about reports to Rudo and ghosts his way to his room, door locked, lights off, boots kicked into the corner.

He drops down onto his bed and stares at the ceiling again, the choker still around his neck like a noose of temptation.

There’s a crackle again.

Soft at first, just static and the low hum of an open line. Enjin’s eyes snap open in the dark.

Breathing. Deeper this time, like shudders and heaves, already edged with desperation.

Enjin would know that voice now, even if someone gave him amnesia. Zanka again. Of course it’s Zanka.

He knows it’s Zanka before the first moan escapes. Enjin lies there, arm over his eyes, telling himself to cut the line, to respect his privacy this time. To not make it any worse. But some horrible thing inside him holds him still.

A whimper slips through, low, throaty, like Zanka’s trying to swallow it and failing. Enjin’s cock twitches hard in his sweats, already half chubbed from nothing. 

There’s a soft pop of a plastic cap. A bottle of some kind, followed by the wet squelch of a thick liquid being squirted out. It honestly sounds like a bottle of ketchup, but Enjin knows with an impending sense of doom that it is definitely not. 

More wet noises follow, slicker than before, a different tempo than just stroking. This is slower, wetter, a filthy rhythmic sound that makes Enjin’s mouth go dry.

Zanka gasps, surprised, and Enjin can’t help but worry that he hurt himself for a second. There’s a long pause, then another wet noise, louder this time. 

Enjin’s breath catches as he pieces it together, Zanka’s hisses, sharp breaths like testing waters, pauses that stretch taut. Is he… putting fingers inside himself? Pushing them in one by one, if those hitched gasps mean anything? 

His palm is already sweaty. He wipes it on the sheets, then lets it drift lower, hovering over the waistband of his sweats. The betrayal in his own body should feel worse than it does.

Enjin’s hand slips under the elastic. Wraps around his cock before he can talk himself out of it. He’s fully hard now, aching, leaking all over his fist on the first stroke. “What the hell are you doing,” he whispers to an unresponsive Zanka.

Another pause, Zanka must be adding a second finger. The hiss turns into a broken whimper. Sheets rustle like his hips are shifting, the angle changing. Then there’s a sudden, punched out moan that sounds like Zanka just found something that lit him up inside.

Enjin’s strokes match the new tempo without meaning to in slow, deep drags, his thumb smearing the mess at his tip every time Zanka makes that noise again. And he does. Again. And again. Like he can’t stop chasing it, repeating whatever motion sparked it.

“Enjin… please—” Zanka’s voice cracks on the word. Needy and shocked, like Zanka’s never heard himself sound like that before. He sounds less frantic than last night, almost pleading, as if he’s talking to someone who isn’t there, imagining Enjin right there with him. “Just—fuck—touch me.”

Zanka’s trapped in his own fantasy. Enjin wonders if he’s always used Enjin as jerk off material or if this is new. He doesn’t know which is worse. 

Enjin’s thumb circles the head of his cock, slick and sensitive, and he imagines it’s Zanka’s tongue instead, hot, wet, swirling while Zanka looks up at him with that admiration.

The guilt is starting to feel distant, drowned out by the heat crawling up his spine, every single sound Zanka makes is feeding straight into his bloodstream like a drug.

Zanka whimpers, an actual whimper, and there’s a muffled thump, like his heel kicked the mattress. “Wanted you to.. ah—see me. Wanted you to look at me like—”

See me.

Look at me.

Enjin has looked. He’s looked plenty. At Zanka’s form during drills, at the focused line of his brow when he’s adjusting Lovely’s grip, at the way he straightens his uniform collar even when no one’s watching. He’s looked without letting himself think about why.

The noise builds in a way that paints vivid pictures. Enjin doesn’t know much about gay sex (cause he’s not gay, duh), but he knows enough about the world, the clubs, the concept of it. He knows it feels good in the ass for some guys, that there’s a spot inside that turns pain to pleasure with the right touch.

He knows some guys like it. Like it a lot. 

Is that what Zanka is? One of those guys? 

The kind Enjin lets down easy at bars, flashing a smile while declining their advances? Or the ones who prowl nights seeking release from other men, just like Enjin seeks women? 

Or… fuck, is he more like the girls Enjin likes to chase—soft moans, legs spread, using his cock for that deep, full feeling until they’re shaking apart?

The thought of Zanka’s pretty face flushed, lips parted, three fingers buried in his own tight ass, scissoring and curling and hitting that spot that makes him sound like he’s dying, makes Enjin’s grip tighten almost painfully. He jerks himself faster, hips rolling up into his fist.

Wait.

Is Zanka even a virgin if he knows about stuff like this?

If he’s got a bottle of lube stashed somewhere and he’s already pushing slick fingers into himself like he’s done it before, like he knows exactly how to angle them to chase his pleasure? The thought of Zanka learning this from someone else, some faceless bastard, makes Enjin’s stomach twist so hard he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek just to keep from cursing out loud.

Copper floods his tongue. Anger rams straight into his ribs, sudden and completely unwarranted.

It’s the same feeling he gets when some shady person he doesn’t trust tries to lay a hand on Umbreaker, fingers brushing the handle like they think they have any right to something that’s been his since the day he picked it up. Protective. Territorial. The mere idea of someone else touching what belongs to him is enough to make his blood boil.

Only this is worse. This is Zanka. Enjin has no ownership over him… so why is this emotion running through him exactly the same?

Some random guy’s hands all over Zanka’s body. Sliding down that slender waist Enjin’s fingers had brushed during training, gripping those sharp hips that look too delicate for the way Zanka swings Lovely like it weighs nothing. That same stranger’s cock pushing into the place Zanka is stretching open right now, inch by inch, claiming something Enjin’s mind has suddenly decided no one else gets to touch.

The image is so vivid it burns behind Enjin’s eyes. Zanka arched on his narrow bed, knees drawn up while some other bastard’s dick slides in, stretching him wider, fucking him slow and deep until Zanka’s voice cracks on a stranger’s name the same way it did on Enjin’s last night.

Zanka is his. Mine, he thinks, and immediately wants to punch himself in the face for it.

Zanka is not his. Enjin is being a deluded fool, and a part of him falters, hand stilling where the friction of his palm is rubbing himself raw.

Enjin bets Zanka’s never let anyone back there before, too proud and composed to beg for it in real life. 

Another part of him wants to see Zanka get absolutely turned out by one guy (who happens to have tattoos and blond hair) until he is desperate and begging to come and finally admitting he isn't someone who never needs help.

That stubborn pride, that self inflicted pressure from his family, the way he pushes until he bleeds, that kind of inward injury all seems like the kind of thing that can be fixed by a thorough dick down.

Not gay, my ass. He’s a fucking pervert. An old creep getting off on his teammate, his mentoree, finger fucking himself open like he needs Enjin’s hands on him instead, like he’s wishing his fingers were Enjin’s, Enjin’s voice in his ear telling him to take it deeper, Enjin’s cock pushing in to replace them and making Zanka fall apart.

He bites his cheek harder. The metallic taste gets stronger.

But he doesn’t stop. He can’t. Not when Zanka’s next moan is so raw it sounds like he’s begging for exactly that.

Just the mere thought of anyone else claiming what Enjin’s mind suddenly, irrationally, wants to guard makes a hot spike of possessiveness stab him right through the lungs.

Enjin’s strokes turn punishing, almost angry, fist flying over his cock like he can push the thought out of his own head.

He tries to focus on the sounds alone, the gasps, the slick glide, but his imagination fills in the gaps. Zanka curled on his bed, fingers delving deep, eyes lidded in ecstasy. 

Zanka’s noises are climbing. The filthy squelches turn faster now, three fingers easy, the angle shifting again so every thrust punches a string of broken “ah—ah—ah—”’s out of him. He’s close. Enjin can hear it in the way his breath stutters, the way the moans turn high and desperate.

Enjin’s own orgasm is barrelling down on him. He fucks his fist hard, sloppy, the sound of skin on skin probably loud enough for the choker to pick up but he doesn’t care anymore. He pictures Zanka on his back, fingers in to the knuckle, other hand frantically stroking his dick, whispering Enjin’s name into the sheets as he soaks them in drool.

"I'm so— nngh— pathetic... can't even—" Zanka gasps, the words trembling like he’s spitting them at himself. 

Can’t even what? Enjin’s mind supplies the rest in a fevered rush. Can’t come without pretending it’s Enjin’s fingers stretching him open? Can’t stop chasing that fullness because his body’s starving for it? Can’t keep his serious mask on when he’s alone in the dark with slick fingers buried in his hole?

He wonders if Zanka is on his knees or flat on his back, legs spread wide, his ass lifted just enough for his own hand to reach behind and spread himself apart. 

“Enjin…” Zanka whines, voice cracking on the name like he’s ashamed. “Can’t stop… fuck, please—”

Enjin wishes he was there. He wishes he could kick the door open, crawl onto that bed, and replace Zanka’s fingers with his own thicker ones. He’d lean down, mouth against that flushed ear, tug his earring, and tell him he’s not pathetic. Not even close. 

Zanka’s strong, stronger than any of them give him credit for. Intelligent, sharp enough to cut through every bullshit expectation his family dumped on him. And beautiful. So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at sometimes and Enjin was too damn blind to ever see it.

He’d tell Zanka exactly how perfect that tight hole feels clenching around him, how hot and velvety it would suck him in, how he’d fuck him slow and deep until all those clouded, self hating thoughts dissolved and the only thing left in Zanka’s brilliant head was the stretch, the fullness, the drag of Enjin’s cock against that spot that makes him sob and shake and come untouched.

Enjin’s hips jerk up into his fist erratically, a groan ripping out of his own throat before he can swallow it. His cock throbs harder, leaking all over his knuckles. “Zanka!” he hisses through his teeth, daring to let the name slip off his tongue. He just couldn’t hold it in his mouth any longer. 

Zanka’s moans turn frantic, almost sobbing. 

“Enjin—! I’m— I’m gonna—!”

Zanka comes first. A strangled cry, sharp and overwhelmed, the wet sounds turning stuttered as his body seizes up. Enjin follows right after, moaning low and rough as he spills all over his stomach again, thick and endless, every pulse dragging another wounded sound out of him. It pools white and sticky in the divots of his abs. 

For a second there’s just heavy breathing on both ends, Zanka’s soft, sated little puffs, Enjin’s ragged and guilty.

Enjin yanks the choker off his neck like it burned him. He flings it down the bed, the red band landing in a pathetic heap at the foot. He rolls over, drags a pillow over his head, and presses his face into the mattress like he can smother the shame out of himself.

“You’re a bastard,” he groans to himself, muffled and miserable. “A gross, fucked up bastard.”

His pillow doesn’t answer. It probably hates him too.
_____

All the parts that make up Zanka come together to form a mosaic that’s endlessly perplexing to Enjin.

Confusing? Check. Erotic? Holy fuck, check. Comforting in a way that makes his chest do stupid fluttery shit he usually only feels after three shots and a successful mission? Double check. And then—agh. The agh is doing all the heavy lifting tonight.

It’s just easier for him to show you. 

There’s the obvious stuff. How Zanka never backs down from anything, even when he absolutely should. The ridiculous, stubborn sense of justice that gets him into trouble and then gets him back out again. When he plants his feet like he’s daring the world to knock him over. 

Then there’s the quieter stuff. Zanka’s good at reassuring people even when he thinks he’s not. He always wants people to improve even when keeping them down is better for his ego. He pretends he’s too tough for comfort while simultaneously needing about seventeen affirmations an hour just to function. He’s not even subtle about it. In a please look at me please tell me I did good please clap please acknowledge my existence kind of way.

You can practically see his soul deflate when he thinks he messed up, and light back up like a bonfire when Enjin says, “Nice job, Zanka.”

Which is ridiculous. And makes Enjin want to do deeply irresponsible things, like pat his head or tell him he’s proud, or (help him) imagine  nonsense like Zanka looking up at him through his lashes and asking Is it good?

It all stacks up. Layer on layer. A mess of contradictions.

He can’t deny it anymore.

He wants Zanka’s company. For Zanka to fill the space next to him with his attitude and complaints and the many, many sides he has that even Enjin doesn’t think he’s seen all of despite knowing him for years. 

He wants Zanka to chide and scold and nag him and tell him to stop smoking because it’s bad for you and because someone cares about Enjin enough to tell him, “Someone oughta make you put your health first.”

Enjin would probably spark up twice as fast just to hear it again.

And okay, fine, sometimes his brain serves up the whole special of Zanka in some ridiculous apron asking him if he’d like a massage. Or in full Hell Guard formalwear for some stupid family reunion, suddenly breaking formation, bolting across the courtyard, and launching himself into Enjin’s arms right in front of Kyouka, Goka, and the entire rotten Nijiku clan. “But Daddy, I love him!”

(None of which he’d actually do, but a man can dream, no?)

What is wrong with him? He’s not even into any of that. Except apparently he is when it’s Zanka doing it.

He guesses that’s where the erotic part comes in.

He wants Zanka’s mouth on him, those sharp lips stretched wide while navy eyes water and tassels swing with every bob of his head.

He wants to fuck Zanka against the HQ wall after a mission, the one with the cracked mirror where they can both watch, shirt shoved up around his ribs, staff clattering to the floor forgotten. He wants Zanka in the showers. He wants Zanka to look at him with red rimmed eyes and a fucked out expression, pride cathartically cracked open.

And don’t even get him started on the times Riyo teases them by calling them “Mom and Dad” when they’re bickering over dinner rotations. Enjin laughs it off every single time, ruffles her hair, tells her to shut up. Privately he lets himself imagine it’s not a joke.

Because yeah, maybe the idea of coming home to someone waiting for him, someone who expects him back alive, does things to him. And the idea of being wanted in a way that isn’t transactional or temporary or adrenaline fueled makes his chest ache.

He thinks he might also want Zanka to plant a boot on his chest, press him into the dirt, and call him a horrible, no good, cradle robbing pervert. 

Because then Enjin would have an excuse to kneel, metaphorically or otherwise, and make it right. Or fail spectacularly and disappear for a while to lick his wounds in the corner, which is his second favorite coping mechanism. 

Maybe he doesn’t just want Zanka’s body, but the whole complicated package.

Which is a problem. A massive one.

He has a bad feeling about all this.

He used to be better at switching off the noise in his head, emptying himself out until there was nothing left but instinct. Thinking too much got people killed. Hesitation also got people killed. You learned fast, or you didn’t live long.  

He feels cluttered now. 

He’s gotten lazy. Pampered. Comfortable and fat on stability in ways he never let himself be before. Too many mornings where he wakes up and the worst thing on the schedule is Rudo’s whining instead of wondering if today’s the day someone puts a knife in him.

With Akuta, he’d learned what it felt like to feel safe. To feel at home.

But he still remembers how to follow his gut and his hunches are usually right. He knows the simple answer to the gnawing in his stomach would be to tell Zanka, or tell someone else, like a trusted adult, and then that someone would beat the brakes off of him until he forgets he ever had any desperate housewife fantasies about his teenage teammate. 

Instead of doing the right thing and going to a therapist (who would probably just tell him Let’s unpack that), he decides to seek Zanka out. He should end this before it gets even more out of control than it already is. 

He finds Zanka in the HQ training yard like always. 

He’s already at it, staff slicing the air with precise swooshes, but there’s a tightness to his movements, like he’s compensating. 

Enjin approaches, coat slung over his shoulder. He reeks of tobacco, but chain smoking was all he could do to get his appetite up enough to eat this morning. He’d felt too sick by himself to stomach anything otherwise. 

He plasters on his usual grin.

“Hey, Zanka,” Enjin says, voice casual as he leans against a metal barrier. “Sorry I didn’t catch you the other day. Our mission dragged on because Rudo kept picking fights with every single thing that moved. He ran me ragged.”

Zanka straightens, lowering Lovely with a faint nod, his eyes meeting Enjin’s without the usual gleam. Sweat beads on his forehead, bangs slightly askew from the exertion. 

“It’s fine,” he mutters, grip tightening on the staff. “I just gotta train more. So I can come along next time, instead of draggin’ everybody down.”

Enjin frowns. “No, that’s not it at all. You’re not dragging anyone.” He scratches at his neck, unsure what to say. 

“Look… I’ve been insanely busy lately,” jerking off to you, “so that’s the only reason I’ve been hard to catch lately. Swear.”

Zanka looks like he’s taking in the words. They obviously don’t console him immediately, but he nods once, measured, the way he does when he’s filing away information. His fingers flex on Lovely’s grip. She’s probably judging Enjin too. “Busy. Got it.”

Enjin hates how small that sounds coming from him. Hates that he made Zanka sound like that.

He steps closer, close enough to smell clean sweat and wood polish, and forces his hand onto Zanka’s shoulder. 

“Hey. For real, though. You’re already the best jinki handler we’ve got. No one’s doubting that. Just… make sure you’re resting more, alright? I’m not dragging your ass out of another hospital bed because you decided sleep is for weaklings. Take the night off after drills. Eat something that isn’t a protein bar. Doctor’s orders.”

Zanka’s eyes flicker like he’s not used to anyone giving a shit about the after part. He opens his mouth, probably to argue, but Enjin squeezes once and steps back before the warmth under his palm can make him do anything stupid.

“Good. I’m holding you to it.” Enjin smiles and turns on his heel without waiting for an answer. He doesn’t look back as he leaves Zanka standing there in the yard.

The rest of the day is a blur of reports and dodging Semiu’s attempts to send him out to scout. By the time the sky turns that bruised purple it does at dusk, Enjin’s already halfway to the bars, telling himself this is the neutral ground he needs. Real women. One more shot.

His dick is cured, right? There’s nothing stopping him from getting it on with people who are coincidentally female and also his age. 

He picks the usual spot with the sticky floors, the kind of place where nobody asks questions if you leave with someone. The woman who slides onto the stool next to him is exactly his type on paper. Mid height, breasts that fill out her tight top, platinum hair spilling over one shoulder. 

She smells like cheap perfume. Enjin buys her a drink, leans in with the lines that always work, lets his hand rest on her knee when she laughs at something dumb he says.

But the second her fingers trail up his thigh under the bar, his stomach lurches like he swallowed bad street meat.

Her hand feels wrong. Too soft in the wrong places, too forward, nothing like the precision he knows Zanka’s hands have when they wrap around his staff or even the awkwardness when he reaches out to Enjin first.

She leans in, breath warm against his ear. “Wanna get out of here?”

Enjin’s interest isn’t even piqued. Worse—he feels sick, actual nausea rolling up his throat like he’s about to puke in this woman’s lap. He pictures her spread out on cheap sheets, legs open, and all he can think is how Zanka would look doing the same. He can’t even entertain the idea of doing anything with her. It makes his skin crawl.

“I—fuck, sorry,” he mutters, standing so fast the stool scrapes loud enough to draw some eyes to them. “I can’t. Tonight’s not… yeah.”

She stares at him, mouth open, then snaps it shut. “Are you serious right now?” Her voice goes sharp, the kind of mad that says she’s used to guys falling over themselves for her. “You drag me over here, buy me one drink, and bail? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Enjin’s already tossing bills on the bar. “Yeah, I know. I’m an asshole. Keep the change.” He’s out the door before she can throw the glass at him, the night air hitting his face like a slap. 

Great. Word’s gonna spread, his reputation as a legendary lay just took another hit, and he can’t even bring himself to care.

He heads straight back to HQ, boots heavy on the cracked pavement. By the time he pushes through the main doors, the halls are quiet except for voices echoing from the common area.

Zanka and Rudo are there with Follo, the three of them clustered near the big table. Follo’s got his shirt half pulled up, showing off that ugly scar across his ribs from his and Rudo’s mission in Kremmos, gesturing while he talks. 

Rudo’s leaning in, gloved hands hovering like he wants to poke at it, asking questions. Zanka stands a little apart, arms crossed, but there’s the tiniest smile tugging at his mouth as he listens, nodding along, and he even laughs under his breath at something Follo says.

Enjin stops in the doorway, unseen. Zanka looks… lighter. Younger. Like a kid hanging with other kids instead of carrying a crushing weight on his shoulders. Good, Enjin thinks, heart doing something complicated. Zanka should be with other kids. 

He slips away before they notice him and heads straight for the showers.

The water’s scalding at first, then he cranks it ice cold until his teeth chatter. He stands there, forehead pressed to the tile, letting the spray beat against his neck like it can waterboard the thoughts out of his skull. Zanka’s moans. Zanka’s fingers. Zanka looking up at him in the yard with that flicker of hurt he tried to hide. All of it.

He scrubs harder than necessary, skin raw and red by the time he steps out.

Towel around his waist, he drops onto his bed and stares at the ceiling again. The choker sits on the nightstand like a loaded gun. He doesn’t touch it.

Alright. That’s it. Pleasure is off the table. For a month. Minimum. He needs to reset his brain and wipe it clean of everything that makes him horny. No bars, no women, no listening to shit that isn’t meant for him. 

He’s just going to deal with it and accept the fact that he’s twenty eight going on creep. Maybe he’ll cave and get the damn pills from Stilza if it gets bad enough. It’s pathetic, but safer than facing what’s actually happening.

He rolls over and stares at the wallpaper peeling.

“Fuck my life.”

Enjin’s sure he deserves every miserable second of it.
____

Enjin’s pretty damn proud of himself, if he’s being honest.

Three full weeks. No bars, no desperate late night hunts for a warm body, no choker incidents that left him scrubbing cum off his own chest while hating himself. He’s taken more cold showers in one month than his entire lifetime.

But most importantly of all he’s had no Zanka shaped thoughts. Baby steps. He’s handling it. He’s a functional adult, mostly.

And today feels like proof the world is finally cutting him some slack.

The mission wrapped up clean with just him, Riyo, and Zanka tearing through a mid tier trash beast hoard. No near death impalements and no surprise Mymo-level bullshit. Riyo’s scissors did their usual professional cutting, and Zanka’s staff carved through carapace and bone with some new spikes glinting mean under the sun, and Enjin’s umbrella did what it always does—smash, shield, repeat. Easy. Familiar. The kind of day that reminds him why he dragged these kids into Akuta in the first place.

They’re riding the beat up truck back toward HQ when Riyo kicks the back of his seat as they pass by a sheltered city.

“Drop me in town,” she says, already unbuckling. “I’ve got stuff. I’ll find my way back.”

Enjin glances at her in the rear view, one eyebrow up. “Stuff, huh? You planning anything fun?”

She gives him a sweet smile but doesn’t elaborate at all. “Yeah. And you don’t need to pick me up, I'll get a ride. You and Zanka can survive, alone, without me.”

He laughs nervously and pulls over at the usual corner. He knows better than to fight with Riyo. She might not choose to, but she can slit his throat in his sleep if she wanted to. “Fine. Don’t get murdered. Or do. I’m not your dad.”

Riyo hops out, waves once, and melts into the crowd. Silence settles in the van, comfortable at first, then… not.

Enjin kills the engine and twists in his seat to look at Zanka in the passenger side. The kid’s still in full gear, Lovely resting across his lap like a sleeping lover, fresh scratches on the wood already polished out with that ridiculous microfiber cloth he carries everywhere. His hair’s a little windswept from the fight, bangs sticking to his forehead. 

“Zanka,” Enjin calls suddenly, grin cracking wide and genuine for the first time in weeks. “Good work today. Those trash beasts didn’t stand a chance. And Lovely too—did you give her an extra spike? That new one on the end looked nasty as hell when you skewered that big one.”

Zanka’s head snaps up. For a second his face does that thing women do when you point out their new necklace or the way they did their makeup differently, where they bat their eyelashes at you while tucking a strand of hair behind their ear and go really, you noticed? 

“Yeah,” Zanka mutters, pleased, thumb brushing Lovely like she’s the one who’s embarrassed to be complimented. “I thought she could use a few upgrades. Tested the balance last night.”

He’s just relieved Zanka’s back in the swing of things. Every time he tried to get back in the loop, some new injury knocked him flat and forced another reset on his training. He’s been more reserved since Halloween.

Enjin knows what that means. Zanka thinks he’s hitting a plateau.

He sees every setback as proof he’s not improving fast enough, not strong enough, not worthy. Never mind that the setbacks weren’t his fault. Never mind the literal stab wounds and hospitalizations. If you’re not getting better every single day, you’re failing.

Instinct kicks in before Enjin can talk himself out of it. The same instinct that makes him ruffle Rudo’s hair when the brat’s sulking, the same one that drags Riyo with him to see Eishia in the infirmary when she’s too hesitant to reach out first. He wants to fix it. Wants to see that real smile, the one Zanka rarely lets slip.

Enjin clears his throat, scratches at his neck. “Come on, let’s go get something to eat. Just you and me. My treat.”

Zanka’s expression shifts, eyes widening slightly as his posture relaxes. It’s like flipping a switch. The gloom fades, replaced by that elation he gets from Enjin’s attention. 

“Really?” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips before he bites it away. Enjin nods. “Okay. Let’s go where ya want.” 

They park and find a good stall, one of those ramshackle spots serving literal grease. Enjin orders burgers, plus a smoothie for Zanka because he knows he prefers something healthy to wash down all the fat from it.

Obviously if it was up to Zanka they’d be eating noodles already with the spicy broth he likes, but Enjin thinks it’s safer to stay far, far away from any kind of slurping for the foreseeable future. 

They find a quiet bench overlooking the bustle of people. Enjin has ulterior motives to use this lunch time as an excuse to needle Zanka a little.

“So,” Enjin starts, unwrapping his burger with a smirk, “you seeing anyone these days? With all that training, I figure you’d have admirers lining up. Or maybe you’re too focused for that kind of distraction.”

Zanka pauses mid chew into his smoothie straw, cheeks coloring faintly. He sets the cup down, shaking his head. “Nah,” he says simply, with a hint of deflection. “Ain’t got time for that. Cleaners come first. I still have to prove myself.”

Enjin nods, watching him tackle the burger next. The thing looks comically oversized in Zanka’s hands, juices dripping down his wrist as he navigates it carefully, like it’s a foreign artifact. 

The way he holds it, fingers avoiding any mess, makes Enjin laugh softly, a genuine chuckle that breaks the tension in his chest. Growing up in Kamuatari with all that fancy, healthy food, Zanka never got to eat anything like this until Enjin came and found him. 

If Enjin never met him, Zanka’s life would be so different. He wonders in how many ways, good and bad, is that true. 

“It still cracks me up, watching you with this stuff. Three years ago, you didn’t even know what a burger was. Now look at you, like a pro.”

Zanka glances up, eyes crinkling at the edges. 

Enjin doesn’t think it’s a good idea for him to take anymore big bites of his own burger if Zanka plans to keep smiling like that. He thinks he might choke. 

“Yeah, well… you dragged me into this world. I had to adapt.” Zanka takes another bite, wiping his mouth with the back of his napkin. Enjin just uses his hand. 

Enjin laughs once more, but lets the love life questions drop. In all honesty, he’s not sure he’s ready for the answer to the one question he has to ask. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice turning more serious. “Alright, real talk.”

Zanka looks up through his lashes. Enjin forces himself to stare at the slice of tomato falling out the other end of his burger as he continues.

“Why do you keep pushing yourself so hard? It’s inspiring, but it’s going to burn you out if you’re not careful.”

Zanka sets the burger down, staring at it for a moment before meeting Enjin’s gaze. His expression turns introspective. “I just… interjected myself into the Cleaners one day. I never would’ve met any of them if I’d stayed in my old home.”

Enjin nods, staying silent to urge him on.

“It’s ‘cause of you. You saved my life back then by pulling me outta that pit I was in. And you showed me there’s more than chasin’ stupid titles in some academy. I probably wouldn’t be here without that.” Zanka says, tapping his foot against the ground. “And now… I gotta prove myself worthy. Pay you back, pay everyone back. But I just can’t seem to beat these damn geniuses—no matter how hard I try.”

Enjin tilts his head. “You mean Jabber?”

Zanka shakes his head, a frustrated sigh escaping. “Hyo. Jabber. But even Rudo. He drops in here only a few months ago and shakes up more stuff than anyone I’ve ever met. And my family is self explanatory. How do you compete with that?”

Enjin leans back, considering. “I can’t speak for your siblings, but Rudo looks up to you, you know. He’s got talent, sure, but he watches how you handle your jinki and your emotions.”

Zanka’s eyes soften, a flicker of warmth there. “I know. That’s why I can’t let him, or Follo, down. I can’t be their mentor if I’m worse than them. I gotta stay ahead, or what’s the point of any of this?”

Enjin almost forgot Follo awoke as a Giver recently. So much has happened since then. He’d even put Zanka in charge of him once Follo was done healing. It’s not like he expected Zanka to also end up in the medical ward with a giant stomach wound when he made that decision. “Follo, huh? You two been hanging out more?”

Zanka nods absentmindedly, sipping his smoothie. “He’s more level headed than you’d think, even if he and Rudo had that whole blow out fight. We’ve spent a decent amount of time together on missions back when he was still a Supporter, but now that he’s a full Cleaner I see him a lot more. Also, we got the same kinda injury and talked a bit while Eishia was givin’ us check ups.”

Zanka talking with Follo, sharing the same scars in a quiet ward at night. Enjin doesn’t know why that heart warming picture bothers him.

He masks it with a terse nod. “It’s good you two are getting along well. Close age and all, it makes sense.”

Zanka looks up from his smoothie, brows furrowing slightly as he tilts his head. “What’s age got to do with it?”

Enjin shrugs, pulling out his pack of smokes and slipping one between his lips. “Well, people your age know stuff that guys like me don’t. It’s easier to connect.”

Zanka sets his cup down, eyes locking on Enjin’s with that piercing intensity, a hint of challenge in them. He makes a grabbing hand for Enjin’s lighter, and Enjin hands it over without a second thought. 

Zanka leans in. Enjin doesn’t register it fast enough to pull back, so they’re faces are too close for comfort. “That’s not true. I don’t think it’s hard to connect with you, Enjin.”

Connection is Enjin’s whole thing. He’s the banner, the ensign. But hearing it from Zanka feels personal, like he’s not just talking about teamwork or saving lives, but something one on one, skin deep. Enjin’s heart picks up, a race he attributes to the nicotine, but he knows better. 

He watches Zanka’s lips form the words, “You get me more than anyone. Age ain’t got nothin’ to do with that.”

Enjin doesn’t answer right away.

Zanka moves even closer. He holds up the lighter to the cigarette between Enjin’s teeth.

The flame flicks to life between them, a soft fwip, small and steady. Zanka cups his hand around it automatically, shielding it from the breeze, like he’s done it a thousand times just from watching Enjin. He doesn’t flinch. Fire has never scared him.

The lighter’s glow paints warm gold across Zanka’s face, reflecting in his eyes. There’s something alive in there, even with as dull and soulless as they’re supposed to be. 

An inexhaustible flame inside him.

Like a candle. The kind you could reach toward when you’re freezing and exhausted and unsure how much longer you can keep going.

But Enjin’s a coward. 

He leans forward slightly, letting Zanka light his cigarette. Their fingers brush when he brings his hand up to cup the fire as well.

The cherry glows and the paper crackles. Smoke curls upward between them, thin and gray, carrying the faint bitter sweet scent of tobacco.

Zanka pulls the lighter back, snapping it shut, but he doesn’t retreat even as he presses it into Enjin’s slack palm.

“I mean it,” Zanka says quietly. “You don’t talk down to me or sell me short. You don’t try to make me anyone else.”

Enjin exhales smoke slowly through his nose, buying himself time. A smile tries to surface, he tries to turn it into a joke, to duck sideways out of the moment, but he can’t. 

“You think I’ve got this whole leader thing figured out?” Enjin says at last, lighter than he feels. “I’m just winging it half the time.”

Zanka huffs softly. “Yeah, we can tell. But you care. That’s the difference between you and all the other leaders I’ve met.”

Namely his entire family. Extended included.

They sit there, smoke drifting between them. Enjin’s got no idea what to say, so he pushes himself to his feet, stretching like nothing heavy just passed between them.

“Come on,” he says, antsy to escape even if they haven’t finished their food. “We’ve got reports to file and Rudo to wrangle. Let’s head back.”

Zanka grabs Lovely and jogs to catch up, falling into step beside him. The closeness feels  natural. Like they’ve always walked this way, even if they haven’t. Enjin wonders how many times he took the sight of Zanka by his side for granted. Probably more than a thousand times in the four years they’ve known each other. 

The truck hums as Enjin starts it, the engine’s vibration traveling up through the seat. Zanka settles into the passenger side, adjusting his staff. She barely fits with the low roof and cramped space, so Zanka has to hold her close to him every time.

Enjin keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. He cracks the window to let the cigarette he’s nursing air out.

He sneaks a glance at Zanka.

Sunlight streaks across his face through the dusty windshield, catching on the lines of his cheekbones and the curve of his nose. His eyes are half lidded, thoughtful, fixed somewhere outside the window, like he’s still half in his own head. Wind whips his hair around. 

For a second, Enjin just watches.

It’s ridiculous how familiar Zanka has become to him. The tilt of his chin when he’s stubborn. The  crease between his brows when he’s thinking too hard. The way he shifts his grip on Lovely when he’s nervous, even though he’d rather die than admit it.

He clears his throat.

“You don’t gotta prove anything, you know.”

Zanka blinks, pulled out of his thoughts, and turns to look at him.

“To me. To the team. You’re already where you belong,” Enjin says, keeping his eyes on the road. “This is your home now.”

Zanka’s lips part slightly, like he hadn’t expected that. He shifts in his seat and his jaw works, like he’s chewing over a response he doesn’t quite trust.

“…Thanks,” he says finally. It comes out rougher than he probably intends.

Enjin shrugs, trying for casual even though nothing about the situation is. “Just stating facts.”

Outside, the world passes in streaks of dust and broken concrete and distant sky. The truck hits a huge dent in the road and they both jolt violently in their seats. His eyes aren’t even on the road.

Enjin thinks that if there were ever a moment he might lean over and kiss Zanka, it would be now.

His stomach twists with cold dread. Because that’s not a fleeting impulse. That’s not a heat of the moment fantasy. That’s… a want. A pull.

And Enjin does not let himself want things he can’t safely have.

He grips the steering wheel a little tighter. Get a hold of yourself.

Everything feels contaminated now. Corrupted. Like he’s poisoning the well without meaning to. 

Zanka shifts again, restless, like he can feel the unease from Enjin even if doesn’t know why. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.

“Hey, Enjin?”

“Mm?”

Zanka hesitates. “You ever think about where you’ll end up?”

Enjin huffs and flicks a bit of ash out the window. “You mean besides dead?”

Zanka grimaces. “C’mon. Humor me.”

“Sure,” Enjin admits. “Sometimes.”

“And?”

Enjin keeps his eyes on the road. “Used to think I wouldn’t end up anywhere. Just… keep moving until I couldn’t anymore.”

“How about now?”

He exhales. Smoke ghosts out of his lungs, faint and bitter. He’s not sure where he’ll end up. He’s at an age where he kind of has to start thinking about those things, but all it does is give him a mean headache.

“I’ll retire somewhere quiet, maybe. An actual house. Nice and boring with nobody trying to kill me before breakfast.”

It’s the bare minimum. But it’s all Enjin ever let himself dream about. Having big hopes is how you get let down. 

Enjin drums his fingers lightly against the steering wheel. “What about you?”

Zanka hums. “What about me?”

“Where do you think you’ll end up?”

Zanka stares out the window. For a long moment, Enjin thinks he won’t answer at all.

“I don’t think I can ever stop,” Zanka says finally.

Enjin glances over. “Stop what?”

“Tryin’,” Zanka says simply. “I can’t picture a version of myself that quit. Not until I feel like I’m finally good enough.”

Enjin doesn’t know how to say you are good enough. He doesn’t think it would matter if he did. Not unless Zanka believed it.

“And that’s too far off to visualize,” Zanka adds, quieter. “So I keep goin’.”

There’s something bleak about the way he says it. He has his whole life ahead of him, but that’s how he honestly thinks the rest of it will be. A constant struggle for power.

Enjin exhales through his nose. “That’s a hell of a way to live, Zan.”

He swerves out of the way of a huge piece of metal, rattling the chassis. A pause stretches.

“Sometimes,” Zanka says, almost reluctantly, “I wonder if I might go back to my hometown.”

Enjin feels like he just ate something sour.

“…Kamuatari?” he asks.

Zanka nods.

Enjin doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like the image of Zanka back in that rigid cage, surrounded by people who turned against him.

“Because of your family?” Enjin asks carefully. “You miss them?”

Zanka’s head snaps toward him. “Ew. No.”

Enjin chuckles before he can stop himself. “Course not.”

“I don’t miss em,” Zanka continues, scowling. “I just… sometimes I wonder if what I really want is their recognition. If I could go back and live there and rub it in their faces that I’m not some lawless Giver like they think I am. That I actually help people. That I matter. I want them to see they were wrong.”

Enjin doesn’t think Zanka’s family is capable of accepting him even on their death beds. “Guess I’ll have to visit you, then.”

Zanka blinks, brows lifting. “What?”

“I like Kamuatari,” Enjin says. “I’d go.”

Zanka squints. “What’s there to like?”

Enjin nods thoughtfully. “The culture.” He flicks a glance at Zanka. “The people.”

Zanka freezes. Color creeps faintly into his cheeks as he looks away. “You’re full of shit.”

“Am not.”

“Are.”

“Maybe a little,” Enjin admits, then adds, softer, “It’s beautiful there.”

“I guess,” Zanka says after a moment. “There are the trees. I can’t say I don’t miss those.”

“See?” Enjin snickers. “And the manju buns.”

Zanka exhales, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “Riyo said you ate a whole pack of them in a single conversation once.”

“They’re really delicious, it’s not my fault!” he frowns, “What do any of you know about good food anyway. You’re all skin and bone.” 

He suddenly points a finger at the windshield like he’s had a revelation. “I’m changing my answer.”

Zanka startles. “To what?”

“My whole future plan.” Enjin nods firmly. “I’m getting fat.”

Zanka chokes on a laugh. “What?”

“Fat,” Enjin repeats, emphatic. “Like Rudo after that dessert binge. You remember? When he looked like he was smuggling a watermelon under his shirt.”

Zanka snorts despite himself. “You’re kiddin’ me.”

“I’m serious,” Enjin insists. “I’m done listening to skinny twigs like you and Riyo. I’m going to eat all the manju I can and smoke a pack a day.”

Zanka presses his lips together. “So that’s the big vision, huh? Bored and fat?”

“Bored, fat, and alive,” Enjin says. 

Zanka finally cracks, letting out a soft laugh. “...I kinda like how that sounds.”

Enjin side eyes him. “You? Who says he can’t be cooped up in a room for more than a day?”

“Maybe I’ll be more tired by then,” Zanka says. “I’m sick of Raiders and psycho lunatics. Sounds peaceful.”

“Fat peace,” Enjin corrects.

Zanka hums thoughtfully. “I can’t get fat, though.”

Enjin scoffs. “Excuse you? But I can?”

Zanka lifts Lovely slightly, running his hand down her smooth length. “She needs someone who can wield her properly. Can’t go soft.”

The intimacy of the gesture makes Enjin feel like he’s intruding on them. He looks away.

Zanka pauses, then adds more sincerely, “But bored could be fine, in a couple decades. I’ll be one of those old guys playin’ shōgi in the park, yellin’ at pigeons.”

Enjin huffs a quiet laugh. “I can see it. Rudo  says you already act like a grumpy old man.”

Zanka scowls, “I’d rather act old than like a toddler like him.”

“Daydream all you want,” Enjin says. “It’s good for you.”

Zanka glances over.

“Gives us a reason for doing all this crap,” Enjin adds, eyes fixed on the road. “You need to have something ahead of you that isn’t just survival.”

Zanka watches him for a moment, and Enjin feels his eyes burning right through him. “You think people like us even get that kinda ending?”

Enjin’s throat tightens.

The smart thing would be to dodge. Deflect and change the subject. That’s what he always does. Keep things light. Don’t let anything sink its teeth into him.

“Yes,” he swallows. “I think we do.”

“And…” Zanka hesitates, fingers flexing around his staff. “You think we end up alone?”

The question is too careful. Like Zanka already suspects the answer to be set in stone. 

Enjin’s heart gives a slow, traitorous thud. He opens his mouth before his brain can catch up.

“No.”

Zanka looks at him fully now.

The world narrows to the small space between them and the soft rush of wind through the cracked windows. The faint smell of smoke and dust and sweat.

“You’re there too,” Enjin says.

The words fall out of him. Immediately, he regrets them.

He wishes he would shut up. Wishes the smoke in his lungs would finally finish the job and snuff the breath right out of his chest so he doesn’t have to hear his own voice saying things he can’t take back.

Enjin stares at the road so hard his eyes start to sting.

This is bad. This is really, really bad.

You don’t always get what you want. He learned the truth years ago.

He doesn’t get to want this now. 

Not when Zanka’s still figuring out who he is, still carrying scars from an upbringing that taught him to measure his worth in impossible standards. How could Enjin ever deal with the pressure of that.

Not when Enjin himself is the kind of guy people regret falling for.

And Zanka has already been hurt enough.

The thought of being just another thing that scars him makes bile rise in Enjin’s throat.

He bites down on his cig without thinking, teeth clamping too hard in distraction. The filter crushes, bitter tobacco spilling onto his tongue, and he swears under his breath. “Shit.”

He yanks it from his mouth and tosses it out the window. It arcs into the wind, embers scattering like fireworks. Zanka glances over, brow furrowing in concern.

“You alright?” Zanka asks, concerned. Like Enjin is someone worth worrying over.

Enjin waves it off, forcing a chuckle that’s more strained than usual. He grips the wheel tighter, wondering how long he can drive without veering off course.

“Damn cigs bite back sometimes.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting ash. 

Zanka crosses one knee over the other, tassel earrings swaying with every bump. The smoothie cup is empty in the holder between them, wrappers balled up in the footwell. Enjin’s half smoked cigarette had been his last defense, but now it’s gone, crushed filter and all, and the bitter taste on his tongue feels like punishment.

His knuckles are still faintly sticky from lunch. He grips the wheel harder. Don’t look at his mouth. 

“I’ve been meanin’ to ask,” Zanka shifts, the leather seat creaking under him. “You’ve been… off. Since the Doll Festival. If it’s because of me—”

“It’s not,” Enjin cuts in too fast. He exhales through his nose, trying to dial it back. “Look, Zan… You gotta branch out more.”

Zanka looks confused. “Huh?”

Enjin waves a hand. “Hang with the others. You said you talked with Follo in the ward, right? That’s good. Real good. Rudo and Riyo could use someone serious like you to talk to. You’re better off being around them instead of… y’know. Hanging off me all the time.”

Enjin means it. Zanka’s better off without him.

Zanka doesn’t even know his real name. How could he? He’d latched onto the myth, the guy who dragged him out of that well, the one who gave him a place to be, a teenage crush at most. That’s all it is. So what if he saw Enjin in a sexual way. Enjin is the closest thing to safe authority Zanka has ever had. It's not love. It can’t be. 

Who the hell could love the fuck up who’d almost let him get killed three times? Enjin doesn’t even like himself most days. How could Zanka? 

Zanka goes completely still. The kind of still that makes even his earrings stop moving. His fingers tighten around the edge of the seat, creasing the worn leather. “Hanging off ya,” Zanka repeats, voice flat. “That what I’ve been doin’? Bein’ a clingy kid?”

Enjin’s stomach drops. “Zanka, no—that’s not—”

“I get it.” Zanka turns to stare out the side window, the ruins blurring past. His reflection in the glass looks smaller than it should. Shoulders hunched, jaw tight like he’s biting back every instinct to argue. “You pulled me out once and gave me a shot. I been trailin’ after you like some lost dog ever since. It’s pathetic—”

He cuts himself off, cheeks flooding red. The truck swerves a fraction before Enjin corrects it, heart slamming against his ribs so hard he feels it in his teeth.

“Zanka.”

“Don’t, Enjin. Don’t apologize, it’s not yer fault.” Zanka’s voice stays firm. “It’s fine. I’m young, right? Confused. That’s what you’re thinkin’. I’ve got a crush on the leader. Happens to all the newbies. I’ll get over it. I’ll stop makin’ it weird for you. If you find it disgusting.”

Enjin wants to pull over. Wants to grab Zanka by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that it isn’t weird or disgusting, it’s terrifying. That every time Zanka smiles at him now, Enjin feels like the biggest piece of trash on the Ground for wanting more. 

But he can’t say any of that. Because Zanka’s young enough to make mistakes, and he’s already lost too much. And Enjin is the asshole to blame for his hurt. He’s the one who let the line blur, who’d kept the door open, who’d failed at controlling himself.

The truck hits another bump. Zanka’s head thunks lightly against the window. He doesn’t even flinch. Just stays curled in on himself, arms crossed tight over his chest like he could hold the hurt inside. He’s too proud to show anything more.

Enjin’s throat burns. “Kid, I didn’t mean—”

“You did.” Zanka’s voice is barely above the engine rumble. “And it’s okay. I’ll back off. Train with Follo more. Help Rudo without actin’ like I know better. Whatever you need. Just… don’t look at me like that anymore, yeah? Like you’re sorry for me. I hate that look.”

Enjin wants to tell Zanka the truth, that he wasn’t sorry for him, he was sorry for this. 

But his tongue is useless, and all he says is, “Okay.”

Zanka nods once, sharp. The trucks rolls on toward HQ, the distance between their seats feeling wider than before. Enjin aches with the kind of emptiness no cigarette or bar hookup can fix.

Zanka stares straight ahead, jaw set like he’s already rebuilding the walls Enjin had accidentally helped tear down.

They're both unhappy now. Perfect. Mission accomplished. Good going, Enjin. 

By the time they pull into the base lot, the sun’s bleeding out across the skyline, turning everything the color of old blood. Zanka unbuckles without a word, grabs Lovely, and slides out. His boots hit the dirt with a soft thud. He doesn’t look back.

Enjin sits there in the idling truck, hands still on the wheel, watching Zanka’s back disappear through the side doors. The choker around his neck has never felt heavier.

He reaches up, thumb hovering over the button. He could call Zanka back, there’s still time to confess to how he’s wronged him. Maybe Zanka will be as disgusted with him as Enjin is with himself. Maybe he’ll accept Enjin.

Maybe Zanka would punch him. Maybe he’d look at him with those same wide, betrayed eyes he used to give his family. Either way, it would be clean. Over. Enjin could take the hit, pack his shit, request a transfer to some shit tier outpost on the edge of a No Man’s Land where nobody knew him for a bit until it all blows over.

He’ll do what he’s good at and run away. 

But he doesn’t move. Because underneath the shame, underneath the self loathing that tastes like cheap tobacco, there’s something uglier. 

Something that has clawed its way up from the same dark place that used to keep him alive on the streets. 

Want. 

Raw, stupid, possessive want. 

The kind that made him hurt people just to keep himself alive, that made his stomach growl for the taste of a vice. 

The same kind that made him imagine kicking in Zanka’s door and replacing every frantic touch with his own until Zanka forgot how to say anyone else’s name.

He’s a fucking animal.

And yet Zanka looks at him like he’s so much more than that.

It’s just another selfish thought to even pretend Zanka would stick around. People like Zanka, who are always changing, outgrow men like Enjin the second they figure out the world’s bigger than one chain smoking failure.

He kills the engine and leans his forehead against the wheel. 

Whatever has replaced his numbness feels a hell of a lot worse. Like a bottomless pit. 

Enjin snarls under his breath and slams the truck door harder than necessary. The sound cracks across the empty lot like a gunshot. Inside, the lights sit dimmed, a sickly orange along the corridors like embers. 

He avoids the common area entirely. He can already hear Rudo’s muffled bitching about dinner without dessert and Riyo’s teasing about the look on his face.

He takes the long way, boots dragging like they weigh twice as much. Past the training yard where Zanka’s footprints still dent the dirt from earlier. Past the med ward where he first saw that hole punched clean through Zanka’s stomach, blood soaking the sheets. Zanka’s everywhere, even when he’s not.

His room waits exactly as he left it, bed unmade, sheets twisted like they fought back. Enjin stands there for a long minute, before taking his choker off. 

The metal still carries the faint warmth from his skin. He turns it over in his hands, thumb tracing the faint scuffs.

Don’t open the line. Don’t you fucking dare.

He clips it back around his neck anyway. Habit. Or punishment. Same difference these days.

The first hour bleeds away while he chain smokes out the cracked window, ash scattering, the bitter smoke curling around his tongue and doing nothing to drown the taste of Zanka’s voice seething clingy kid. 

The second hour he tries to sleep. It doesn’t work. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Zanka’s face in the truck, the way he suddenly looked smaller than he did even bleeding out.

You did that to him.

Enjin rolls over, staring numbly at the ceiling tiles. And when the crackle comes again, soft, almost hesitant, like the line itself is holding its breath, every muscle in Enjin’s body locks up tight.

Zanka’s breathing. Slow. Shaky. The kind someone forces when they’re trying very hard not to be too loud. Then the first wet hitch, quiet and choked, like Zanka is biting it back but failing. Another one. And another. Soft, broken sounds that punch straight through Enjin’s ribs.

Zanka is crying.

Not the dramatic kind. Just muffled sobs into a pillow, the kind that shake his whole frame. Enjin can hear the rustle of sheets, the way Zanka curls tighter, trying to disappear into his bed. A thick, wet sniffle. An exhale that sounds like it hurts.

Zanka never cries. 

“Enjin…” Zanka whispers, barely loud enough for the choker to catch. He doesn’t know the line is open. He thinks he’s alone.

Enjin’s stomach drops through the floor. He just lies there and listens while Zanka cries on the other end of the line, thinking no one can hear him. 

Zanka presses his face harder into the pillow, Enjin can hear the fabric muffling it, but it doesn’t stop the sound that slips through. “Can’t even hate you right.”

Enjin's eyes ache with a headache. He presses the heel of his hand against them until white sparks explode behind his lids, but it doesn’t help. He did this. He pushed and distanced, he tried to be the responsible one, and now Zanka is crying because of it. Enjin likes to stick his nose in other people’s business, yet he can never do it properly. 

Somewhere down the hall, Zanka’s curled up in the same position, probably staring at his own ceiling through blurry eyes, wondering why the man who saved him keeps pushing him away like he’s the dangerous one.

Enjin sits on the edge of his bed for what feels like hours, the choker ice cold against his throat. The pack of cigarettes is almost empty. He’s lit one after another until the room is hazy and his lungs burn. Every drag tastes like ash.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, pulling his smoke from between his lips.

He stands up, walks to the cracked window, and chucks it into the night. The orange glow of the last lit cigarette falls through the dark before it disappears into the dirt below. 

No more hiding and numbing it out like a pussy. He doesn’t even grab his coat, just his umbrella. He feels like he needs it right now. He stalks out of his room, bare feet silent on the cold floor,  stops in front of Zanka’s door, and hesitates for half a second.

He opens it without knocking.

Zanka is curled on his bed, back to the door, knees drawn up. The second the hinges creak he jolts, swiping at his face fast. When he turns, his eyes are red rimmed, lashes wet, but he forces a straight face. His earrings sway as he sits up.

“Enjin? What’re you—“

“What are you doing?” Enjin asks, hand on the doorknob. 

“Nothin’. Just… trying to sleep.”

Enjin steps inside and closes the door behind him.

“I can hear you.”

Zanka blinks. “Hah?”

“I can hear you, Zanka.” Enjin’s voice is rough, even if he tries his damn hardest to control it. He taps the choker still around his own neck. “On this. I’ve been hearing everything.”

Zanka’s face goes blank for a second. Then the color drains out of it so fast Enjin thinks he might actually pass out. His mouth opens, closes. A shaky laugh bubbles up, bitter, the kind that sounds like it hurts.

“No wonder you don’t want to be around me. I’m cryin’ like a damn kid.”

“You’re right,” Enjin says, and Zanka flinches like he’s been slapped. “I don’t want to be around you.”

Zanka’s shoulders curl in, eyes dropping to the sheets like he can hide inside them. Enjin watches him shrink right in front of him, and it feels like someone’s carving his own chest open.

Enjin locks the door with a soft click that sounds louder than a gunshot. He places Umbreaker next to Lovely where she rests against Zanka’s wall. 

“But it’s not because of you, Zanka.” He steps closer. “It’s because of me.”

Zanka looks up, confused, tears still clinging to his lashes. Enjin pulls the choker off his own neck and holds it out between them like evidence.

“I heard you touching yourself.”

Zanka’s breath stutters. His hands fist the sheets so tight his knuckles go white. He looks ashamed, too many emotions to list warring on his face. “You… you heard?”

“I couldn’t stop.” Enjin says. “I kept the line open every time after that. Because I’m a selfish man, and hearing you want me that bad was the only thing that made me feel anything.”

He drops the choker on the nightstand. It lands with a soft clatter.

Zanka stares at it like it might bite him. “So all those times I was… you were listenin’.”

“Yes.”

Zanka’s head snaps up, eyes like saucers, cheeks already flushing that pretty shade of red Enjin’s been seeing in his dreams for weeks. Just seeing that in person… fuck, it does things to him. 

“I’m sorry for… for doin’ that without your permission. The choker—I didn’t mean for you to hear—”

“You don’t need permission to jerk off,” Enjin cuts in, waving a hand like he can brush the whole thing away. 

Zanka just stares at him, completely lost, like the concept of privacy and desire and Enjin not being mad or disgusted with him is messing with his brain. Enjin gives up on words. He closes the last bit of distance, grabs Zanka’s free hand, warm, a little shaky, and presses it firmly against the very obvious, growing tent in his own pants.

Zanka’s breath hitches. His palm flattens instinctively, feeling the heat, the shape, the way Enjin twitches under the touch.

“What…?” Zanka whispers, face going nuclear red.

“I can’t get it up,” Enjin says, deathly serious. “Not for weeks. Not for anyone. Bars, girls, nothing. Dead in the water.”

Zanka’s fingers flex, testing, like he’s not sure this is real. “…It’s up.”

“Exactly,” Enjin says, swallowing hard. “That’s the problem. You’re the only one who can get me hard anymore. No women. No one else. Just you.”

“Then why did you avoid me,” Zanka asks, fingers toying with the loose threads of his shirt. 

“Because I’m eleven years older than you and I’m supposed to be the one who knows better.” Enjin’s hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists. “I’m your leader. I’m supposed to protect you. To be better than this. It’s eating me alive.”

Zanka’s eyes search his face, wide and disbelieving. “What’s that supposed to mean, Enjin? Are ya messin’ with me? Because if this is some kind of joke—”

“I’m not messing with you.” He doesn’t let go of Zanka’s hand, keeping it pressed against him. “I’ve been losing my mind, Zanka. I’m a fuck up. You think I’m some good person, but this proves I’m not. I can’t have you around me if I’m gonna keep thinking about you like this. It’s not fair to you.”

Zanka’s expression shifts from shock to something angry. He yells often, sure, but never at Enjin. His voice rises now, trembling with it.

“Why do you think I’m any better than you?” he snaps, eyes flashing. “You think I’m some perfectly innocent child? I’m impulsive, I’m arrogant, I keep losin’ to the same folks. And you’re the only one who ever looked at me and saw anythin’ worth savin’. You told me I was enough. So don’t stand there and tell me you’re the only fuck up in this room, Enjin.”

It’s not a harmless infatuation Enjin can just write off. This kind of thing doesn’t just fade. 

Zanka doesn’t look away. “I’m not a kid anymore. My feelins’ for you aren’t some shallow puppy crush. I want you. All of you. Even the parts you think are disgustin’.”

Enjin stares back. “Did you mean it, then. When you called for me?”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Then Zanka moves slowly, like he’s afraid Enjin will bolt. He reaches up, fingers brushing Enjin’s wrist, tentative.

“I meant every word,” he says, so quiet it’s almost nothing. “I still do. I still want you. I’ve never changed my mind about you.”

Enjin surges forward, cups Zanka’s face with both hands, and kisses him like he’s drowning and Zanka is air. 

Zanka makes a startled sound against his lips, and then he’s kissing back, desperate and clumsy, like he’s been holding this in for years. Enjin tastes salt from the tears still drying on Zanka’s cheeks.

He’s never believed in something as corny as fireworks before. The only sparks he’s ever trusted come from metal on metal or a trash beast exploding. But right now his chest is lighting up like some idiot set off the entire crate of fireworks in Canvas town right behind his ribs.

Zanka groans into his mouth and Enjin swallows it down, deepening the kiss until they’re both gasping. Zanka smells like his own kind of smoke, mingling with Enjin’s. 

Incense and tobacco. Purifying and dirtying. Enjin can appreciate the blend now.

“I’m sorry,” Enjin pants against his lips. “I tried to do the right thing. I tried so hard.”

“Don’t care,” Zanka grunts, hand fisting Enjin’s shirt, yanking him closer. “Just— don’t stop. Please.”

“Let’s go slow,” he says, even if he wants to tear these damn pajamas off with his teeth. He owes Zanka at least this much to not treat him like a hookup. “You probably wanna think about it more—“

“No.” Zanka’s eyes stay fierce. “I’ll prove myself if that’s what you want.”

Before Enjin can respond, Zanka’s hand slips free and dives straight into Enjin’s waistband, too fast for Enjin to stop him. Warm fingers wrap around his cock through the thin fabric of his boxers, stroking slow and curious from base to tip. Enjin hisses, hips jerking forward on instinct.

He’s proud and terrified at the same time. This is what he gets for teaching Zanka to be decisive.

“I didn’t know what I really wanted,” Enjin admits, voice strained as Zanka keeps rubbing over him with the heel of his hand. “Wait—Zanka, wait.” It takes every ounce of willpower he has, soldier level restraint, actually, to gently pull that hand back out. His cock throbs in protest. “I want to do this right for you. Not some half assed rush. Where’s your lube?”

Zanka’s face ignites all over again, ears burning crimson. “You could tell I had that stuff? Jeez…” He ducks his head, embarrassed but pointing anyway. “Top drawer. Left side.”

Enjin crosses the room in two strides, yanks the drawer open, and grabs the small bottle. When he turns back, Zanka’s watching him with wide eyes, chest rising fast.

Enjin sets the lube on the bed, then crowds in close, hands planting on either side of Zanka’s hips. “I can’t control myself around you anymore,” he warns. 

Zanka looks straight into his eyes, steady despite the flush. “Then don’t.”

Enjin tucks a stray lock of blond hair behind Zanka’s ear, thumb brushing the shell. He leans in slow, giving Zanka every chance to pull away. Zanka doesn’t. He leans into the second kiss just as much as he tries to duck back, lips soft and tentative and tasting faintly of the mint tea he drinks after training. Enjin smiles against his mouth.

“Let me show you,” he murmurs.

The kiss deepens, slow and unhurried in a way Enjin’s never bothered with during quick bar hookups. No frantic rush to get to the main event. Just their lips moving together, Zanka making these tiny, surprised sounds every time Enjin tilts his head for a bit of tongue or nips at his bottom lip. It’s so much better than anything Enjin’s ever had. There are no boobs to grab or curves to squeeze, but he doesn’t miss them. Not even a little. Zanka’s muscle, the sharp cut of his hips, the way his breath hitches when Enjin’s hands slide up his sides, it’s even better.

Enjin pulls back just enough to speak against Zanka’s lips. “You have no idea what you do to me. Listening to you finger yourself through that choker… hearing those sounds of yours, the way you said my name. I wanted to kick your door down.”

Zanka shivers hard, a full body tremble that Enjin feels everywhere they’re touching.

“I want it too,” Zanka breathes. He suddenly reaches down, grabs the hem of his own shirt, and yanks it off in one jerky motion, tossing it aside. His chest is flushed, dusky nipples already tight, lean abs flexing with every breath.

Enjin feels more worked up than he has in years—like a teenager again, out of his element even though he’s done this dance a hundred times with women. 

Thirty seconds into foreplay and he’s already sweating like it’s his first time. The lack of sex really did a number on him. Or maybe it’s just Zanka. Yeah. Definitely him.

It’s hard not to notice the scar now that Zanka’s shirtless. It’s huge. A thick line of raised pink tissue cutting straight across Zanka’s stomach from the place where Mymo’s attack had punched clean through him. Enjin’s throat tightens. He leans down without thinking, pressing a kiss right over the center of it, lips brushing the slightly bumpy edge like he can somehow apologize with touch alone.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against the scar, voice rough. “I wasn’t there when it happened. I should’ve been.”

Zanka goes bright red under the attention, ears burning, eyes flicking away like he can’t stand being looked at so softly. “I just have to get stronger for next time,” he mutters, shaky but stubborn. “Don’t pity me. You’ll just piss me off.”

Enjin huffs a quiet laugh against Zanka’s skin, the sound warm and fond. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

He realizes it almost pragmatically. He hasn’t had sex in weeks. Not a single puny thrust, not a handjob, not even a pity blowie from some bar girl who’d been willing to overlook his sudden case of dead dick syndrome. 

And now here he is, rock hard and leaking in his sweats, finally cured, jumping straight back into the deep end with Zanka of all people—the last person on the Ground he ever would’ve suspected could be both the cause and the cure for the problem that’s been driving him slowly insane.

Sue him for being rightfully overwhelmed. 

His hands shake just a little as he rises and kisses down Zanka’s neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point, then lower across his collarbones, down the center of his chest. 

He’s always loved playing with tits during hookups, sucking and biting until the girls underneath him were squirming and soaking, but Zanka’s are flat, masculine, nothing to grab onto… except maybe they’re wired the same way anyway. Only one way to find out.

He leans in and flicks his tongue over the left one, light at first, just testing. Zanka jolts like he’s been shocked, a sharp gasp punching out of him, back arching clean off the bed.

Oh. Fuck yeah, they’re sensitive.

Enjin grins against his skin, smug, and does it again, slower this time, circling the nipple with the flat of his tongue before sucking it into his mouth, gentle but firm. Zanka’s hands twist in the fabric of his shirt. “Enjin, wait!”

Enjin doesn’t wait. He switches to the right one, sucking harder, grazing it with his teeth just enough to make Zanka’s hips buck up helplessly. His cock twitches hard against his stomach, smearing a fresh streak of pre across his abs. 

Sensitive. Just like a girl’s. Maybe even more, because Zanka’s trying so hard to stay quiet and composed, biting his lip bloody while these tiny whimpers keep escaping anyway.

“Sensitive here, huh?” Enjin murmurs as he blows cool air over the wet nipple. Zanka glares down at him, but the scare factor is gone with how pink his skin is.

He drags more open mouthed kisses over Zanka’s navel again, tongue dipping in just to hear the startled gasp. Lower still, until he’s mouthing at the waistband of his loose pajama pants.

He hooks his fingers in and shimmies them down Zanka’s hips, taking the boxers with them.  Zanka stays quiet, watching with held breath as Enjin strips him. 

The grey fabric is already darkened at the front, a patch spreading where Zanka’s wet enough to soak through.

Enjin’s only ever been used to panties before, lace and silk that leave nothing to the imagination, but he’s not complaining. Not even a little. 

The fabric catches on Zanka’s hips for a second before it gives, and then there he is, bare, flushed all the way down his chest, cock hard and curving up against his stomach, leaking steadily at the tip in shiny beads that make Enjin’s mouth water. It’s just as cute as he imagined it’d be.

“Fuck, look at you,” Enjin mutters. He grabs Zanka’s ankle gently, lifting it like it’s something precious, and presses a soft kiss to the top of his foot. 

He feels Zanka shudder from where he’s looking down at Enjin. “That’s—”

Enjin ignores him, because the skin under his lips is way softer than he expected. Even his toes are neatly manicured, and Enjin has to stop himself from snickering. He guesses this is all those times Riyo forced him to get his nails done with her. She probably dragged Zanka into the salon under threat of scissors to the throat, and Zanka, too proud to admit he actually liked the pampering, went along with it.

A low, amused chuckle rumbles out of Enjin before he can stop it. “Riyo’s been turning you into a spa princess, huh? Bet she made you pick a color too. What was it, baby pink?”

Zanka makes a mortified noise, face burning crimson as he tries to yank his foot back. “Don’t laugh, Riyo said she’d be sad if I didn’t go, I didn’t—“ he flinches as Enjin drags his thumb up and down the sole. “It was clear coat!”

Enjin doesn’t let him escape. He presses another just above it, then higher, trailing kisses up the inside of his calf, over his knee, all the way up his thigh as he tugs the underwear the rest of the way off and tosses it aside. Enjin runs his hands along his body, counting all the scars he’s seeing for the first time. There’s one too many. 

Zanka’s breath hitches with every press of lips, thighs trembling under the worship.

“Enjin—don’t tease, hah—” Zanka’s voice cracks, but he doesn’t pull away. His cock twitches hard against his stomach, slick sliding down the shaft.

Enjin spreads those thighs wider, settling between them, eyes dark as he takes in every inch of bare skin. He’s so hard he thinks he could literally cut through industrial grade steel, but it’s not about him right now. 

Zanka’s breathing is ragged, chest heaving, one hand fisted in the sheets while the other hovers like he doesn’t know whether to push Enjin away or pull him closer. “Yer embarrassing me on purpose.”

“Damn right I am,” Enjin grins up at him, eyes dark with hunger. “Gotta make up for all the times I didn’t get to do this. Besides…” He nips at the soft skin of Zanka’s inner thigh, right where it meets his hip, then soothes over the sting with his tongue. “You’re all mine tonight. I’m gonna take my time with you.”

Zanka’s eyes flutter shut on a shaky exhale, thighs spreading wider on instinct. “Then hurry up and do it already.”

Well… what the fuck is he supposed to do with an invitation like that?

He doesn’t know where to start. His eyes drag over every inch of Zanka spread out beneath him like a feast, and the thought hits him so hard he almost laughs out loud. There’s not one single part of Zanka he wouldn’t want to fuck. 

That elegant throat? Yeah, he could slide between those lips until Zanka choked on him. His sensitive chest he just discovered? He’d rut against it until Zanka was begging him to put it in already. That ass he’s already fantasized about for weeks? Obviously. Even the fucking scar across his stomach looks biteable right now. It’s like a buffet laid out in front of him, everything ready and his for the taking.

Actually, no. That’s not right. Calling Zanka a buffet feels cheap, like he’s some quick greasy meal from a street stall.

He’s more like some exclusive, high ticket event Enjin never should’ve been allowed inside. Crystal flutes of champagne, delicate hors d’oeuvres, velvet ropes, and the sudden, dizzying realization that he gets to devour every last bite.

Zanka shifts under his stare. “Enjin… what’re ya thinkin’ about?”

“I’ve never been with a dude before,” Enjin admits.

Zanka’s flush deepens but he meets Enjin’s eyes. “Me either. So… we’ll figure it out together.”

Enjin silently thanks whatever higher power is out there for that small mercy. He’s not sure what he would do if Zanka confessed to sleeping with someone else.

He leans down and moves Zanka until he can see everything.

Zanka would let him fuck him right now. But Enjin doesn’t want to start there. Not with how inexperienced Zanka is.

Not just never been with a guy inexperienced. Full on, never been touched beyond his own hand inexperienced. Enjin can tell. It’s in the way Zanka’s fingers hover uncertainly in the air for a second before deciding to fist the sheets instead of grabbing Enjin’s hair. And his thighs keep tensing and relaxing like he’s fighting the urge to snap them shut out of pure habit. His cock twitches every time Enjin so much as breathes on it, but Zanka himself looks like he’s one wrong move away from combusting.

Cute. Way too cute.

Enjin kisses lower, right along the crease where thigh meets hip, and Zanka lets out this mortified squeak that he immediately tries to swallow.

“Relax,” Enjin grins so wide it probably looks mocking, but he can’t help it. He’s never had someone be this into him before. It’s the ego boost he’s needed for weeks. “You’re acting like I’m about to bite it off. I’ve got you.”

He noses along the base of Zanka’s cock, inhaling the clean, slightly musky scent that makes his own dick throb painfully in his sweats. Zanka’s hips jerk up on instinct, the head bumping Enjin’s cheek and leaving a sticky smear of precum there. Zanka makes a horrified noise and tries to cover his face with both hands.

“Fuck, this is embarrassin’—”

Enjin laughs and catches one of those flailing wrists, pulling it away from Zanka’s face and pressing a kiss to the inside of it. “Hey. None of that. First time’s the only time you get to bust early and not get shit for it. Take advantage.”

“That’s not reassurin’,” Zanka hisses from behind his fingers, but his voice is all breathy and cracked, and his dick gives another eager twitch like it’s betraying him. “I’ve never— I mean, obviously I’ve never— just… don’t mess with me if I do something stupid.”

Enjin tugs Zanka’s hands away from his face gently, pinning them loosely to the mattress on either side of his head so he can see his face. He interlaces their fingers, and he knows Zanka’s not weak, not even a little bit, but he holds his hand as gently as a teacup.

“Zan. Look at me.” When Zanka finally meets his gaze, cheeks flaming, Enjin smiles, the kind he usually saves for when he’s pushing himself too hard in training. “You’re not gonna do anything stupid. You’re gonna lie there and let me make you feel good. That’s it. And if you wanna touch me, grab my hair, whatever—do it.”

Zanka swallows hard, nods once, then immediately contradicts himself by saying, “What if I pull too hard?”

Enjin snorts. “Then I’ll come in my pants like a teenager and we’ll both pretend it never happened. Deal?”

He’s literally not lying. He’s not sure how he hasn’t passed out from the amount of blood rushing to his dick. 

That gets a tiny, reluctant laugh out of Zanka, more of a huff, really, but his shoulders relax a fraction. Good enough.

Enjin dips his head again without warning, this time licking a slow, broad stripe up the underside of Zanka’s cock from base to tip. The sound Zanka makes is pornographic—high, shocked, almost wounded. His hips buck so hard Enjin has to press a forearm across them to keep him down. The contrast of his ink against Zanka’s pale skin is dizzying. 

“Yeah?” Enjin hums, swirling his tongue around the head, tasting salt and skin and something that’s purely Zanka. “Tastes good, baby. Been wondering what you’d feel like on my tongue since the first time I heard you through that damn choker.”

Zanka’s whole body jolts at the reminder. “Don’t say that while you’re—nngh—”

Enjin takes pity and sinks down properly, lips stretching around the slim head, sucking gently while his tongue works the underside.

Enjin never once thought he’d be sucking dick. It’s funny how life works. 

Zanka’s hot against his tongue, silky skin stretched tight over the hard length. It’s… different, but not in a bad way. He swirls his tongue around the head and sucks lightly. It’s not so different from the usual motions of eating somebody out. 

Same wet heat, same desperate little twitches when he hits the right spot, same addictive taste of arousal coating his tongue. So, theoretically, he’s done this many times. But this is certainly no clit. It’s a whole cock throbbing under his lips, pulsing every time he sucks harder.

Zanka’s thighs tremble on either side of his head, one knee jerking up like he doesn’t know whether to push Enjin away or pull him closer. His hands finally, finally, land in Enjin’s hair, fingers scrubbing through his shaved sides before threading through.

Enjin hums around him, taking more of him into his mouth, and Zanka’s stomach caves. The kid’s babbling now, pride completely shattered, words tumbling out between moans. “Get off—”

Enjin pulls off with a wet pop, grinning up at the wrecked sight above him. Zanka’s hair is a mess, lips swollen from biting them, eyes shiny with overwhelmed tears he hasn’t let fall yet.

“Already close?” Enjin teases, voice rough. “Damn, Zan. I’m flattered.”

“You’re the worst,” Zanka groans, but he doesn’t look away, eyes locked on Enjin’s as Enjin takes him back into his mouth deeper, hollowing his cheeks and working his tongue until Zanka’s hips are stuttering and his moans are climbing higher and higher.

Enjin pulls off again at the last second, because he’s selfish and he wants to see this. He wraps a hand around Zanka instead, stroking firm and quick. “Come on, baby. Let me see it.”

Zanka comes with a choked cry anyway, back bowing, cock pulsing hot and wet over Enjin’s fist and across his own stomach. His thighs clamp around Enjin’s shoulders like a vice, toes curling while he shakes through it, “Enjin—Enjin—” spilling out like he doesn’t even realize he’s saying his name.

Enjin works him through it until Zanka slumps back against the sheets, chest heaving, eyes dazed.

He looks up at the ceiling. “I lasted… maybe three minutes,” he mumbles, voice hoarse. “That’s humiliatin’.”

Enjin wipes his hand on the sheets (they’re already a lost cause) and crawls back up Zanka’s body, dropping kisses along the way up to his jaw, making Zanka thrash his head against the pillow to avoid them like he’s too embarrassed to accept them even if he just let Enjin suck him off.

“A minute’s respectable for your first blowjob. Hell, I think my personal record at your age was negative thirty seconds.”

Zanka snorts despite himself, a tiny laugh bubbling out. “Yer lyin’.”

“Swear. I talked a big game but was so nervous I came the second she touched my belt.”

Truthfully, Enjin’s exaggerating, but Zanka’s laugh is softer this time, and he turns his head to hide his face in Enjin’s shoulder, so it’s worth the embarrassment. “You’re terrible at comfortin’ people.”

“Nah,” Enjin says, voice dropping as he nuzzles into messy hair. “I’m great at it. Watch—this part’s where I tell you how fucking hot it was watching you like that, and then I ask if you’re ready for round two.”

Zanka peeks up at him, cheeks still pink but eyes sparkling with something warmer now. “Round two?”

Enjin reaches for the lube on the nightstand. “We’re just getting started. Don't tell me you’re done already? I thought youths were supposed to have a better recovery rate.”

Zanka’s face goes scarlet again, but he spreads his thighs anyway, never one to back down from anything. “Try me.”

Enjin laughs and leans down to kiss him slow and deep. He wonders if Zanka can taste himself on his tongue. 

He’s so gone for this kid.

“You made such cute noises when you were fingering yourself,” Enjin says, rough with want. “Figured it must feel real good inside.”

Zanka nods like he’s fighting himself, biting his lip. He’s soft against his own belly from finishing, but Enjin’s not worried about that. He’ll be hard again in no time. The joys of the teenage years. 

Enjin pops the cap on the lube and slicks two fingers generously. He watches Zanka’s face the whole time, every hitch of breath, as he circles one slick finger around his rim.

“It’s not that different from a woman, huh?” he murmurs, teasing.

Zanka pants, then suddenly grabs Enjin’s face with both hands and yanks him up into a fierce kiss. “Don’t talk about them now,” he growls against Enjin’s lips, possessive in a way that makes Enjin’s pulse jump.

He presses one finger in carefully as he kisses Zanka, peeking open an eye to watch for any sign of discomfort. Zanka’s eyes flutter shut, a soft moan slipping out as the digit sinks to the knuckle.

It feels hot and velvety, wet from the lube. Enjin wriggles his finger around in there to test the give. Zanka’s tight, but Enjin suspects it’s more from nerves than anything else. 

He grins into the kiss. “You’ll tell me how to do it right. Yeah?”

“You know how to do it,” Zanka breathes, already concentrating on the sensation and the surrealness that he’s actually got Enjin’s finger inside him.

Enjin leans in, nipping at Zanka’s earlobe. “Oh? So I know how to do this?”

He curls his finger upward, stroking something that makes Zanka tense hard, arching with a sharp cry.

Enjin’s smile turns wicked against Zanka’s ear. “Yeah, I think I do.”

He curls his finger again, pressing against that same spot inside Zanka until his thighs tremble and his back is clean off the bed. He clenches around the single digit like his body is trying to pull Enjin deeper and keep him there. 

Every tiny flutter, every wet squelch of lube, every broken gasp that falls from Zanka’s swollen lips goes straight to Enjin’s head.

Zanka looks wrecked already. His hair’s fanned across the pillow, a few strands sticking to his damp forehead. His eyes flutter every time Enjin rubs just right, his cock twitching untouched with every press against his prostate.

“More,” Zanka exhales. He’s trying so hard to stay composed, fighting the pleasure, but his hips keep rolling down onto Enjin’s finger like they have a mind of their own.

Enjin adds a second finger, scissoring gently, stretching the tight ring of muscle. The sight of Zanka’s hole stretching around his thicker fingers, fluttering greedily, makes satisfaction uncoil low in his gut. This is his. No one else gets to see Zanka like this.

He squeezes a third finger in along the rest. Zanka’s finally relaxing, but Enjin doesn’t want to risk hurting him. He’s not trying to be egotistical or anything but his dick is big. It's not his fault he was born blessed. Poor Zanka shouldn’t have to suffer cause of that because Enjin doesn’t prep him right. 

He leans down and kisses Zanka again, deep and filthy, swallowing moans as he works his fingers in and out, twisting his wrist on every thrust. Zanka kisses back like he’s starving for it, tongue sliding against Enjin’s, hands fisting the sheets.

He’s not the best kisser ever, but Enjin would rather have their teeth clicking together and a bit of misplaced tongue than have Zanka reveal himself to be a professional French kisser. He can teach Zanka everything he needs to know anyway. 

Then Zanka rips his mouth away, panting. “Take—take them out.”

Enjin freezes instantly, worry slamming through the haze. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Zanka gasps, face burning crimson. He looks away, embarrassed. “I was gonna come.”

Enjin stares for half a second, then barks out a laugh right in Zanka’s flushed face.

Zanka’s expression twists into a scowl, pride flaring even while he’s spread open on Enjin’s fingers. “Don’t laugh at me.”

Still chuckling, Enjin eases his fingers free with a wet sound that makes them both fall silent.

Zanka’s chest is still heaving, hole twitching visibly at the sudden emptiness, shiny with lube and flushed a deep, needy pink. Enjin’s so hard it hurts, trapped and leaking in his sweats.

He sits back on his heels, grabs the hem of his  shirt, and yanks it off in one rough motion, tossing it somewhere toward the corner. Then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and boxers together and shoves them down his hips, kicking them off the edge of the bed. His cock springs free, curving up thick against his stomach, the head already slick and angry red from how long he’s been hard. He’s pretty sure this is the most turned on he’s been in his entire life. 

He catches Zanka staring.

His eyes, which had previously been tracing his tattoos like a map, drop straight to Enjin’s dick, then flick back up like he can’t decide if he wants to look away or keep measuring it with his gaze.

Enjin smirks, wrapping a lazy hand around himself and giving one slow stroke just to watch Zanka’s throat bob. “Like what you see?”

Zanka’s face ignites. “Stop talking.”

Enjin laughs under his breath, still stroking himself nice and slow. “Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not,” Zanka snaps immediately, too fast and defensive, cheeks burning. But his eyes keep darting back down, like he’s doing mental math and the answer is scaring the shit out of him. 

Enjin shakes his head, letting him have the benefit of the doubt. He’s not gonna call him out on it. Poor Zanka looks like he’s calculating exactly how many inches are gonna fit and coming up with none of the above.

“Relax, Zan. It’s not gonna turn you into a kebab. Promise,” Enjin murmurs, crawling back over him, bracing one hand beside Zanka’s head so he can lean down and kiss that stubborn mouth. “We’ll go slow. You’re not the first virgin I’ve had in my bed, y’know. Just the prettiest.”

And maybe Enjin’s putting his own foot in his mouth, talking about something like that. But Zanka makes a strangled noise against his lips, equal parts protest (he’s sure that’s from being called a virgin) and a moan (probably from being called the prettiest), and kisses him back harder, like he can shut Enjin up with tongue alone. It almost works.

Enjin groans into it, the taste of Zanka mixing with the faint salt of him still on his tongue from earlier, and rocks his hips down so their cocks slide together. It feels so good Enjin thinks he could come just like this, grinding against Zanka’s hips.

Zanka breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to Enjin’s. “It’s… a lot.”

Enjin hums in agreement and nips at his bottom lip. It’s chapped from Zanka constantly worrying away at it, and no amount of slathered on chapstick, the kind that always makes his lips look glossy and sweet, can fix that. It drives Enjin crazy that he knows exactly what Zanka’s lips feel and taste like now. 

“It is. But you took three fingers like a champ. You’ll take me too.”

He wipes the excess lube onto his own throbbing cock, giving himself a slow stroke just to take the edge off. “You got a condom, Zan?”

Zanka shakes his head, still glaring but breathing hard. “No.”

“How the hell do you not have a condom?” Enjin asks, pinching his brow. “Doesn’t every teenager have a stash? Under the mattress, in the sock drawer, something?”

“Not everybody sleeps around like you!” Zanka snaps, cheeks somehow getting even redder.

Enjin starts to pull back. “Alright, let me grab one from my—”

Zanka’s hand shoots out and grabs his forearm. Enjin’s eyes are immediately drawn to his long, elegant fingers against thick, tattooed skin, the red and black ink swirling under Zanka’s touch. Enjin swallows hard.

Then Zanka looks up at him, eyes dark and way too serious for the words that come out of his mouth. “You can do it without one.”

It’s surreal to hear Zanka, the same Zanka he found at thirteen, ask to take it raw. Worst part is he probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing to Enjin by telling him that.

He thinks it over. He’s clean as a whistle, Dr. Stilza ran every test under the sun just a few weeks ago. And he hasn’t touched anyone since. The image that flashes through his mind, Zanka dripping Enjin’s cum down his thighs, makes his neck burn.

“Okay,” he rasps. He wishes he were a better man, but he’s not going to pretend to be something he’s not. “Yeah. Okay.”

He reaches for the lube again, slicking himself up generous and messy, then slicks Zanka’s hole one more time for good measure. Zanka’s legs fall open wider without being asked, knees bent, heels digging into the mattress like he’s bracing for impact. His hands come up to grip Enjin’s shoulders, nails already biting in.

Enjin braces one hand beside Zanka’s head and lines up, the head of his cock nudging against that tight, fluttering rim. He doesn’t push in yet, just rocks there, teasing, letting Zanka feel the weight of it.

“You sure?” Enjin murmurs, forehead already dropping to rest against Zanka’s. “We can still stop. We can—”

Zanka hooks a leg around his waist and yanks him closer, grinding up against him with a frustrated noise. “I’ve waited three years I’m not waitin’ another second. I want it.”

He spreads his legs even wider. Enjin swallows thickly. 

“Ready?” Enjin asks, and honestly he might be stalling at this point because he knows once he goes in there’s no coming back, rubbing circles in Zanka’s ankle as he grabs it and places it around his waist. 

Zanka nods, eyes locked on his, determined even though his voice shakes. “Yeah. Do it.”

Do it. Like it’s ripping a bandaid off. Like he’s steeling himself for a mission gone wrong instead of his first time getting fucked. 

It hits Enjin all over again that this is Zanka’s first time. First time with anyone. And he’s suddenly trusting Enjin with this?

“Easy,” Enjin murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to Zanka’s lips. He’s not going to make the same mistake of taking Zanka for granted. “I got you.”

He presses forward slow, agonizingly slow, the head popping past that first tight ring with a wet sound that makes him groan. Zanka’s eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open on a silent gasp, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.

He watches, mesmerized, as inch after inch disappears into Zanka’s body, his hole stretching obscenely around him, sucking him deeper. Zanka’s lips are parted on a silent gasp, breath held tight in his chest like he’s afraid to let it out.

Enjin pants, holding still, letting Zanka adjust. He drops his temple to Zanka’s, one hand petting soothing circles over his stomach. 

He laughs breathlessly, pressing their foreheads together harder till their noses bump. “Breathe, Zan. C’mon. And you can hold onto me—here.” He reaches down, grabs one of Zanka’s wrists, and guides that hand to the plane of his own back. “Feels better that way. Dig in if you need to.”

The second Zanka gets the green light, both arms wrap around Enjin’s neck, nails digging into the tattooed skin hard enough to sting. It feels fucking amazing, the sharp little pricks of pain mixing with the overwhelming heat. “Keep—keep going. Don’t stop.”

Enjin slides in another inch, then another, watching the way Zanka’s cock twitches and leaks against his own abs. Halfway in and Zanka already looks ruined.

One final push and he bottoms out, hips flush to Zanka’s ass, buried to the hilt. Zanka lets out a broken moan, high and overwhelmed, legs wrapping tight around Enjin’s waist.

Enjin doesn’t move at first.

He just stays, hips flush, breathing hard through his nose while every nerve in his body lights up like he just mainlined a vital instrument.

Holy fuck.

It’s hotter than anything he’s ever felt. Scorching, like Zanka’s insides are wrapped around him, gripping so tight it borders on pain, the good kind, the kind that makes his balls draw up and his spine tingle. Every tiny flutter of those velvety walls sends a fresh pulse of heat straight through him, like Zanka’s body is actively trying to pull him deeper, keep him right there forever.

It’s slick from all the lube, but underneath that there’s this raw, living heat that no girl has ever given him, this perfect, greedy clench that sucks at the base of his cock every time Zanka breathes.

Enjin groans low in his chest, forehead pressed to Zanka’s, eyes squeezed shut for a second just to feel it. “Fuck… you’re so tight. Ease up.”

Zanka’s ankles lock tighter like he’s afraid Enjin will pull out. His nails are digging crescent marks into Enjin’s shoulders. “‘S all in?”

“Yeah,” Enjin rasps, rolling his hips in a tiny, experimental grind that makes them both gasp. His abs clench hard enough to ache as he holds still, just reveling in the way Zanka’s heartbeat throbs through his insides and straight into Enjin like a second pulse. “All the way in.”

He pulls back as Zanka’s hole clenches down like it doesn’t want to let him go. The drag is perfect, wet and filthy, the lube and Zanka’s body heat making it glide but still so fucking tight it borders on overwhelming. 

Enjin pets a hand over Zanka’s stomach, feeling the muscles jump, then wraps his fingers around that pretty cock and gives it one firm stroke. As much as he just wants to chase the feeling, it’s better if he lets Zanka adjust. 

“You don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile, Enjin,” Zanka pants, demanding even while he’s impaled and at Enjin’s mercy. Or maybe it’s the other way around, and Enjin is the one who should be begging to be spared. “I’m not gonna break. Fuck me like you mean it.”

Well, in that case, if he insists. 

When only the head is left inside, Enjin snaps his hips forward again, burying himself in one smooth thrust.

Zanka cries out, high and broken, back arching clean off the bed. 

“That’s it.” Enjin pulls back just enough to slam in again, deeper. He sets a brutal rhythm, hips snapping, watching Zanka’s face twist in pleasure with every thrust. “That what you want, baby? Want me to ruin you?”

Zanka’s only answer is a moan and his legs tightening around Enjin’s waist, pulling him impossibly deeper.

Enjin gives him exactly what he asked for. He doesn’t hold back.

He fucks Zanka like he’s been starving for it for months—because he has. Every brutal snap of his hips drives his cock deep, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the small room. Enjin feels the pleasure in his teeth.

“Fuck—Zan—” Enjin growls, fingers digging hard into Zanka’s trim waist. His hands are rough and they leave huge, red handprints blooming across Zanka’s pale skin with every punishing thrust. He yanks Zanka back onto his cock harder, watching those marks darken, claiming him in the only way he knows how right now.

Zanka’s moans tumble out broken and high, “Enjin—ah—” before he shoves his face sideways into the pillow, trying desperately to muffle them. They’re in HQ. Walls aren’t that thick. Someone could hear. But the bed frame still slams against the wall with every thrust, rhythmic, loud, unmistakable, because Enjin can’t slow down. Won’t.

He needs this. Needs to feel Zanka falling apart around him, needs to hear those sweet, desperate sounds even if the kid’s trying to bury them.

“Too loud—mmh—we have to…” Zanka gasps, voice cracking, but his hips push back anyway, greedy, chasing every inch. 

Enjin leans down to bite at the nape of Zanka’s neck. “Can’t help it when you feel this good.”

He looks down at Zanka and the sight damn near shorts out every rational thought left in his head. Zanka’s being jolted up the mattress with every brutal snap of Enjin’s hips, brown and blond hair fanned across the pillow like melted ice cream, eyes glassy and unfocused, mouth slack around cries he can’t quite swallow. 

Enjin’s fingers span almost the entire width of Zanka’s waist. He’s manhandling him, thumbs digging into soft skin just above the sharp cut of bone near his hips, yanking Zanka down to meet every thrust so hard the bedframe slams against the wall that’s going to get them both caught if they don’t quiet down.

He doesn’t care.

There’s a bottomless pit in his stomach, dark and starving that’s been growing even before Zanka’s voice crackled through his choker. It growls now, greedy, feeding on every gasp, every flutter of those tight walls around his cock, every time Zanka’s cock twitches untouched against his own stomach and leaves another wet streak across pale skin. Enjin wants to fill that pit until it overflows. He wants to drown in this.

Zanka’s nails rake down his back, leaving stinging lines over old scars and older ink. His legs lock tighter around Enjin’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back like he’s terrified Enjin will pull out. 

Enjin won’t. He doesn’t think he could if he wanted to. 

Zanka’s earrings catch on the sheets and tug with every thrust. Enjin watches one swing like a pendulum, gold against flushed skin, and the possessiveness that hits him is violent. 

He wants those earrings to stay tangled in his sheets forever. He wants Zanka’s scent, incense and clean sweat and sex, stuck to his pillows so he can breathe it in every night after they fall asleep. He wants to mark every inch of that proud, stubborn body until even the Nijiku family crest couldn’t erase who he belongs to now.

His fingers tighten on Zanka’s waist until the tips nearly meet at the small of his back. The scar is right there under his palms and Enjin presses down on it as he drives in again. He can feel himself pounding in and out beneath the taut skin. 

Is he close already? He’s usually got better stamina than this, could fuck for an hour easy before he even thought about finishing. But right now, with Zanka underneath him, he’s hanging on by a thread.

“Are you mine, Zanka?” he growls, jaw clenched so tight it aches. He’s right on the edge, the base of his spine tingling like he’s about to finish any second. He slows his thrusts just enough to grind deep, rolling his hips in circles.

Zanka’s eyes fly open wider, lips parted on a gasp, cheeks flushed dark. He looks like he’s struggling to process anything let alone a question. “En—?”

Enjin leans down closer, one hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck, thumb stroking over the rapid flutter of his pulse. He needs to hear it. Needs it like air. 

Because this is nothing like the quick, meaningless fucks he used to chase in dingy bars. Those were easy. Disposable. He could walk away without a second thought because none of them ever saw him. 

Zanka’s seen all of it. And still he’s here, letting Enjin fuck him raw, letting him in deeper than anyone ever has. That’s why Enjin’s asking. He wants to hear Zanka say it, wants the kid to claim him right back, wants to know Zanka belongs to him the same way Enjin already knows he belongs to Zanka.

“Tell me,” he rasps, thrusting deep again, grinding right against that spot that makes Zanka’s toes curl and his hole flutter wildly around him. “Are you mine? Need to hear it.”

“Yes!” Zanka cries out, turning his cheek into Enjin’s hand until Enjin cups his face. Enjin soothes a thumb beneath his eye, unable to look away. “Yours—ah—yours, Enjin—”

He fucks Zanka harder, hips slamming, the wet slap of skin loud enough to echo. Zanka’s cock is trapped between their stomachs, leaking steadily, sliding through the mess they’re making. Enjin reaches down with one hand, still gripping his waist with the other, and wraps his fingers around Zanka’s length. He strokes in time with his thrusts, relentless.

“Look at me,” he orders. No. It's not an order. He’s pleading. He needs Zanka’s eyes on him. 

Zanka’s eyes snap open, pupils blown so wide the navy is just a thin ring. Tears cling to his lashes but refuse to fall, Zanka’s too proud for that. His mouth is red and swollen, lips parted on a constant stream of broken sounds.

“I’ve got you,” Enjin rasps, thumb swiping over the slick head of Zanka’s cock. He cuts off with a groan as Zanka clenches around him, tight and fluttering like his body is trying to pull him in deeper. “Shit—”

He pulls out suddenly, ignoring Zanka’s whine of protest, and manhandles him onto his side. Zanka barely has time to catch his breath before Enjin is plastered to his back, chest to spine, one arm wrapped around him. He hooks Zanka’s top leg over his hip, lines up, and slides back in in one smooth, deep thrust.

Zanka’s head falls back against Enjin’s shoulder with a choked moan. “Enjin—”

“Shh, pretty,” Enjin murmurs right against his ear, lips brushing the shell as he starts fucking him again, slower now but no less deep strokes that make Zanka’s toes curl. “So pretty like this. Look at you. Taking me so good.”

Zanka shivers hard, one hand flying back to clutch at Enjin’s thigh, nails digging in. His other fist is pressed to his own mouth, biting down to keep quiet, but every thrust still punches muffled cries out of him.

Enjin kisses down the side of his neck, slow and reverent even while his hips pick up speed. “You’re doing so good, Zan. So perfect.”

And Enjin means it. Zanka is perfect like this. Trusting him with every vulnerable piece, letting Enjin see the parts he hides from everyone else. The boy who thinks he’s never enough, falling apart so beautifully in his arms.

Enjin tightens his grip, forearm banded across Zanka’s chest now, holding him impossibly closer as he fucks up into him. 

Zanka’s trying so hard to stay quiet, biting his knuckles white, but every deep grind against his insides rips another muffled sob of pleasure out of him anyway.

Enjin feels his own orgasm building fast, heat coiling tight at the base of his spine. He slides his free hand down, wrapping it around Zanka’s neglected dick again. He strokes in time with his thrusts, thumb swiping over the slick head on every upstroke.

“Come for me,” Enjin growls against Zanka’s neck, rough with desperation. “Want to feel you come while I’m inside you. Let me have it, Zan. Please—”

Zanka shatters with a sweet, broken cry that Enjin immediately swallows up. He tilts Zanka’s chin up with a rough grip, crashing their mouths together in a messy kiss, drinking down every noise as Zanka comes hard. His hole clenches rhythmically around Enjin’s cock, pulsing, milking him, while hot stripes of cum spill over Enjin’s fist and onto the sheets.

Enjin fucks him through it, chasing his own release, hips snapping erratically now. The pit is a living thing inside him, roaring and clawing and finally, finally being fed. He buries his face in Zanka’s neck, teeth sinking into the junction of shoulder and throat hard enough to leave a mark, and comes with a guttural groan.

He floods Zanka deep, pulse after pulse, so much it leaks out around his cock with every shallow thrust he can’t stop making. It’s enough to make his vision white out for a second. He keeps rocking into Zanka even after he’s spent, grinding the mess deeper, like he can brand him from the inside.

Enjin doesn’t pull out. He stays buried deep, arms locked around Zanka like a lifeline.

Zanka’s back is plastered to his heaving chest, both of them sticky and breathing like they just ran a marathon. The only sound is the low hum of the HQ vents and the occasional wet shift when one of them twitches.

Enjin presses his lips to the bite mark he left on Zanka’s shoulder, tasting salt. “You okay?”

Zanka lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a wince when Enjin’s hips move an inch. “I’ve been through worse.”

Enjin closes his eyes. That’s definitely true. 

He finally eases out slow, both of them hissing at the drag. Cum leaks out of Zanka in a warm trickle, Enjin watches it for half a second before he grabs the nearest shirt, his own shirt, and presses it between Zanka’s thighs to catch the mess. Zanka makes an embarrassed noise and tries to bat his hand away.

“Stop. That’s yer shirt. That’s so gross.”

“Exactly. It’s already ruined.” Enjin wipes him gently, then tosses the shirt somewhere on the floor. He pulls Zanka back against his chest, spooning him properly this time, one arm banded across his waist, palm resting over his scar. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles over the raised pink line. Then figure eights. Then little stars. Nonsense shapes he doesn’t even think about.

He wonders how Zanka would look with tattoos like his. 

Zanka’s quiet for a long minute, just breathing. Then, “You’re really stayin’?”

“Wasn’t planning on sneaking out like some bar hookup.” He presses another kiss behind Zanka’s ear, right where the tassel dangles. “Unless you want me to.”

“Nah.” Zanka’s hand finds Enjin’s wrist, holding it in place over his stomach. “Stay. Just… talk to me. Don’t do that thing where you go and smoke three packs and pretend everythin’s fine.”

Enjin huffs a laugh against his neck. “Guilty.” His thumb keeps drawing, now a little heart, which he immediately rubs out into a jagged line because he feels ridiculous. “I don’t know where to start, Zan.”

“Maybe tell me I’m not pathetic for using you as jerk off material?” Zanka says dryly, shivering the more shapes Enjin traces. 

“You’re not pathetic.” Enjin’s thumb stills on his skin. “You’re the least pathetic person I know.”

It’s the truth. Zanka might not think it, but Enjin knows it’s true. 

“I was too scared to tell you,” Zanka says, leaning into his touch. “I kept runnin’ away, but I still wanted to be close.”

“I don’t see it like that.” Enjin mutters. “You’re still you. You never pretend to be something you’re not.”

He feels Zanka’s breath hitch under his palm.

“I look up to you for that,” Enjin says. The words feel like pulling teeth, but he keeps going. “You’re seventeen and you’re already more honest with yourself than I’ve ever been. And instead of dealing with it like an adult, I pushed you away. 

Zanka shifts slightly, listening.

“‘Cause I’m a coward and if I let myself stand beside you the way I actually want to… I’d ruin what makes you special. And I don’t have a great track record of not wrecking things.”

Zanka is silent for a long beat. Then he rolls fully onto his back, forcing Enjin to shift so they’re face to face. One of Zanka’s legs hooks over Enjin’s hip automatically, like his body already decided they belong tangled together. His hand comes up to trace the line of Enjin’s jaw, thumb brushing the faint stubble there.

“You didn’t ruin me,” Zanka says. “You saved me. And I ain’t some dumb kid who doesn’t know his own mind. I’ve always known what I wanted.”

Enjin reaches up, catches Zanka’s wrist, and presses a kiss to the inside of it, right over the pulse point. “I always thought I’d watch you outgrow me. And I convinced myself I was fine with that,” he admits, “because it was easier to stomach that than the thought of you looking at me one day and realizing I’m just a fuck up.”

Zanka’s eyes go soft, but his mouth curls into that pinched frown he gets when he’s about to call bullshit. “You think I don’t know who you are? You’re not as mysterious as you think, Enjin.”

Enjin laughs, but it fizzles out halfway through. He’s exhausted by pretending. “Fuck, kid. You’re gonna kill me with that honesty.”

“Good,” Zanka mutters, but there’s a smile in it. “Maybe then you’ll stop callin’ me kid whe you were still inside me five minutes ago.”

Enjin groans, burying his face in Zanka’s neck. “I’m working on it.”

They lie there a while longer, the shapes on Zanka’s arm turning into words now, little invisible signatures of his name, because Enjin feels fourteen again. 

“So…” Zanka traces one of Enjin’s tattoos with a fingertip, following the black lines across his collarbone. “What happens tomorrow?” 

Enjin sighs. “We keep it quiet? At least for now. Last thing we need is Semiu’s glasses figuring it out and roasting me for the next decade. Or Rudo throwing a tantrum because his two favorite people are… whatever this is. But I’m not sneaking around like it’s shameful. We do all the same shit we always did. What do you think?”

Zanka nods against his shoulder. “Same as always. Just… us.”

“Just us,” Enjin agrees.

Zanka relaxes against him again, eyes slipping closed. “I can do that.”
____

Enjin is warm. There’s weight against his chest, a solid, living presence that breathes in time with him, and when he shifts even a little, that presence stirs, and a sleepy hum vibrates right into his bones.

Enjin opens his eyes.

Zanka is sprawled across his pillow.

His hair is a total wreck, strands sticking up at impossible angles, others flattened messily against the cotton. His lashes cast soft shadows across his cheeks. His lips are parted just enough that Enjin can see the faint pink of them, swollen from sleep and from… other things.

His back is dotted with faint red marks. Fingerprints, Enjin realizes belatedly. And there are full handprints too, clear as day.

Faint, bruising red marks scattered over Zanka’s shoulders, along his sides, the curve of his waist. Some deeper than others. Some overlapping. Proof of exactly how tightly Enjin held onto him through the night, like if he loosened his grip for even a second, Zanka might disappear.

Enjin stares.

He did this.

Enjin drags a hand down his face. His brain is still booting up. No sour taste in his mouth. No pounding headache. 

Usually, mornings after are… empty. A physical aftershock and then nothing. A polite detachment. Sometimes awkwardness, sometimes indifference, sometimes regret. But always that familiar hollow slide out, like stepping off a train and moving onto the next platform.

This doesn’t feel like that.

Enjin is tired. He’s jaded. He’s been through too much to pretend this is just a stupid hookup.

He studies Zanka’s face, the softness of it when he’s not scowling or yelling or posturing. There’s something painfully open about him like this.

This is not a one night stand. Which is exactly why he needs to leave. He should give Zanka space before he wakes up and realizes he’s made a huge mistake picking Enjin. 

He untangles himself and tries to gather his clothes on the bed without getting up, wincing at every soft rustle of fabric. 

Zanka shifts, brow creasing slightly as he drags in a slow breath. His leg tightens where it’s slung over Enjin’s hip, anchoring him in place.

“Don’t move,” Zanka mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

Enjin freezes. “Wasn’t planning to,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath.

Zanka cracks one eye open.

It takes a second for awareness to settle in, the unmistakable reality of Enjin’s face inches from his own. Then his gaze sharpens. “Where do ya think yer going?”

Enjin flinches as Zanka sits up. 

He rubs at his eyes, sheet pooled low on his hips. There are faint red marks across his shoulders and collarbone, and Enjin has the deeply inconvenient realization that it’s going to be hard to get through his day knowing those are under Zanka’s uniform.

“…Morning,” Enjin says weakly.

Zanka’s grip tightens.

“Stay,” he says, quieter now. Not an order. A request.

Enjin chuckles. “Bossy.”

He looks down at Zanka. At the sleep lines marked on his face, and the way his grip is tight, like he already knows Enjin is the type to run.

“…Just for a minute,” Enjin murmurs.

Zanka shifts closer, forehead bumping lightly against Enjin’s chest. “Good.”

Enjin’s hand settles automatically at Zanka’s waist. The peace only lasts about two seconds.

A sharp voice suddenly cuts through the hallway outside. “Zanka!”

Both of them freeze.

Zanka’s eyes go wide. Enjin swears under his breath.

Rudo, the nosey brat. 

Zanka scrambles upright in a panic, immediately tangling in the blankets. It’s the least graceful Enjin’s ever seen him. “Shit!”

“Relax,” Enjin whispers urgently, grabbing his wrist. “You’ll blow our cover in five seconds flat if you keep flailing like that.”

“I’m not flailing.”

“You just kicked me in the ribs.”

Footsteps approach.

“Zanka, you up? Semiu says she wants us on a mission by lunch—”

Zanka bolts for the far side of the bed, snatching up his pajamas and yanking them on with chaotic speed. Enjin watches, torn between panic and an extremely unhelpful appreciation for the view.

“Get dressed!” Zanka hisses under his breath, tossing Enjin’s boxers at him. They smack him right in the face. 

“Rude.” Enjin mutters, pulling them on anyway. “I’ll just go through the window.”

Zanka’s head snaps up. “You’re kidding.”

“Unless you want Rudo to walk in on this?” Enjin gestures vaguely at the rumpled sheets, the scattered clothes, the very obvious signs of shared sleep. Plus, he’s seen Riyo do it plenty of times before. It can’t be that hard to climb. 

Zanka grimaces. “Point taken.”

The knocking gets louder.

“Zanka?”

“I’m up!” Zanka calls, voice cracking slightly from overuse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah! Gimme a sec, brat!”

Enjin’s already halfway to the window. He eases it open, cool morning air rushing in. 

“Try not to die,” Zanka whispers as he buttons the rest of his shirt.

The ledge outside is narrow, barely enough room for solid footing, and Enjin grips the sill, lowering himself carefully before swinging sideways and hauling himself up toward the window of the empty room above. 

For one horrifying second, he’s hanging there, arms burning, legs scrambling for purchase, very aware that anyone looking up at the building right now would get a full view of his ass.

“Fantastic,” he mutters.

He manages to hook a foot, push, and tumble gracelessly into the darkened room above, landing in a crouch and immediately freezing.

Silence. No movement. 

He straightens, finishing getting dressed as quietly as possible, running a hand through his hair to make himself look at least vaguely normal. The room is totally empty. Whoever lives here is either already out for the day or never came home to sleep. 

Lucky break.

He slips back into the hallway a minute later, rolling his shoulders and trying to act like nothing unusual just happened. No big deal. Definitely didn’t just climb out of a window like a dumbass.

A couple of cleaners glance at him and say good morning. Enjin waves and keeps walking down the stairs to his floor.

When he passes Zanka’s door, him and Rudo bickering with each other, he can’t help the tiny pause in his step.

Enjin pauses outside the door, one hand raised, knuckles hovering just shy of the wood. He can hear them through it, Rudo’s impatient foot tapping, Zanka’s muffled grumbling. The second he knocks, two quick raps, everything inside goes dead quiet for half a beat.

“What?” Zanka calls dryly.

Enjin pushes the door open just enough to lean in. “Morning, boys.”

Rudo spins around from where he’s perched on the edge of Zanka’s desk, arms crossed. Zanka’s standing by the bed in his haphazardly put on clothes, cheeks flushed like he just sprinted a mile. Their eyes lock.

Enjin has to swallow twice before he can speak again. “What’re you bothering him about, Rudo.”

Rudo doesn’t notice anything. He’s already sticking his tongue out at Zanka. “Zanka’s taking forever. I wanted to grab food first—Semiu said the mission’s at noon, but he was still asleep and now he has to do his whole dramatic outfit thing ‘cause he wants to look pretty.”

“Shut up,” Zanka mutters, yanking his shirt closed with more force than necessary, clearly trying to hide the marks Enjin left on him. A button pops off and skitters across the floor. He doesn’t bend to get it. His eyes are still on Enjin.

Enjin leans against the doorframe, arms folded, trying for relaxed. “Tough luck, kid. Some of us actually need beauty sleep.”

Zanka’s mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smile and losing.

Rudo huffs and turns back toward the desk, clearly ready to keep complaining, when his gaze snags on something. His head tilts. “Wait… isn’t that Umbreaker?”

The white umbrella leans innocently against the wall beside Lovely, both weapons propped there like they belong next to each other. Enjin’s stomach drops straight through the floor. Zanka freezes.

They share a single, lightning fast look, equal parts oh shit and your move, dumbass.

Enjin recovers first, stepping fully into the room and shutting the door behind him with a soft click. “Y’know what?” he says, like the idea just occurred to him. “Why don’t I go with him for the mission instead? You can hang back, have lunch here. I’ll cover it.”

Rudo blinks, distracted instantly, Umbreaker already forgotten in the face of actual good news and food. “For real?”

“Sure. Why not.” Enjin shrugs, casual as anything, but his eyes flick back to Zanka. “I wanted to spend time with him anyway. Feels like we haven’t been on a solo mission in forever.”

Rudo’s whole face lights up. “That’d be kinda cool, actually. Thanks, Enjin.” He’s already bouncing toward the door, lunch plans clearly back on the menu. “Tell Semiu I’ll be in the mess hall!”

The door clicks shut behind him.

Enjin lets out a long, shaky breath and leans back against the wood, eyes sliding shut for a second. Zanka does the same, crossing his arms tight over his chest, uniform shirt still gaping open at the throat. The faint red marks Enjin left last night peek out above the collar.

“That guy,” Zanka growls, “needs an attitude check.”

Enjin can’t help it. He laughs till his ribs ache. “Aww. My kids are fighting.”

Zanka’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing in pure betrayal. “Now you really sound like a pervert.”

“‘Kids’ is too much?” Enjin pushes off the door, stalking forward slow, grin widening. “How about brothers, then?”

Zanka shudders so hard his shoulders actually hunch. “Stop! Let’s just get ready and go.”

But Enjin’s already moving, voice dropping into that teasing lilt he knows drives Zanka insane. “Zan-Zan,” he croons, “let your older brother give you a kiss before we head out—”

Zanka darts around the side of the bed as Enjin grabs for him. He feints left, but Enjin’s fast when he wants to be, and he lunges, catching Zanka around the waist mid stride, and they both tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and fabric.

Zanka’s back hits the mattress with a soft oof, Enjin right on top of him, knees bracketing his hips. He grabs both of Zanka’s wrists, right where the choker’s red band still circles one, and pins them above his head against the sheets. The position is so familiar from last night that he feels worked up all over again. 

Zanka’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling, eyes bright and defiant and wanting all at once. “No way in hell I’m lettin’ you kiss anythin’ if you keep that up.”

“Mm.” Enjin leans down, nose brushing Zanka’s. “Isn’t it ironic?”

Zanka blinks up at him, still a little breathless. “What is?”

Enjin’s thumb strokes over the choker on Zanka’s wrist. He shifts his weight, letting Zanka feel every inch of him, and reaches up with his free hand to touch the matching band still snug around his own throat.

“This,” he murmurs. “The choker. It caused us all these problems…” His fingers trace the edge of Zanka’s jaw, then down to the faint bruise blooming just underneath it. “But then it gave us this too.”

Zanka’s throat works. He doesn’t look away. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Enjin ducks his head and presses a kiss right over the choker on Zanka’s wrist, tongue flicking against it and skin. Zanka shivers hard. “Gave me you.”

Zanka’s wrists flex under Enjin’s grip, not trying to escape, just testing, feeling the strength there. His voice comes out quieter than Enjin’s ever heard it. “Didn’t take ya for a sap.”

“Neither did I.” Enjin kisses him again, softer this time, right at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

Zanka’s eyes flutter shut when Enjin’s mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath his ear. “We’re gonna be late.”

“Semiu can wait five more minutes.” Enjin nips gently, then soothes it with his tongue. “Ten.”

“Fifteen,” Zanka counters, voice already going husky, hips shifting up in a lazy roll that makes Enjin groan. “Rudo said noon.”

“Deal.”

He releases one of Zanka’s wrists only to slide his hand down, palm flat against the warm skin of Zanka’s stomach, fingertips tracing the faint red imprints he left there overnight like he’s memorizing a map only he’s allowed to read. Zanka arches into the touch, a low sound rumbling in his chest.

Enjin kisses him properly then, deep and unhurried, tasting sleep. When they break apart, foreheads pressed together, Zanka’s free hand comes up to cup the back of Enjin’s neck, thumb brushing the choker there.

“Older brother, huh?” Zanka mutters, smirk tugging at his swollen lips.

Enjin laughs against his mouth. “Oh? You like it now?”

“You wish.”

“I do.”

Zanka’s fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him back down. “Shut up and kiss me again before I change my mind about goin’ on this mission.”

Enjin does. Gladly.
____

If you told Enjin a year ago that erectile dysfunction would be the single best thing that ever happened to his life, he would’ve laughed in your face.

And yet here he is, with no regrets. 

Mornings where Zanka makes tea that tastes like grass and lectures Enjin about smoking while Enjin steals sips and kisses the scowl off his face. Nights where missions run long and they come back covered in sludge, strip each other in the shower, and fuck slow and lazy against the tiles until the water runs cold. Team dinners where Riyo stares at them like she sees through it every time Zanka sits a little too close and Rudo obliviously complains that they’re “clingy” but still steals Enjin’s fries like nothing’s changed.

Semiu is silenced by a year's supply of porn mags. 

His drought’s long gone. Replaced by something infinitely better.

Hell, he’s pretty sure he’s made up for every dry night in triplicate. But more than that, more than the sex (which is still mind meltingly good), the pit in his chest is full. Like someone finally handed it the one thing it’d been starving for.

Enjin stands in the common area before most of the team has stirred, nursing a bitter coffee sweetened to shit and pretending to scan mission reports when he is really just waiting. 

This morning is no different. The sun is barely up, filtering through the cracked windows in that sickly yellow, turning everything into old film. Rudo is already at the table, shoveling muffins in. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Enjin grunts, sliding him an extra pastry he swiped. “Try not to inhale it this time. You’ll choke and I’m not doing mouth to mouth.”

Rudo flips him off with a mouth full of crumbs. “Screw you. Where’s Zanka? He promised to show me that new deflection thing before drills.”

“Probably still primping,” Riyo calls from the corner, legs kicked up on a crate. “You know how he is. Or maybe Enjin finally taught him his famous ‘how to dodge responsibility’ technique?”

Enjin chokes on his coffee. Guilty as charged. Last night’s lesson was Zanka riding him slow with one hand over his mouth so he would not wake the whole wing, his back flexing under Enjin’s palm every time he sank down. He can still feel the ghost of those nails on his chest.

Before he can fire back something clever, the door slides open and Zanka steps in, his uniform crisp and his hair slicked back just right. Lovely is balanced on his shoulder. 

His eyes find Enjin’s across the room and something in Enjin’s chest does that stupid flip it has been doing since they got together. He looks rested despite the two of them being up all night. There’s even a tiny, secret curve to his mouth when he spots Enjin.

“Morning,” Zanka says, and Enjin catches the way his gaze lingers, probably seeing the marks he left through Enjin’s clothes, because only he knows they’re there.

“Yo,” Enjin answers, as Zanka settles at the table in the seat across from him. He leans Lovely against his chair, right beside Umbreaker. Rudo immediately launches into his questions, waving his gloves around like he is conducting an orchestra. Zanka rolls his eyes, pushing Rudo’s face away when he invades his personal space. 

“Hey, Zan, be nice to him. He’s a sensitive brat,” Enjin shrugs just to piss Rudo off, leaning back in his chair. His foot finds Zanka’s under the table. The satisfaction he gets from watching Rudo fly into a rage has nothing on the way Zanka’s ankle hooks his. “At least he doesn’t leave dents in the yard because he’s too busy showing off.”

Zanka’s foot presses harder, hidden by the table’s shadow. “That was one time. And you were the one who said ‘impress me.’”

“I meant with your jinki, not by trying to pole vault over Rudo.”

The table erupts, Rudo yelling about how he would win a pole vault anyway, and Riyo laughs loud enough to echo off the walls, leaning forward with a glint in her eye. “Oh please. Bet Zanka flips you like a pancake, Rudo.”

Rudo’s face goes scarlet. “Shut up! I’d crush him in two seconds flat!”

Enjin just watches Zanka through it all. The way he leans forward to mess up Rudo’s hair, and then the two of them start exchanging petty hits like cats swatting at each other. 

It is not the home Enjin imagined for himself when he was a kid, back when home meant four walls that did not leak and someone who stuck around longer than a cigarette burn. This one is loud, chaotic, full of old wounds and dents and secrets. But it is his. They are his. 

He still wakes up some mornings convinced he’s gonna fuck it all up. That he’ll say the wrong thing, push too hard, or let the pressure swallow them whole. 

The Ground’s still a shithole, as Rudo coined it. Trash beasts still form and wreak havoc. Near death experiences still happen (too often for Enjin’s liking).

But Enjin’s not running anymore.

He’s got his oasis.

Notes:

ok now back to my regularly scheduled programming bc I wrote like 30k words of enzn I can’t write any more.