Chapter Text
If Alan was a little less conventionally attractive then maybe it would be different, but as it stands Zanka cannot help himself from imagining the older boy spontaneously combusting. It's just not fair that he can rock up here in his northern attire, reminding Follo of home and making him laugh while Zanka trails behind like some pitiful third wheel.
I'm here too, y'know, Zanka thinks, frowning at their backs while Alan points at something. As if Follo has heard him, he turns and gestures toward Zanka and then toward the vending machine. "Do you want anything?" And Zanka perks up a little, happy to be thought of – simplistic in just this one way.
"I'll have an orange soda."
He deflates when Follo doesn't bother asking Alan, ordering on his behalf like he already knows what he'd want.
"Thanks," Alan says, his eyes forming crescents in easy gratitude. "When are you going to show me where you train though?'
Never, if Zanka had his way, but he has enough restraint not to blurt that out. Instead he tilts his head and slips into step beside Follo. "The dojo is this way."
***
Zanka grew up in dojos more extravagant than the one at HQ and Follo has been a Cleaner for years now, so the space isn't exactly awe-inspiring anymore, but Zanka can understand that for a civilian it would be deemed cool. The room is washed dark and there are still mats laid out from previous use, the training dummies all on show. Alan looks around wide-eyed, clumsy as he trips over the edge of a mat – held up by Follo's good reflexes.
Alan is handsome, sure. But he also grins too wide and touches Follo too freely, like now, slinging an arm around his shoulder while pointing toward a mat. "So how does it work exactly?"
"We just train against the dummies or participate in spars." Zanka looks to Follo. They still haven't sparred. Weeks have passed but Follo has never asked and so Zanka hasn't either. Follo smiles yet his hands remain at his sides, not deigning to even twitch toward where his jinki is hidden beneath the billowing folds of his shirt. Zanka left Assistaff back at the dorms, anyway, and the idea of hand-to-hand combat makes his eyes want to water. "It's unfortunate ya' didn't come yesterday. There was a whole group of people training."
Alan's face falls, so totally crestfallen at missing out on the action that Zanka feels a little bad. Follo must feel worse considering how his brows furrow.
"How about we spar?" Alan asks, pouting so that Zanka can almost see how they must have been before Follo joined the Cleaners. It's not something he wants to imagine.
"I don't want to accidentally hurt you..." Follo replies, hushed like he wants to spare any potential embarrassment.
"Food!" Zanka blurts out, itching as he stands here without even Assistaff to fiddle with. The pair of them look at him like he's grown a second head, not capable of complex speech. He swallows and then smiles. "Let's go to the caf'. It's past lunchtime. Riyo can give you a better tour after. She's the one that normally does them."
"I am hungry." Alan smiles again as he concedes, one shallow dimple appearing. There's a stiffness to Zanka in return as he marches out to lead the way.
Am I ruining their reunion? he thinks. But he can't leave either, childish in many ways even though it doesn't seem it. He's too curious about what they might say in his absence, what they might do–
Follo is my friend. It's only reasonable to be cautious.
***
It's easy for Zanka to pick his favourite meal and likewise for Follo but the choice ends up being more overwhelming for Alan.
"Sorry," Alan apologises, his bangs falling into his face while he studies the flan tray. The serving lady only shakes her head, clearly charmed if her heart eyes are anything to go by. Follo would roll his eyes except Follo's looking at him.
"Let's grab a table," he says. "Alan is a big eater."
Alan's head jerks up, protest written all over his face, but he's accosted by Dear and Guita on either side of him and Follo picks this moment to slink away, his grip loose on Zanka's wrist as he pulls him along. The touch still burns.
"Guita is gonna keep him there for a while," Follo says, when they've sat down across from each other. He's stocked up on junk food, a burger and fries while Zanka settled for lasagne. "They love new faces." His voice has gone soft and so has his gaze, his eyeline steady as he watches Guita glomp onto Alan while Dear glares.
Zanka's appetite depletes to nothing.
"Who is he to ya'?" Zanka asks, on a whim, impulse driven by the deluge of emotions stirring within him. It's a bad question. The worst kind. But he can't take it back and so he doesn't try.
"Alan? My childhood friend."
Zanka digs his nails into his thighs and leans forward. "Is that all he was?"
It's exhilarating in its own way, how Follo's attention is solely on him now. His breath hitches—an answer of its own—then he laughs with his eyes screwed shut. "Are you asking what I think you are?"
Zanka is a little bruised from being laughed at but he presses onwards. "Yes."
"Why?" Follo is a bit a more earnest now, his eyes hooded and his food going untouched. It spurs Zanka into being more truthful than what's good.
"Ya' look different now that he's here."
Follo laughs again, mirthful against the backdrop of the busy cafeteria. He's one of many yet he's somehow the only person here too, tunnel vision mechanisms. "Yeah? Well, imagine your past walking into your present. Try looking the same then." Follo shrugs, forgiving. "He's an old friend, never anything more."
Zanka has always been someone who presses at an open wound. Even with the explanation there's a gaping hole between them that he wants to fill. He rubs at his neck, slower to speak this time. "Why did you name your jinki Alan then?" Follo's smile flickers, glancing down toward his holster before blinking at Zanka.
"He's not my goal anymore but he was once. This reminds me of how hard I worked, how I'll always be that person wielding a hammer that really was just a hammer. I don't want to forget myself no matter how strong I get....weird, right?"
And it is a bit but not in a way that Zanka can't understand. He knows what it's like to be looking toward someone in the distance only to one day realise you've not been seeing them for a while. How your world goes unsteady until you remember you still have your own body, that there's still improvement to be made. He tries now to put himself into Follo's shoes, imagines the people from his past dropping by, people who knew him before he'd changed for the better, and he winces. He's been interrogating the older boy for no reason.
"I didn't mean to assume..."
"It's okay." Follo tips his head forward so that the brim of his cap covers his eyes. "This whole jealousy thing is cute."
Zanka's face heats up as he registers the words, his heart in his throat. Whatever reputation he might have disintegrates, too flustered to stay nonchalant. "I'm–" he stammers, waving both his hands in protest. "I'm not jealous, what are ya' alking about?"
I'm not, Zanka reaffirms, because Follo's definitely wrong. He's just protective of those around him. Zanka clings to this stubbornly despite the blush. But Follo remains clearly unconvinced, one brow raised in challenge. Then he smiles, leaning in close enough that Zanka thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's about to kiss him–
"I like hard workers who don't give up. Alan has never fallen into that category," Follo whispers before he's moving back to an appropriate distance and looking over to where Alan has finally been relinquished by the kids. The only thing that assures Zanka they've just had this conversation is the scent of Follo's cologne lingering in his senses.
Cherries. Zanka's favourite.