Chapter Text
Your training with Rudo proved itself more fun than you’d thought it’d be.
Of course, you had to balance the fun with a hefty amount of serious work or else Zanka would unload an earful on you all about wasting time and how you were unfit for the role of a mentor. You would’ve joked about his possessiveness, but Riyo beat you to it— and he didn’t take it well.
As much fun as you did have though, the work pile on your shoulders seemed to be affecting you more with each day that went on. It was typical for this time of year; trash storms, trash beasts, and crazy people firing bazookas at HQ came in abundance at this point in the annual calendar. On top of that, seeing Zanka every day stressed you out like you were off in No Man’s Land even under the safe comforts of the base.
And since that little outburst he had at you the other day, it seems like he’d been getting exceptionally pissy lately. His usual fuse is a lot shorter, and that mouth of his keeps firing off snarky remarks faster than you could brace yourself for them.
Just when you thought it was impossible for your responsibilities to grow more overbearing, the absolute worst scenario you could ever conjure up suddenly makes you regret thinking you had it bad before. You’d take double the jobs, training, and scouting to reverse the unfortunate circumstances you find yourself in now.
To keep a very long story short, the East Ward Cleaner’s HQ was tasked with housing a swarm of Cleaners from a different quadrant of the Ground. There’d been some puzzling events taking place around where they were stationed, causing Corvus to extend a gracious hand out and offer a great deal of them shelter in the place you resided. The Cleaners always looked out for their own, no matter the inconvenience.
And it was definitely an inconvenience.
There were already a selective amount of available beds at HQ, and there were even less guest rooms. The East Ward division had been growing faster than the building could keep up. The need for more space was evident now, but the issue called for a temporary solution before work could be done to expand the place. The resident Cleaners of the East Ward were condensed to two to a room for now, and because all the guest rooms were dingy and less than cozy (to put it lightly), it was only courtesy for your visitants to take your sleeping quarters while the rest of you got relocated to the other bunks.
You respect the decision, knowing better than to argue with the Boss’s choices. However, you could air out all your grievances to Enjin instead.
“We can’t send any of them to the South Ward?” You complain to him in a secluded space with a hushed breath.
“Too far.” His smoke blows right into your face that you swat away with your hand. “Chill out, Y/N. Why so eager to get rid of our guests?”
After another drag he smirks, “It’s unlike you to be so inhospitable.”
With an apologetic, pleading tone you say, “I have sympathy for their situation, but my room is the only place where I can get any kind of peace.”
“It’s not a permanent setup.” He knows you’ve been under some significantly tough beatings from work lately. Sighing out he starts again, “Your frustration is valid, but I’m sorry— it’s just gotta be like this for everyone right now.”
A thoughtfulness takes over your aggrieved expression. You knew the visiting Cleaners are probably insecure over feeling like they’re invading a home that isn’t their’s— and being as compassionate as you are, you didn’t want them to feel unwelcome or alienated in their time here. It sucked, but you knew you had no other choice but to live with it for now.
Endurance. That was another thing you were supposed to be teaching Rudo, right?
You force yourself to be okay with it, noting it was a noble thing to do. Pushing your upset aside, you make your way to Semiu at the front desk to hear which room would be yours— and more importantly who exactly you’d be sharing the room with.
Upon seeing you, a look of worry flashes in her eyes. Almost like pity, but also like she’s bracing for something. Semiu knows you’re here to inquire about the dorm arrangements, and instead of just telling you outwardly, she slides the list of roommates over to you face up.
You’re confused by her behavior, but shrug it off and reach to search for your name. Your fingers are halfway to the paper before you’re completely frozen by what your eyes spot on the page. Your hands abandon their journey to the document that’s been poisoned by the revolting words you read. You revoke your hand and let it meet your side.
Semiu focuses her attention back to her magazine, not wanting to make eye contact. You hang your head, your voice coming out in honest disbelief, “Who did this?”
“Enjin.” She immediately shifts the blame off herself in case you’re thinking of blowing up on someone.
A forced exhale strains from your chest. Instead of snapping like Semiu probably expected you to, you swallow your laments and displeasure. You state you’re heading out— for a mission, supply run, breath of air— it isn’t clear to her or to you.
Regulating emotions. That was definitely one of the lessons you stressed during Rudo’s training.
Gris’s car is the first one you spot down in the garage, and conveniently for you he’s already sitting behind the wheel. You hop in the passenger’s seat before he can even see you approaching. He doesn’t have time to question what’s going on before you’re telling him to drive. You don’t clarify at all, just needing something to do— somewhere else to be— to forget the horrors that just cursed your eyes.
Scribbled down on that paper of dorm arrangements you saw your name… and then Zanka’s right there next to it.
Enjin was seriously going to die once you saw him. What kind of bullshit idea was it to have the two of you living in the same space? You told that blonde moron not to smoke weed four days in a row, and now you had to suffer the consequences of his high decision making.
You’re more grateful for your packed schedule now, your list of chores providing you with an adequate amount of distraction from everything. Out working with Gris you overdo it a bit, wearing yourself out pretty bad. You took all your swallowed gripes and troubles that’d been accumulating over the past few weeks and got them out physically. Though therapeutic, you could now feel your mental burden in the form of actual pain radiating throughout your body.
The ride back home is rather silent. You would doze off if the car seat wasn’t so uncomfortable, but you know Gris can tell something’s clearly bothering you. In order to avoid his concerned interrogation you just pretend to sleep anyway. You also knew he’d been gossiping about you and Zanka with everyone already, so you refused to feed into all that talk.
Lost in your thoughts, you wonder if you can try and set up camp in the infirmary instead. It wouldn’t be the first time you spent a night in one of Eisha’s beds when absolutely nothing was wrong with you. The idea is quickly abandoned, though. She’s been swamped by the influx of visitors— almost all of them seeking medical attention due to the exact same occurrences that had landed them in the East Ward in the first place. Both you and your friend had your sanctuaries of peace revoked from you and were experiencing rough burnout. Not wanting to make things worse for her, you reason that you really have no other choice but to crash in the dorm.
A shake on your arm snaps you out of it, Gris leaning over to inform you— ”We’re here.”
When you get back into the base, the first face you see in the hallway on your way to your room is none other than the blonde moron himself. You have many friendly words for Enjin the second he’s in earshot, but you don’t fight him for too long, retiring to your room early to get to sleep.
For the next week, it’s that grueling schedule on loop. Jobs, fights, training, long drives home, discomfort from the excessive conditioning, sleeping in that stuffy room— rinse and repeat. There’s honestly not much time in your day to notice Zanka’s proximity.
Well until right now.
Today was undeniably the worst of the lashings. Pain stung in you just about everywhere it could, even walking hurts. Moving like a zombie or some kind of undead creature, you stumble towards your room. Unlike the many days before, Zanka is up and out of bed when you finally return. You don’t have the energy to even keep your eyes open to watch where you're walking, running face first into something that isn’t a door.
The collision honestly could’ve knocked you out with how dazed you already are, but all it really does is make you tumble back and blink your eyes open. As soon as you do, you’re wishing you’d just been knocked out.
Zanka turns around at the feeling of something crashing into his back. “Well, look who’s finally home.”
You’re not in the mood for this. Of course he’s the last obstacle you run into before you can rest— like he’s the final boss of nuisances. He softens when he sees the state you're in, biting his tongue and resisting more unkind words.
You can really only mumble in response, “As snotty and headache-inducing as ever aren’t you?”
“Me snotty? That right?”
“Just stay outta the doorway next time, Zanka.”
You push past him to finally collapse on your bed after the long day. A mix of diffusing petty arguments, lining up your schedule for the week, doing basic job prep and training all on top of your usual routine had left you completely beat. You’d been dreaming of unwinding in your room and getting off your sore feet all day before you remembered…
Him.
The stupid dorm arrangements. The stupid renovations. Enjin’s idiotic attempt at trying to force the two of you to place nice together.
-
“Who the hell put you in charge of assigning the rooms? The fuck is this?“
“Keep it cool, Y/N. Wasn’t on purpose— you know a ton of people got rearranged. This was the most logical pairing when taking everyone into account.”
“Do you think I can’t tell when you’re lying outta your ass?”
“Alright alright, but hey.” He hoists his hands in the air and raises his eyebrows at you. “Who knows what could happen? Maybe this will be good for the two of you.”
“...despicable, diabolical— unfair!” You trailed off as you descended down the hallway. You shouted that last word loud enough so that Enjin could hear it from where he stood down at the other end.
-
Admittedly, it could be worse.
They could’ve stuck you with Follo— his breathing was loud enough to slowly break you down and make you snap if he was the one in your vicinity for that long. How he could get so out of breath from doing absolutely nothing was a greater mystery than the Sphere’s entire existence. The thought of trying to get a lick of sleep with that huffing and puffing on the bed across from you made you shudder. You told him a thousand times to stop breathing through his mouth and still he never listened.
Zanka was as quiet as a kid in a library. Although he spent most of his time in the shared room meditating, causing no trouble and staying confined to his designated space, just the idea of his presence lingering so close really irked you. That and the increase of wild rumors lately made his name a trigger word.
“Sleepin’ soon?” He questions as he watches you gather a set of clothes designated for bed. After you answer him silently with a tired nod and yawn, he reaches for the lamp on his side of the room and shuts it off. You thank him politely, too exhausted to keep your eyes open let alone walk that far to switch it off yourself.
Your mind is preoccupied with the fantasy of finally laying your drained limbs down on the soft mattress to realize what you’re doing before you can stop it. Out of pure exhaustion and muscle memory, you’d started slipping off your pants to get changed. The heavy garment falls off your legs and sits around your ankles, the buckle clanking against the hard floor of the room. Your eyes, still heavy and closed, don't catch the way Zanka’s head snaps up at the noise.
He steals a quick glance, memorizing the curve of your hips and the way your thin underwear hugs your figure. Out of respect, he forces his eyes away from you. The look is brief enough that you wouldn’t have been upset if you’d been able to see it. Still, he feels dirty. Especially because he’s using all his willpower right now to not turn his head back around.
He tells himself he doesn’t care. He tells himself he’s not itching to see you discard your shirt next. He won’t even allow for the idea that he’s fantasizing about the form you hid under your clothes. The feeling growing in his chest is completely alien to him. What the hell was he doing— getting rattled like this over you?
You always had a way of getting under his skin, making him disconcerted, and igniting a storm-like flurry of thoughts in his head with only a single look. Zanka was entirely used to having images of you occupy 90% of his brain at any given point of the day.
What he wasn’t used to was it feeling like this. The racing in his heart now isn’t vexation. It isn’t his typical annoyance. It’s something he’s always refused to acknowledge. A feeling he’s always masked with aversion or hostility.
“Damn,” you wince under your breath as you reach to yank your shirt over your head. The muscles in your body are so sore it hurts to stretch your arms out. You struggle to get a proper grip on it a few times, more winces and pained moans escaping your throat.
If he was a man of weaker convictions, his head would have immediately spun around at the sound of your voice. Self-control and discipline are practices he nurtures often, but they’ve never been tested more in his life. Zanka’s always been stiff, but you take note of the especially rigid presence he sits with now.
“Shit, who pissed him off,” you think to yourself. As soon as you notice the way he’s staring at a bare space on the wall, it suddenly registers to you why his attention might be glued to the rather boring sight.
The subtly cool evening air on your exposed skin sharpens into a feeling comparable to icicles piercing your body. Half-naked, you finally remember you’re in a shared dorm and not your familiar single room. If you weren’t so overtaken by fatigue, you probably would’ve done more to cover yourself up.
Well, if he’s sitting so awkwardly like that he must’ve seen something right? It’s not like once you get dressed he’s gonna unsee you in your underwear.
What does it matter what Zanka thinks anyway?
Through more yawns, you leisurely drape your casual sleeping attire over yourself and kick your uniform out of the way into a pile on the floor.
Zanka’s relieved to hear you shuffling over to bed, finally able to tear his eyes away from the wall and glance around the room. He hates this feeling. The roommate situation was proving to be more of a pain than he’d anticipated. Something in him forces his mouth to move— maybe to distract himself from the unwelcome sensations that were bubbling up through his body.
“Yer uniform will get wrinkled if ya don’t fold it up,” he manages roughly.
Organization. Was that something you were teaching Rudo too? Eh, doesn’t matter if it is, he’s not here right now.
You wave off his nagging with your hand, face already buried deep into your pillows quite comfortably. The sound of him scoffing at that would usually leave you with a sour taste in your mouth.
“What do you care what my uniform looks like?” is what you would’ve replied if you weren’t already at the gates of dream-land.
It doesn’t take long for you to pass out, but Zanka waits a few extra minutes to ensure you’re 100% unconscious. When he’s positive you’re asleep, he lifts himself out of bed and steps over to the pile of carelessly tossed garments, crouching down to fold them himself.
It’s stupid and he doesn’t really understand why he’s doing it, but in perfect creases and folds he sets down your uniform jacket, shirt, and pants all in a nice polite pile back to where they were thrown before. He quietly admires his careful work a bit, his hand smoothing over the cloth of your Cleaners jacket to feel all the embellishments that adorned it. Zanka would never tell anyone this, but secretly he always thought you had the coolest uniform— even more so than Enjin’s.
August was a truly talented man. Zanka was honestly quite fond of his own uniform, thinking he couldn’t possibly want it any other way than how it was. Your uniform though— well there was just something so undeniably unique about it. The words to explain how he feels are lost on him. All the giver’s costumes were different from each other, not a single one an imitation of another. Still, your’s stands out.
If he wasn’t so prideful, Zanka could say that was a quality he admired about you. Although he spoke rather highly about you behind your back, it was only ever about your strength and competence as a Cleaner. Singing praises about you in any other way was just something he’d never allow himself to do, but the girl that was now snoring comfortably a few feet away from him— there was really only one way to describe her. She’s just about every admirable trait under the sun.
You were the complete opposite of average.
Honestly, he kind of thought that this room thing would be a good opportunity. He’s not an idiot, he’s heard what everyone’s been saying. It bothers him in a different way than it bothers you. All the talk was causing him to wonder if he really did like you… like that.
Zanka could barely admit to tolerating you, and now he was convincing himself he was in love with you out of nowhere? It’s probably why he’s been throwing himself into his meditations more; ever since he’s caught wind of all the talk and entertained the idea that it was even remotely true, something weird had begun to flicker in him. So he forces himself still, locks himself away in his mind, and tries to push the truth out.
He was the complete opposite of you in that way. You ran from your unfamiliar feelings and chased anything that would distract you from them, while he stopped to process it all. You threw yourself into mindless work, while Zanka stepped back to reflect.
Like the week’s worth of nights before, you’re out cold before you can notice the way he’s fighting himself to try and get sleep. Zanka has to work hard at everything, even the luxury of rest. Insomnia’s been wrestling with him for a while— a long while before you guys moved into these dorms. It isn’t the room, the bed, or your presence that keep him awake.
His body is exhausted the same as yours, but his mind just refuses to give in.
Zanka sighs out at the sight of the dorm ceiling, a sight he’s now permanently memorized from the sheer hours he’s stared up at it. His eyes dart around a bit, threatening to settle over in your direction, but his mind fights his body on that too. For now, he just looks at your pile of clothes on the floor. He’ll try to be out of the room by the time you wake up tomorrow morning so you don’t ask him about it, he thinks.
A few minutes tick by agonizingly slow and he’s nowhere closer to falling asleep. Eventually, he stops trying to pretend that he doesn’t want to look at you. He awards himself with the comforting sight of your slumped figure, his body starting to feel lighter from the reminder of your company. The rumors and gossip had gotten to you so much that you’d been avoiding Zanka all week through unnecessary shifts and labor. Your overworked state— he feels partially at fault for it.
All Zanka can wish for right now is sleep. The inability to put his mind at rest leaves his brain to run much longer than he wants it to. In that time, he thinks of everything going on lately. Everything with you, but more importantly with himself.
He still doesn’t know what it is. Even with all the time he’s dedicated to try and understand, the feeling is so unfamiliar he just doesn’t know what to categorize it as.
His stupid mouth has been getting him into more trouble than he could handle. He’d been extra combative lately, regularly saying things he knew he probably shouldn’t be— that would be better not to. Before now, he didn't care much for how his taunting made you feel. In fact, it actually stroked his ego real well when he could tell just how pissed off he made you.
Always fighting back a cocky grin until he was out of your view, giddy at his small victories over you. To see you get riled up over something he said was one of his favorite indulgences in life. Zanka noted that he was awfully talented at that— naturally. Making you squirm in irritation, throwing you off your balance, leaving you with that look of displeasure just from walking by— it was all too easy for him.
And it was fun.
Zanka’s never hated you. Not really. That part he could understand. He wonders now if that’s true for you too, or if he’s gone too far and pushed you to the point that your exchange of bickers and name-calling had really made the sight of him so unbearable. He’s restless again, even more than before. The whole idea makes him extremely uncomfortable, his heart burning with the stress that he’s really messed something up with you.
The gossip, the rumors, the talk— just the idea of you two together made you that upset?
This whole week he’s been trying to make conversation with you. You’ve been so busy you didn’t even notice it either. On the very few chances he got to speak with you, his passing words were always stupid eye-roll inducing comments that didn’t at all help to ease the resentment you held for him. Zanka knows the right things to say; what’ll make clear to you that at the end of the day this whole rivalry thing between you guys isn’t all that serious to him. That all those snide comments and nasty glares he keeps throwing at you are all involuntary. That… maybe he does want something more.
But even though he knows exactly what to say and how to say it, he again loses that reoccuring battle between his mind and body. He sticks to what he’s used to, which is antagonizing you even when he knows he’s gone too far. It’s muscle memory, and instinctive to the point that he can never stop it from coming out.
Rationality over impulse. Maybe you should’ve been training him instead of Rudo.
The bickering and the arguments are fun for him; he doesn’t want them to stop, but more than that he doesn’t want to see you burnt out and exhausted just from his dumb big mouth. He misses the kind of quarrels the two of you would get into before everyone else got involved; before all the talk involving you both got out of hand.
Just like every night before this one, Zanka’s head is stuck in the same cycle. You, you, you— your face, your body, your presence, your sharp tongue, that pretty stare. Tonight the new image of you slipping off your uniform and groaning out from your sore muscles is the most vivid and prominent. It tugs at his heart painfully— heating his stomach, chest, face, and just about everywhere in his body.
It's all making his breathing start to hurt. This whole time, your whole relationship, your whole dynamic— he didn’t really know and can’t at all remember where all those hateful stares and sharp insults originated from. You were self-made just like he preached himself to be. You weren't a genius. If he could admit it, you were the type of person Zanka should be looking up to.
His aggression towards you didn't come from a place of bitterness or pettiness or envy. He just knew he couldn’t fall behind. You were moving so fast that he was starting to feel like he was losing sight of you. Measure up, stay equals— that was his entire focus. But he was already behind, wasn’t he? Just like he’d always been.
How could he be good enough for you if he didn't even feel good enough for himself?
Zanka knows he’s in trouble now; that this beating feeling won’t be fleeting or disappearing any time soon.
He wonders, how many more times can he slip up? How many more insults can you take before your hate for him becomes too big to ever take back? How many more cracks in your relationship can the two of you sustain before the whole thing shatters?
If he can’t trust his dumb big mouth, he’ll just have to trust his actions. That pile of folded clothes on the floor turns symbolic for him now— the very first step down a new path in mending your connection.