Work Text:
The floor was cold.
Everything was.
Snowflakes drifted down from monotone clouds, becoming bigger and bigger. Some even took up his entire vision before landing on his eyelids, burning his skin.
Beautiful, but painful.
Zanka laid still and let the snow engulf him. It must've been hours since he'd passed out.
It hurt. It hurt so badly.
The tears that had once rolled down his cheeks had now frosted over into nothing but icy streaks. The wind howled, mocking him.
A deep red soaked into the snow around his body.
Was he going to die here?
It didn't really matter, either way.
He had nothing to live for.
He whimpered pathetically. God, what had he done to deserve all this? To deserve being ridiculed, punished, beaten, shot-
He was fucking weak, is what he was. That's what his brain reminded him more and more, these days. He was weak, and he deserved every second of the pain he felt. He deserved every single punishment.
He was only proving that right now. Laying pathetically on the floor, waiting to die. He would die if he didn't get up and go inside.
No one was coming for him. No one would.
Still, he couldn't help but stay in place. Whether he was a suicidal idiot, or making the smartest choice he ever would- Zanka wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about anything anymore. Once, he'd known that Kyouka wouldn't actually hurt him. He foolishly believed her gun would be empty, or at least the bullets would ricochet off the pavement next to him.
He was wrong.
Stupid Zanka, always wrong. Always useless, always weak-
Once, he thought his family loved him.
That was the one thing he was certain about, now. No one did.
He was tired of fighting it. Tired of pretending he would ever be anything more than a worthless screw up. No matter how hard he tried, he would never be good enough for her. For them.
So it was better to stay here and accept his demise with grace.
“..Zanka.?”
Someone was speaking to him. Only he was too weak to respond, the blood settling in his throat was becoming a bigger problem by the minute.
He wanted to click his tongue in frustration.
Couldn't even let him die by his damn self.
“Damnit- I told her not to-”
Goka.
Goka, standing above him like a guardian angel.
Or like a demon sent to drag him back to his own personal hell.
He didn't want to. He didn't want to do this anymore. It was hard to breathe. Every time he did, he inhaled the blood coating his sore, raspy throat.
“..p-ple-..”
He could only watch as his brother placed one strong arm behind Zanka’s shoulder blades, then under his knees. And then pain- white, hot, searing, engulfing his very being.
He might've screamed, then. But it was practically impossible to tell with the wind whistling past his frozen ears.
Goka was warm. Big and reliable, he held Zanka against his body, let the younger brother’s head lull onto his wide chest. For a moment, Zanka could almost mistake it for a hug. A warm hug from his big brother- not the one who turned a blind eye to the beatings and the pain, but the one who taught Zanka how to make paper cranes. The one who played cards with him, who always took a peek of their sister’s draw without her noticing.
“please-G-hk-no-”
He couldn't go back. Zanka didn't want to die, but he didn't want to live like this either. This was his only option. His only escape route.
“Don’t, Zanka. Just- just don't.”
He figured that was the end of that.
Maybe he'd be able to escape someday. For now, all he could do was close his eyes and let himself pretend.