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It had never been in his nature to pry. Before information came at a cost, his family always knew when to share and when to be discreet about information. If it was relevant and necessary for him to know, someone would pull him aside and explain. Otherwise he did not ask, did not question the authority of those around him.
His parents were loving, but formal. They lived very structured lives, generations of Hell Guards bred to fight and protect the people on the ground. His mother would brush his hair, explain his lineage and the expectations of him as though she were reading from a script. His father gave him a training regimen, stood on the sidelines as he barked instructions and spoke of techniques during those grueling sessions.
His elder sister never minced her words, she spoke firmly and with her whole chest. Her position as not only the eldest, but the top of her class and eventual Commander of the Hell Guards first squad, meant that each and every syllable she uttered was to be understood with reverence. She would read to Zanka, textbooks beyond his years as she studied and prepared for her own classes. Her words were often mixed up, almost like riddles to his young mind, the words redirected from the true meaning of the message.
His elder brother was harsher, more so after Zanka announced his departure from the Academy and plan to join the Cleaners. He’d laid into him that night, lashed out in the way only a middle child could, brimming with insecurities with nowhere to project them but down. His instructions were stoic, invective if Zanka stumbled along the way. He saw trivial things as a waste of time, failure was not an option for Nijiku’s.
Neither of his siblings reached out unless it was necessary, even then they kept their words to a minimum. He had no knowledge of how they were outside of team ups. Their social lives, how their interests and hobbies had progressed or shifted, they were practically strangers bound together by nothing but the blood in their veins and Nijiku name.
There was no coddling, no gentle instruction and redirection, his family had always been straight to the point.
Then knowledge became a currency. Gossip got one far in this world, people were willing to give up more and more of themselves if the information was worth it, if they were desperate enough for it. Whispers at the academy, bargaining for information on who had a crush on who, what happened in the courtyard, what the teachers were saying behind closed doors. Everything was an exchange of power.
When he joined the Cleaners, when he joined Enjin, information flowed a bit freer. Like a gutter, when it rained it flowed heavy through the downspout and soaked the soil that grew him. When it was sunny, devoid of any moisture in the air, he did not hope for the rain. He lived like a cactus, sustained on reserves.
Information about Trash Beasts, where to find them, how to beat them, was given willingly. He’d learned a lot at the Academy, studied books and learned fighting techniques with his instructors, but those had been for human combatants. Everyone knew only vital instruments could take down a Trash Beast, that’s why the task had been left to Cleaners. After he climbed out of the well, Enjin and Riyo had escorted him back to the headquarters. The pair had laughed and joked about everything, they spoke like siblings, but intermixed was new information. How the Cleaners worked, how their vital instruments worked, the hierarchy of the organization. Zanka learned the value of a name, of honing your craft and taking care of the thing he cherished.
Givers had been shunned by not only Hell Guards, but especially by his family. It was better to be unattached, to not be restricted to a material item. Unhealthily codependent, Kyouka had remarked once. Zanka had always taken her word as gospel, his genius elder sister who led the way for his generation, but there was so much she hid from him. Be it for her own motives or his wellbeing,
Zanka had been kept in the dark for far too long.
He soaked up the droplets of information, sorted them out into well defined compartments in his mind. A box for Family, a box for the Cleaners, a box for Trash Beasts, a box for Raiders. Within the boxes were folders, information sorted out like a profile he could flip through at any time. The fruits of his education, his siblings would be distraught if they knew why he really continued to upkeep his mental compartments.
Zanka’s favorite folder was tucked away in the far corner of the Cleaners Box. On the front was a name he had traced out over and over, his finger tip trailed the looping letters on tables, his Lovely Assistaff, his pillow, his palms, his thighs, it soothed him.
E N J I N
It was the thickest folder in his mind, rivaling that of his siblings in terms of data which was insane considering the vast time difference spent with them. Zanka had memorized everything about Enjin, every small piece of the puzzle that made the man. Everything was given willingly, collected like shells on the beach in a toddler's hand. Pretty information that made his heart swell. He knew Enjin's favorite foods, the fact he preferred beef to pork but would wolf down whatever was offered after a long mission. That, despite the popularity, he didn’t care much for sweets unless they were given to him personally, often as thanks for taking down trash beasts in fancier cities. He knew Enjin preferred to wear sandals, but only indoors because he didn’t like the dirt and sand to get stuck on his feet.
Zanka knew the exact brand of cigarettes, always tucked in the right pocket of his overcoat, by the smell of the smoke as it was exhaled from Enjin’s lungs. He’d tease Zanka, smirking as he made the same lame joke about second hand smoke, Zanka in turn would roll his eyes and continue to stand next to Enjin when he took a drag. Smooth wisp of smoke leaving his lips, it would curl around him with the breeze, the scent of it clung to his clothes like it had been woven into the fibers. He would reek of nicotine, August would dramatically gag every single time, raving about the stench and how distasteful it was to his designs. To Zanka it smelt like comfort, a warm presence that eased him to sleep.
He knew the people Enjin liked to spend time with, always charismatic and reliable, there were a few archetypes that really stood out. Besides the Cleaners and Supporters who most of their time was spent with, women in particular, Enjin had a soft spot for. He’d been an unfortunate witness, nestled into shitty stools at dive bars, dodgy ones that turned a blind eye to underaged patrons when accompanied by seasoned regulars.
It wasn't uncommon for people to approach the blonde, his friendly demeanor and good looks always managed to draw a crowd before he could weed out the annoyances. Men were turned away quickly unless they were servers or fellow Cleaners, small talk came and then they went their own way. Women lasted longer, they took a seat on the opposite side of Enjin, the braver ones would try to steal Zanka’s seat when he got up to use the restroom which always earned them a nasty look that would send Enjin into a fit of laughter.
They fawned over Enjin, with their delicate hands placed on his arm as overdone laughter left their painted lips. Enjin would smile and Zanka would cringe. The peacocking always led to a revelation, either he or the girl would be sent away. The key was the attitude. Enjin hated whiny women, those who pitch their voices up to sound cutesy and beg for his attention. Zanka could make out the shift plain as day, when his relaxed smile became stiff, his dimples disappeared and his eyes squinted with too much force. Then the woman would be pushed away, the conversation would fall flat and all of Enjin's attention would shift back to Zanka, to finish whatever story or joke the crowd had interrupted.
However, Enjin had a real soft spot for the bartender at MayBels, an old speakeasy in Canvas Town. She’s a fiery woman, with a sweet demeanor and a wicked tongue when drunks tried her patience. Zanka was sure the door man was for looks only, as the woman always managed to wrangle them out on her own. She always greeted Enjin warmly, batted her lashes as she announced his order, the same drink every time and giggled, honest to God giggled, when Enjin cheered that she remembered.
He didn't know how often Enjin had come to this particular spot, how many times he’d gone before him or without him, but she’d taken one look at Zanka and slid a virgin drink to him without even asking his age. As the alcohol ran through Enjin’s system he loosened up. After his first glass he would lean onto the bar, resting on his elbows with a cigarette to his lips. After his fifth drink, his head would rest on his palm, eyes half mast with a lazy smirk that stretched his lips thin and dug his dimple deep as he watched the bartender's movements.
“It’s about smarts, ya know? Not even just book smarts, knowing something so well you could do it in your sleep, do it without even thinking. I’m blanking on the word but you get what I mean.”
On a long stretch of road, in the middle of the night, Enjin had explained it. The pale moonlight streamed through the window of the truck, illuminating his silhouette in the washed out scenery. In contrast to his usual warm tones, his outfit looked monochrome, his hair cast a striking shade of silver.
“Like competency?” Follo filled in, a hesitant question on his tongue. He was still new, it had been after one of his first missions since joining as a Supporter. He sat next to Zanka in the middle row, Riyo had called dibs for the back row on the way to and from the mission before they’d even left the compound. She’d mentioned once that the rumble of the engine, the turbulence of uneven ground lulled her to sleep in a way that nothing else came close to.
Enjin, who had been leaning back in the front seat with his legs propped on the dashboard, sat forward and swung his body around so fast that it caused Follo to flinch as he responded. Gris shot the blonde a glare, his gaze softening as he made eye contact with Zanka in the rear view mirror.
“Yes! Competency is sexy!”
Twisted around in such a way that was surely uncomfortable, legs still on the dash, Enjin's expression of glee stuck with Zanka. The way his eyes darted from Follo to Zanka, back and forth. He seemed so radiant in that moment, so much so that the notion became engraved in him.
So Zanka had watched the bartender, the concise actions, not one movement was wasted as she flitted from one end of the bar to the other, deftly juggling various glasses and bottles as she made drinks for the other patrons. She was charming, masterful in her craft. It must have taken years to reach that level of control, years of muscle memory that allowed her to work that thin strip behind the bar with such ease. Some nights, Enjin would send Zanka back to the car or the place they were staying for the night. He’d linger around the bar until closing and, with looped arms, go back to the bartenders home. Zanka shouldn’t have followed, should’ve trusted Enjin, but he had to know.
Any time he thought about her too much, it made Zanka wonder where he fell on the spectrum of competency. He was a tad inexperienced, a small collection of missions under his belt at this point, but he had the excuse of youth compared to his elders, hardened by years in the field conducting their roles. Despite this, he was good at his job. He always managed his assignments, both with Team Akuta and his solo trips accompanying other teams. The handful of times he had been ambushed by raiders, he’d had the necessary back up but he had never held anyone back or proved to be a burden.
Sure he fumbled, missed the core, and got injured a few times, but they all had. Riyo had fractured her leg, broken her toes, on more than one occasion whipping around Reaper with too much force. Gris had been impaled, shrapnel embedded in his knuckles from taking on Trash Beasts with nothing but his bare fists. Enjin had been knocked unconscious, thrown into solid cement walls by the blast of his own Umbreaker on more than one occasion.
So why not him?
He could knock ‘em down as well as anyone on the team. He was smart, academically and socially. He knew how to blend in to his surroundings, how to disappear in a crowd or when it was the right time to pick a fight. Sure he was hot headed at times, but he wasn't dumb.
So why didn't Enjin look at him like that, moon at him like he did the bartender when he worked his hardest, pushed himself further on each and every mission, practiced new moves in the dead of night just to surprise Enjin when they sparred in the morning. Why did he always look at him like he was still that kid waiting for time to swallow him up at the bottom of the well?
He’d been praised for his keen eye, his ability to quickly decipher moves and act in high tension environments. It was in the quiet moments, private and intimate that he froze up, his brain going into overdrive unable to compute what he was seeing.
He had been walking through the courtyard, bangs stuck uncomfortably to his forehead in the summer heat. The thick smog trapped heat like a greenhouse, sweat rolled down the nape of his neck collecting at the hem of his turtleneck. He really should have changed, but there was comfort in a uniform. Familiarity from his Academy days. If you practiced in loungewear, you would struggle with your formal garb. The weight, flow and tension were not the same as when training in casual clothes, thus it is better to train in uniform.
He sighed heavily, engrained habits a bitter reminder of who he once was, when he saw Enjin resting against a wall. Smoke wafted on the breeze over his shoulder as he leaned heavily on his shoulder, legs crossed at an odd angle that certainly didn’t look comfortable. His broad back was to Zanka, no doubt heard the scuff of his shoes as he skidded to a stop, but he didn’t turn, Enjin didn’t look over his shoulder. There was no signature smirk down at Zanka like he usually would in greeting. Following his line of sight, he saw a figure huddled close to the main wall of the headquarters right next to the main door of the courtyard.
Squinting, he could see the beginnings of a giant art piece, splashes of color starting to fill the faded wall. The shrill sound of metal striking metal filled the air as the figure shook the rattle can, standing further back from the wall in assessment before marching closer and beginning again, the sizzle of the aerosol replacing the metallic clanking as lines began to form on the wall.
Zanka had known people came to draw on the building, though he had never seen anyone actually do it outside of their own rooms. August’s whole workshop was covered in templates and sketches of various designs. From their uniforms and masks, to personal projects he worked on on the side. He spouted on and on about some festival and making costumes though to be entirely honest Zanka had tuned most of it out in favor of watching Follo trip over some bias tape haphazardly strew across the floor as he got his measurements taken.
This figure, this man, was not a Cleaner nor a Supporter that Zanka had met. He’d been told of other branches, Cleaners in different regions with different specialities and he had met a handful on missions over the past few months, however this was a face he had never seen before.
“Who’s that?” He asked outside of his nature, stepping forward to stand parallel with Enjin, forgoing a greeting.
“That’s our boy, Gob, he’s the Spellcaster.” Enjin drawled, eyes never leaving the man. Semiu had mentioned a Spellcaster, someone who drew protective wards on the skin of cleaners and supporters alike before risky missions to help protect them from harm. He’d seen the protective wards around Canvas Town, but he wasn’t entirely sure how it worked on a person, Zanka had not needed any special protection yet, and here the alleged Spellcaster was, tagging their walls.
“He comes and goes as he pleases, those drawings protect us. Look for his tag, it’s all over the place.” Enjin laughed, reaching his hand out to point his thumb to the wall he was leaning against. Sure enough, there was a distinctive signature on the piece, similar to the one Gob was currently working on.
There was something in the way Enjin spoke of this man, an odd lilt to his voice that Zanka could not quite decipher. Normally he would let the conversation drop, take the information he was given and analyze it in private but he couldn’t. His palms began to sweat as a tightness overtook his chest. He knew this feeling, knew it all too well after falling behind Hyo. He couldn’t help himself, he had to know.
“Are you two close?” Zanka asked, glancing between the two men.
“You could say that.” Enjin's eyes never left Gob’s movements. He’d always been elusive to his past, but this was different. There was a lightness in his tone, his cigarette hung loose on his lips as his eyes drank in the sight, looking all too similar to how he did when he watched the bartender.
You could say that. That. What did that mean? A lump formed in Zanka’s throat, words trapped in his larynx. With a nod, he began to walk forward, his steps thudding against the dirt too hard. He tried not to look, tried to keep his head high and straight forward as he marched toward the door, but he couldn’t help it. Zanka snuck a glance towards Gob as his hand met the doorknob. Slippery fingers found the hot metal, curled around it as his eyes slid across the frame to the concrete wall and made contact with green eyes that bore into him like they knew.
“Yo!” He waved the spray can in Zanka’s direction, mischief on his features like a thin veil. What was so special about this guy?
He didn’t know if he responded, if he said anything in greeting, if he nodded, he had no recollection of opening the door and slamming it shut once safely inside, but somehow he had ended up on the third floor staring out a window that looked down on the courtyard. Like ants under a magnifying glass, Zanka watched the pair. Enjin had not moved in the time it took Zanka to flee, he stayed leaned against the wall, his posture relaxed. Enjin was not a man who wore tension on his shoulders, his whole body was loose as he moved from room to room. The only time Zanka had ever seen him bristle was against raiders yet this was different. This was a sort of relaxation that came from years of familiarity.
His hands clutched at Lovely Assistaff, her gentle weight kept him upright as Gob backed away from the wall, smudging paint against his skin as he wiped sweat from his forehead. The man swiveled around, hands on his hips as he beckoned to Enjin, to come closer, to look at his work. With the grace of a mountain lion Enjin pushed off of the wall, hips swaying with each suave step closer. In any other instance Zanka would be transfixed, locked into the movement, but this wasn't for him. This show, this flirtation was for another man.
Men had never struck a cord in Enjin, Zanka had been so sure of that. The blonde had never mentioned being into men, not even in the slightest. Casual flirtation was brushed off at bars and restaurants. A man across the bar who sent a drink their way with a wink and suggestive look would get a nod in appreciation and nothing more. The braver men would strike up conversation, but Enjin had never entertained it beyond the casual mindless talking points that were so mundane they could hardly be remembered.
If he left with anyone, it was with a woman. Every. Single. Time.
Enjin reached out, pressed his thumb to the mark on Gob’s forehead and swiped at it. Zanka could not see his expression this far up, but it made him sick. Sick to imagine the look in Enjin’s golden eyes, the look he had when the bad joke he made to the bartender made her smile. Not the faux, patronizing smile service workers did when trying to get the customer out the door, but a small, sweet smile that revealed her age through crows feet and smile lines.
“Have you seen Enjin?” A voice called from behind, shocking Zanka’s system. He was lucky to have had his back to the speaker, wiped his face clean of any damning expression that gave too much away. He’d been caught once, months ago by Hyo and he vowed to not let his vulnerabilities be witnessed again.
“He’s in the courtyard, with the Spellcaster.” Zanka couldn’t even say his name. He knew it came out clipped, his voice cracked even just saying his title. This was humiliating, the urge to cry wrinkled his brow and pulled his lips down. He needed to hold it together until he could break away and retreat to the safety of his room.
“Oh, Gob’s here?” Follo pressed forward, hands pressed against the window sill as he leaned forward to peer out. Zanka kept his eyes trained on the horizon, it was too much to bear alone, he knew he’d crack if he looked now.
“Ahh so it's one of those visits.” Follo chuckled, Zanka risked a glance, a single glance, and felt his world begin to crumble.
Enjin’s hands, strong and calloused from years of wielding Umbreaker, hands that would send sparks throughout Zanka’s nervous system when they brushed against his back or pressed against his shoulder, were cupping Gob’s face with a gentleness that did not befit a man of Enjin’s nature. His thumbs swept delicately at the skin of Gob’s cheeks, under his eyes. Gob, the devil incarnate for all Zanka could care, had his arms wrapped around Enjin. His brain short circuited as he imagined where those paint stained hands rested. He couldn't make it out, not with Enjin's coat on, but the angle of the Spellcasters arms was all the confirmation Zanka’s overthinking brain needed.
“He’s always visiting Enjin.” Follo explained when Zanka did not respond. How could he know this? This newcomer, someone who only joined because they happened to be in a town when a Trash Beast nearby attacked. Who had only been here for a handful of weeks yet he knew who Gob was? Knew the relationship that for all intents and purposes seemed to be private?
“I remember seeing them together back at home, Gob is a bit of a celebrity ya know? He would show up, an exhibition my mom would say.” Again, fluttering laughter as if Follo’s words weren’t ripping apart Zanka’s heart. “It was just graffiti, but we all knew the intention. Every year without fail he would arrive, create masterpieces on the important buildings of our city, and then vacation there for a week.”
The North Ward, aptly named due to its geographical location, had a brutal winter yet it was famous for the snow, it came down so thick in the town that they even had snow days. When people would take off work and school to simply enjoy the weather. It came down pure there, the snowflakes fell serenely, little white fluff floating on the air until it reached the dirt. The small flakes accumulated, blanketing the city in white.
Zanka’s family had gone once or twice, only when his father was needed as a Hell Guard. His mother used the opportunity to bring him and his siblings along on an impromptu family vacation, he got to see snow in the flesh for the first time when he was eight. They happened to arrive during a festival, by pure chance the children got to participate in the yearly ritual. The cold had never been kind to him, frail bones that got the chill too quickly. Even years down the line he wore a long sleeve under his coat regardless of the weather. He couldn’t picture Gob there, with his rolled up sleeves and backwards cap, he looked like he belonged with the rest of them in the desert.
“My cousin was heartbroken the first time she saw them together. She had the biggest crush on Gob, always raved about how she would marry him.” Follo laughed, still staring down at the men.
“Why are you telling me this?” Zanka asked, perplexed by how forthcoming Follo was being. Information was precious, even personal family histories were heavily guarded, so why?
“It seemed like you were curious.” Follo shrugged, finally turned to look at Zanka. He shifted on his feet, put his weight on his left foot and dug his hands into his pockets. He looked like he was hiding something.
“What?” He didn’t know what he was asking, if what Follo’s words or posture meant mattered more to him. He was confused, worried, overwhelmed, the day had built up and worn him down in more ways than one. He wanted to leave, go back to his room like he’d intended and sleep. Forget about this day and pretend that everything he’d seen had been a really shitty dream.
“Sometimes you look at people,” Follo started, his eyes wandering Zanka’s face as he spoke, “like you want to ask them something but you’re holding yourself back.”
The older boy seemed to have found his answer as he stared into Zanka’s eyes. Golden eyes with flecks of orange, they were similar to Enjin's if not a little duller. The comparison made his chest seize, he quickly looked away from Follo, accidentally looked down to the scene below. The men were gone, the only person left in the courtyard was Gris. He was walking away from the building.
“Most notably when you stare at Enjin. When you think no one is looking.” Follo continued, barely a whisper as if he hadn’t meant to be heard, but Zanka had always been a keen listener. A chill ran down his spine as the words sank in, had he been that unaware? What look was he speaking of?
“So what? Gonna black mail me? Tell Enjin?” His grip unconsciously tightened in his staff, fingers aching from the exertion. Would Enjin shun him? Surely he wouldn’t be mad, but would he distance himself? Put Zanka in his place? Would he state that he only ever saw Zanka as a kid?
“No, no of course not. I just-“ Follo scrambled, arms coming up in defense.
“Just what?” Zanka barked, feet planted firmly on the ground as he stared at Gris’ retreating figure. Follo had better spit it out or things would get ugly. He didn’t want to hurt anyone but his whole body was in panic mode. He couldn’t breathe, his limbs were shaking.
“I want you to look at me like that.”
What the fuck? Zanka slowly turned to face Follo fully, hands still clasped onto his Lovely Assistaff. The older boy still had his hands up, head dropped between them in surrender. His whole face, ears and even down to his neck were flushed a bright pink. Oh.
“What’s your favorite color?” Yup. Awesome. Great way to shift the conversation. Zanka had no idea what he was doing, not a singular clue why he had asked that of all questions.
“Huh?” Follo’s head whipped up, eyes wide as Zanka cocked a brow.
“Oh um…” he looked around, before stopping to look just right of Zanka’s face. “Azure?”
“Really?” He asked disbelievingly, the only blue things around were his staff and his earrings… oh this poor fool thinks he’s slick. The corners of Zanka’s mouth pulled up, he ducked his head slightly, he couldn’t help it.
“Yeah. Azure.” Follo doubled down, confidence shown through his unwavering tone. Zanka couldn't help but feel impressed, gone was the meek boy who second guessed and doubted his decisions.
“What did you want to be when you were a little boy?” Zanka had wanted nothing more than to follow his family into the higher ranks of the Hell Guards. He had fought hard to have his talents recognized, how little that meant to him now.
“A photographer.” Follo responded, a small smile graced his features. There was a cut on his bottom lip, just off center. He’d noticed Follo’s habit early on, when the boy was concerned or distracted his teeth would worry his lip. It was a little gross at first, but it was never much of a concern. After months of witnessing his tell, Zanka almost found it endearing.
“Do you have any pictures you took?” Back home Goka had tried his hand at traditional arts. Painting, charcoal, oil pastels, Zanka had sat for his fair share of portraits by his older brother. He still had one, a small sketch that Goka had discarded of his mother smiling done in graphite.
“Nah, I think my mom has most of them in an album at home. I have pictures my dad took in my room though.” Zanka wanted to see them, wanted to know more.
“I can show you, if you’d like.” Follo offered, as if he had read Zanka’s mind. Had that been what he meant, about knowing when Zanka had something he wanted to ask? In lieu of a response, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, he nodded. Follo reached out, fingers hesitating just above Zanka’s arm before grabbing hold. His palms were calloused, rough against the thin long sleeve Zanka always wore.
He followed the gentle pull of Follo’s hand around his wrist, allowed the older boy to pull him down the hall to a door at the end of the corridor. He waited, his mind a haze as Follo unlocked the door and pushed it open, never once letting go of his wrist.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess.” Follo apologized as he tugged him into the room. It was a mess, but it was a comfortable mess, board games, empty cups, cushions on the floor from game night. Zanka hadn’t gone to this last one, a regular occurrence on Friday nights, he’d been helping Semiu with some errands and by the time he was finished he wanted nothing more than to sleep. So he did just that.
“What is that?” Zanka asked, his eyes caught some drawings plastered on the wall. They weren’t posters, nowhere near the quality of mass produced goods that he saw in various cities advertising bands and movies alike.
“What do you- oh. Guita drew it for me.”
Well that explained it. Team Child was always engaging in crafts at Bro’s insistence. Guita loved anything to do with Kaijus and so she took every opportunity to make one. She’d made everyone a kaiju-sona, as she called them, with elaborate reasoning for every design choice she made. The drawing was of Kaiju Follo destroying a building that looked suspiciously like an ice cream shop Guita had been banned from.
As Zanka looked around the room he tried to really take it all in. He’d never paid much attention to what decor Follo had chosen to fill his space with, the odd assortment of mismatched throw pillows scattered around to the basket with a pile of blankets thrown in. Rooms are terribly intimate, they expose a lot about a person. Only Corvus and Semiu had been allowed to come into Zanka’s private quarters and that had only been to show him where he would be staying and how the faucets worked.
He had too many items he didn’t want to share. Private treasures meant for his eyes only, he couldn’t do what Follo was doing, couldn't gut his belly and let the entrails spill out for the other boy to observe and pick at.
His fingers trailed the tops of shelves, the minute dust that collected atop various figurines shifting as he pushed the air around. He listened intently as Follo explained every little thing that caught Zanka’s attention.
The book with worn edges and a tear in the spine that sat on the third shelf next to the door? That was his favorite book when he was seven, a tale about a spider that his mother would read to him before bed. She’d tickled his ribs, pretending to be the spider and ending the night with laughter.
A picture tacked to the wall above his desk of two boys covered in mud, the knees of their pants ripped to shreds as they smiled triumphantly, a rabbit cupped gently between their hands? He’d gone with his father and childhood friend, who he did not name and Zanka took note of, to take pictures of wildlife in the spring right as the snow in the North Ward began to thaw out. Wildlife sprung out of their homes as their hibernation came to an end. Follo’s friend had seen a rabbit struggling in a bush and saved it.
All little pieces of information that were catalogued and added to his folder in Zanka’s mind. Any little question that popped into his mind, he asked and Follo answered without any hesitation. Sometimes he fumbled over his words, took a second to think of an explanation or explain various traditions Zanka hadn’t grown up with, but he was always forthcoming.
Amongst the fringes of his memory, written in a messy scrawl along the margins, were all these little tidbits that made up the young man before him. Follo was fascinating, in a way that made him feel real, not like a perfect figure to be idolized. He was just like Zanka had been, a mask of courtesy, he wasn't as good at hiding it though. Zanka had a keen eye, he had caught every clenched jaw and bruised fist. The times his smile fell as soon as Gris turned his back. He had unknowingly kept track of it all, every crack in Follo’s mask. The moments when he had kept his eyes on the ground when townsfolk had belittled his work, his role as a Supporter. The tension in his jaw was visible when people rolled their eyes at his explanations and instructions. The smile that would stay in place until they turned away, a vicious scowl left in its wake. There was so much that made up Follo, yet Zanka wanted more.
After hours of talking, he excused himself. His mind filled with new information to be sorted as he walked down the hall and to the stairs to descend to the second floor. It felt good, having something else fill his mind. Too busy cataloguing the type of socks Follo liked to even think about Enjin. All of his sorrow was stuffed into a jar and set to ferment, to be dealt with when it transformed into something useful.
The following morning Zanka found himself seeking Follo out, his eyes scanned every room for wisps of black hair or bright golden eyes. It became a routine, whenever he sat in the cafeteria he strategically sat facing the door just so he could see when Follo entered. Follo would grab his meal and then make his way to sit next to Zanka. As the days wore on their chairs would scoot closer and closer, until their legs wrapped around each other, ankles knocking playfully under the table.
He would loop his fingers with Follo’s, in the middle row of the truck, in the courtyard or during game nights that Zanka made a point to attend. In his periphery Follo would try and fail to conceal his smile, lips turned down at the corners yet his eyes were alight with joy. Bro had asked him once during a game of cards if he was feeling alright, a very flustered Follo had undone their connection to wave his hands around, a gasp tore through his lungs when he realized what he had done. As covertly as he could, considering the attention he had brought to it, Follo looped their fingers back together under the table, smiled apologetically at Zanka with blush high on his cheeks.
Follo’s room became a safe haven for them, a place where Zanka could let his guard down and just be. Sometimes they played games, read books, and listened to music. They didn’t have to be doing anything really, just being in his presence made Zanka feel at ease. He’d lost count of how many visits he made, but somewhere along the line his politeness had worn away and he began to treat the space as if it were his own. He sprawled out on the bed, his hair fanned across Follo’s pillow.
Zanka had been raised to sit on the floor, a custom for his district when visiting others homes. Usually a cushion was placed under one’s knees as they kneeled. Those on friendlier terms could sit with their legs crossed. Now he was sprawled on Follo’s bed as if it were his own as the older boy went to retrieve snacks from Delmon. Team Eager traveled the most, it was easier since they had less members who needed travel and lodging accommodations. Tamsy had called ahead of time to let everyone know Delmon had retrieved some local delicacies for them. The man may have been loud and grating, but his gentle demeanor always shone through.
There had been a lot of things Zanka yearned for, material and immaterial, attainable and unobtainable, though nothing came close to how much he wanted Follo. It was different from before, with Enjin he wanted to be praised and acknowledged for his growth and skill but he couldn’t give in to his youth without being seen as childish. With Follo he could give in to that without a care, because when he went low Follo went lower. They’d made pinkie promises, something Zanka hadn’t done since he was a little boy holding onto Kyouka’s pant leg as they walked around the town, promising not to tell their father about the money they’d spent on a new charm or trinket.
A few days back they’d even had a pillow fight, Dear had been in a mood as the night wore closer to his bedtime and Follo had lightly chucked a pillow his way. He’d, allegedly, meant for it to be used as a proper pillow if the young boy needed a nap, however the penguin embroidered pillow had smacked right into Dear's forehead, which launched an attack that left everyone in the room panting with laughter on their tongues. It was freeing, to be included in the scolding Bro handed out was not fun but the shared look with Follo behind his back, that had been worth it.
Zanka rolled over to face the door as it creaked open, two small boxes stacked precariously in Follo’s hand as he fiddled with the door. They were both in their lounge clothes, Zanka in his grey button down and loose capris and Follo in his black tee shirt and linen pants. They both had an affinity for loose clothes in their downtime, though Zanka’s was more structured by default.
“What did Delmon bring?” He yawned, his voice scratchy from sleep. It was only the mid afternoon, warmth bore down on him like an energy suck from the high sun's rays filtering in through the window. Dark grey curtains had been pulled aside and Zanka had been too lazy to close them.
“Some sort of wafer, I’ll be honest I don’t remember how to pronounce it but it looks delicious.” Follo sat on the edge of the bed, his thigh pressed to Zanka’s shin. He placed the boxes in the space between them, they were ornate, black with gold embellishments on the corners like guards. One was wrapped with a blue bow, the other with a rustic orange. Zanka instinctively reached out for the blue ribbon, his signature color within the Nijiku family, but Follo stopped him.
“Excuse me, blue is mine.” The box disappeared behind Follo’s hands as he leaned over the bed, he looked like an evil dragon protecting his hoard of gold. With an exaggerated sigh Zanka forced himself to sit up and snatched up the orange box, deft fingers pulled at the ribbon until it came undone. Inside the box was not a wafer but a snack Zanka was very familiar with.
“Taiyaki! I haven’t had this since I…” the words got caught in his throat, a muffled noise released in their place.
“Do you like it?” Follo asked, his tone gentle. From anyone else it would’ve bristled Zanka’s pride, would’ve resulted in a glare but there was no ill intent behind the words. No teasing or maliciousness, the older boy had asked with sincerity.
“Yea, there was a lady who worked at a stall near my house. She would always give Kyouka an okonomiyaki one since she knew I liked them.” Flashes of memories play through his mind, fuzzy like an old tape that’s been played too many times. The reel worn out from overuse, parts around the edges dulled and frames that skipped or stuck too long.
“We’ll have to visit her sometime then, I’m sure she’d be glad to see you.” Follo suggested, but he didn’t know she had died the summer after Zanka left. What little news he did receive from his family, it only brought sorrow. Perhaps that was intentional.
In lieu of a response he bit into the fish shaped pastry, instead of the savory flavor he was accustomed to he was met with the saccharine taste of chocolate as it melted on his tongue. Truthfully he didn’t care for sweets, not the way some of his peers did. Sugar was a delicacy on the ground but in the Kamutari District it was common enough that people didn’t get addicted to it. As a boy he had had his fair share of sweets for his birthday and around the holidays, but nothing beat a tangy snack. As he chewed, Follo took a bite of his taiyaki and grimaced, eyebrows scrunched together as he chewed and forcefully swallowed the contents down.
“Whaddya think?” Zanka questioned, smirk tugging at his lips. He knew Follo’s preferences, how the older boy had a bit of a sweet tooth and hated the texture of eggs. Zanka had tried to figure out the reasoning behind that one, if it changed with the method of cooking but anytime eggs were involved in a notable way Follo’s nose would scrunch and he would discreetly dispose of his eggs onto Zanka’s plate.
“It's… definitely interesting.” Follo evaded, wrapper crinkling as he dropped the fish waffle to his lap.
“Yer a liar, gimme.” Zanka snatched it, mouth watering as he saw the cabbage and egg filling. He handed the chocolate filled one to Follo, gesturing for him to try that one instead. The look of relief on Follo's face was worth his mild discomfort. He listened as Follo rambled about some movie August wanted to go see, finished his taiyaki and folded the paper wrapper for disposal.
Golden hour burst through the room as the afternoon weaned into evening, light reflected off of the walls and floor until it found its way to illuminate Follo’s face. His eyes glowed as the orange luster bounced off of his yellow irises, the saturation made the flush on his cheeks look more like an apricot than a pink peach. Zanka wanted to taste him, the core of his belly warming up with a desire he had neglected his whole life.
As he spoke, Zanka locked onto a crumb at the corner of his mouth, his lips wet as his tongue darted out. He watched the drag of Follo’s tongue across his chapped lips with heavy eyelids, his mind retreating to a dark corner as he began to lean in, palm pressed flat to the mattress as he invaded Follo’s space.
Without hesitation, he pressed his lips to the corner of Follo’s mouth, licked the crumb into his own mouth and leaned back, his mind beginning to catch up as he took in Follo’s startled expression. Supposed apricots bloomed into pluots as a smile crept onto his face, golden irises eclipsed by his blown out pupils.
“Sorry I didn’t- I wasn’t thinking-”
Before panic could truly set in, Follo’s hand shot forward, calloused fingertips brushed so gently against his skin he felt tears begin to well up, he’d never been handled so delicately. Follo leaned in carefully, as if Zanka were a frightened animal that needed to be treated with care, like a rescue who had been through hell up until that point. One misstep and all trust would evaporate, harder to obtain the second time around.
“May I?” Follo whispered, his breath fanned across Zanka’s face and he knew. Follo knew the answer before Zanka knew it himself, knew how to read his body, his reactions, his hesitations, yet he asked.
“Please.”
Chapped lips pressed gingerly to Zanka’s own, their noses bumped before Follo corrected the tilt of his head. Caution turned to desperation as the hunger grew, as the kiss deepened with every heartbeat. Zanka sighed, breathed in Follo as he licked past his teeth and against his tongue. Traces of chocolate and batter, he couldn't get enough. They broke apart for mere seconds to catch their breath before connecting back like magnets.
Zanka couldn’t help but feel dizzy when he eventually pulled back, he’d checked out as his head dropped to Follo’s shoulder, the soft material of his cotton shirt refreshing against his flushed skin. He’d been kissed before, right at the start of his academic career. A girl in his year had confessed she’d never been kissed before when the two of them were alone in the courtyard by the training grounds. He hadn’t thought much of the statement until she proposed they try it out. She’d maintained that it was purely for experimentation. It hadn’t felt like anything special, a small peck that if anything had put him off from kissing as a whole. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, how to move, if he should keep his eyes closed, or how long he should stay there. It was a hassle.
This kiss ignited a flame within him, had him seeking out the warmth that burned beneath his skin. Follo’s hands were still on him, one dropped to his waist and the other in his hair, brushing the locks back in a soothing manner. His own hands gripped the front of Follo’s shirt so tight his knuckles were white, the skin pulled taut over bone. He didn’t know when he had done that, when he had moved to practically be sitting in Follo’s lap, but he found that he did not care. None of that mattered in the moment.
Calm enough to regain his composure, he loosened his grip and let his hands fall to Follo’s thighs as he leaned back to look at the older boy. Teeth were clamped down on bruised lips, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a boyish grin.
“Fix yer face.” Zanka muttered, as he pushed Follo away with the heel of his palm. He looked too cute with that expression, Zanka feared he would lose the last of his resolve. A wet, dragging sensation flicked across his palm, with a noise of disgust he pulled his hand back to reveal a trail of saliva.
“No can do.” Follo’s voice filled with glee, he pressed into Zanka’s space until they toppled over and he was trapped between the mattress and Follo’s body. The older boy may have been shorter than Zanka but that didn't mean he was small. Months of training had molded his body, he was all lean muscle and well intentioned strength.
“Get off.” Zanka laughed, an odd wheezing sound as the air was knocked out of his lungs. Follo rolled off just enough to lay beside him, his arms wrapped securely around his waist. This time it was Follo’s turn to bury his face in Zanka’s neck, he could feel the stretch of his smile against his pulse point. The sound of breathing and ticking from the clock Follo kept on his desk filled the room. Zanka let himself fall into the calm and quiet, sorted through the compartments in his head until he found his new favorite folder. He reorganized, moved things around and added the new information, Follo’s reaction to the taiyaki, the way he looked in the golden hour light, the way he kissed and the way he pressed small kisses to Zanka’s neck every few minutes as they laid there soaking in each other's presence.
Upbeat music began to play, a song Zanka had become all too familiar with after having spent so much time in this room, it was dinner time. He weaseled his way out of Follo’s grasp, the bastard would snooze his alarms if he could so he had set the clock on the opposite end of the room right next to the bathroom so he would be obligated to get up and perform his morning routines, which meant Zanka had no choice but the leave the comfortable bed to turn it off unless he wanted the song to loop over and over until it got on his last nerve.
“Up you go.” Zanka dragged Follo up by the arms after he turned off the damned alarm. His hair was tousled, flattened on one side from how he had been laying. As he sat on the bed, Zanka stood between his legs and combed through his inky hair with his fingers. Methodically he went section by section until his hair laid evenly and was styled the way he liked. The hair at the nape of Follo’s neck would always swoop upwards, a cowlick from years of wearing hats, Zanka twisted the hair lazily around his fingers until the soft tresses formed consistent curls.
“We’ll be late if you keep sittin’ here.” He teased, fond of the way Follo relaxed under his touch. For so long there had been nothing more than fleeting touches, barely there grazes that could have been written off as coincidence if the tension hadn't been suffocating when the two of them were alone together. Now he could reach out and touch without second guessing how it would be received, if he was allowed. Follo offered himself up on a silver platter, dressed up just for Zanka. There had been no other option than to take, to reach inside his chest and squeeze his heart until it was drained clean and the blood was transfused into Zanka’s veins, until they were one.
With intertwined hands they walked to the cafeteria, their arms swung between them in no hurry. They sat in a corner and spoke of everything and nothing. A band was heading to Canvas Town that Follo enjoyed, he hoped he would be able to go, that no Trash Beasts or missions would arise. He didn’t know Zanka had already spoken to Corvus, had purchased tickets and secured accommodation for a weekend stay. It had been under the guise of discussing something with the Mayor, but Corvus knew and with a wave of approval he had guaranteed them the time off.
Warmth spread through his body, his food ignored for the greater interest of watching Follo. It truly had become his favorite pastime, he had a dimple on his chin that revealed itself when he chewed. He had a tendency to lean over his plate, his arm placed on the table like a wall to prevent theft. He’d grown up an only child, so Zanka wondered when that habit developed. His fingers trailed the table, moved in sharp angles over and over. It was a shock the word hadn’t been engraved there yet, the same way it was in Zanka’s heart. The name that rolled off his tongue, that caught his attention the second it was uttered by anyone else. That filled him with panic when the words ‘injured’ and ‘bleeding’ were spoken in combination with it. He felt like a school girl, writing her crush's name on her notebook with hearts and stars around it, but he didn’t care.
F O L L O
So much of his time had been spent acting like he was above it all, that he was more mature than his peers, that he didn’t give in to baser needs. Now he had them, had a desire that took over all his senses until there was nothing but him.
“Something on my face?” The older boy swiped his thumb against the corners of his mouth, examined the lack of remains with a perplexed look.
“Hm?” Zanka hummed, tried to recall what Follo had been saying before his mind wandered.
“I don’t know, you looked at me funny.” He explained, eyes darting from Zanka’s face down to his hands that were still tracing his name. He wondered if Follo knew what he was doing, if he had caught onto the pattern.
“And what look is that?” His eyes were half open, eyelashes dusted over his cheeks with every blink. He knew he was smiling, something painfully earnest that revealed his emotions. It was nice not having to hide. He wondered what it looked like to Follo, if he looked as love sick as he felt.
“Like,” he paused, reached out and looped his fingers with Zanka's, putting an end to his repetitive tracing, his words a mere whisper nearly drowned out by the conversation around them, “you love me.”
So he was that obvious. The warmth rose until it was a fire that grew with his smile. Zanka squeezed their hands, tried to convey everything he felt into the pressure but he knew it wouldn't be enough. Knew of Follo’s struggles when it came to the unspoken, how much of his doubt had been manifested from overthinking simple situations because things had been implied rather than stated. Zanka didn't want there to be any confusion, any room for denial between the two of them.
“Cuz I do.” He responded in earnest, poured every ounce of his emotion into his voice until it was so sickly sweet he could have gagged, and yet it was worth it. With everything squared away they left the cafeteria and climbed the stairs. On the landing between the second and third floor, Zanka stopped Follo from ascending further, pulled him through the entryway and across the hall until they reached a door that Zanka kept locked at all times.
His fingers shook as he messed with the key, yet Follo didn’t say a word. Nothing to ease the fear or fill the space. Zanka stood on the doorway, scared to move as Follo made his way around the room. This was beyond foreign to him, having someone else in his sacred space. His room was the definition of clean. Every morning he made his bed, corners folded and tucked militaristically, the way he had been conditioned to in the academy. He still had his personal touches, a jewelry box Eishia had gifted him for his birthday filled to the brim with earrings, a small collection of picture frames and decorative mirrors, keepsakes from his travels, but it looked more like a showroom than a bedroom. He was self conscious, unsure of how it would be received.
Follo was as polite as ever, he stood patiently in the center of the room as he looked around. His hands clenched by his sides, like he wanted to move but was unsure if he was allowed. He turned on his heel, mouth opening only to snap shut as he locked in on the giant ornate frame housed next to the bathroom door.
The portrait that hung there had captured his attention, he walked towards it like he was in a trance. It was one of the few sentimental pieces he’d been able to smuggle out of his childhood home. A family portrait, the Nijiku’s all dressed up and lined from eldest to youngest. No one smiled, their faces impassive as they all looked to the right. It had been one of his last happy memories, his siblings had made a bet about how many times they would have to retake the photo before their grandmother was happy with it. Zanka had bet that it would take eight tries, Goka had bet it would take five and Kyouka had guessed ten. In the end Zanka had won, his siblings surrendered their desert with minimal protest. The following month Kyouka left for the academy and things fell apart. The burden of the Nijiku name wore heavy on Goka’s shoulder, he could no longer just be a young boy. He had to be a man, certain of himself and capabilities, he had no more time to play and make dumb bets with his little brother.
“You look so…” Follo murmured, pressed so close to the portrait Zanka held his breath, worried the boy's nose would bump into the fragile surface and smudge it. It was irrational, the picture was protected behind a thin sheet of glass, yet he couldn't help the fear that arose.
“Sad?” Zanka had heard it more times than he could count. He had always been an expressive child, his resting face was quite neutral, elegant his sister had once praised, but at the drop of a hat it could be twisted in utter disgust or contorted into a broad smile that took up his whole face. His downturned eyes had a hint of sorrow his auntie remarked when she thought he couldn’t hear. Every emotion was obvious, so much so that it got beaten out of him in grade school. The expressive boy had been forcefully tucked away behind a mask of polite indifference. Practiced smiles, just enough squint in the eye to be believable. A gentle frown, corners of his lips notched down ever so slightly, eyebrows drawn together to show his upset.
Zanka was well versed in how people should respond to stimuli, how they should react in various situations. He was a descendent of nobility after all, he had a standard to uphold. He would hide his smirks, his cocky grin behind his hand, his hair flopped in front of his face. He would bite his lips until they bled behind closed doors when he was angry, teeth gnawing at the delicate skin til it tore and wept crimson. He waited until no one was looking to be himself.
“Cool.”
Zanka’s breath hitched, he knew the gravity, the extent of meaning it held to Follo. A late night, well into the morning at that hour, spent on the freezing tile of Follo’s bathroom as revealed his history. Why he had chased them down to that restaurant and begged to join them. The desire that burned so bright in the older boy, how badly he wanted to be a Giver and just how much it hurt when with every passing day his inherited hammer ignored his efforts. His feet moved before his brain could process it, long strides until he was behind Follo, his forehead pressed to the thin column of the boy's spine. Curled around him, Zanka slipped his arms possessively around Follo’s middle, reveled in the quickened breathing that had the boy's abdomen spasming under the unexpected attention.
Cunning hands slipped under the black shirt, warm fingertips slid up the planes of his stomach and chest until he found the sternum. He dragged his nails against the thin skin, until his palm was pressed flat to Follo's chest, hammering heart secured just beneath his palm.
“Zanka.” The tremor in his voice rumbled though his chest, Zanka lifted his head, shifted to the right in order to press his entire body against Follo’s, his head resting on his shoulder. He could see his own reflection in the glass as Follo stared back at him.
“What’s your favorite color?” It took him back to their first real conversation, how everything had started there. Bouncing off of the pane of glass, Follo’s eyes appeared coppery, flakes of gold dusted where the light caught like precious metal.
“Yellow ochre.” It was cheesy, as cliche as the romance novels Tomme brought on missions, yet he couldn’t think of a color he loved more. One that expressed every little emotion, that twinkled under the harsh fluorescent lights, that held secrets only Zanka was privy to.
In the reflection Follo smiled, his eyes formed into crescent moons and his cheeks stained pink. This had been the right choice, the right moment to open up. They went around the room, explanations of knickknacks and stories behind photos Riyo had taken of their team stuttered off of his tongue. It would take a while, much needed practice before he could open up the way Follo had, but it was a start and it was clear just how happy it made Follo. To be included, to learn and build his own folders with lists of everything that made up Zanka. To be seen and understood on a deeper level, to have someone that wanted and fought to learn more. Two boys who ran from everything they knew to strive for a different destiny, who gained companionship through similar struggle. Maybe fate did exist, Zanka wasn’t certain but he was glad he had chosen his staff - the catalyst for it all.