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Gris awoke to a muffled sound – not loud enough to alarm him, but sharp enough to slice through the haze of sleep. He blinked up at the ceiling, the dim bronze of early morning stretching thin across the room. For a second, he thought he’d imagined it.
Then he heard it a second time.
A soft, strangled whisper.
He let his eyes drift sideways, just enough to catch the outline of Enjin’s hunched, inked back perched on the edge of the bed. His face was hidden by trembling hands that wrenched their way through tousled golden hair; tattoos that usually looked bold, sharp and sure in daylight now seemed like deep shadows pressed into tense skin. His breathing was uneven, controlled, and restrained but every few seconds, a tremor moved through him that he couldn’t hide.
Gris kept still and unmoving. His breath halted, not even allowing himself to shift his rhythm of breath. He sank deeper into scratchy pillows, body loose and heavy with the lie of sleep. He could feel it immediately: the weight in the room, the tension vibrating off Enjin like heat. Whatever was happening, Enjin didn’t want to be witnessed. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, cracked open in the dim half-light. The man dragged a hand down his face, slow and rough, like he was trying to collect himself piece by piece. His other hand hovered near his throat, touching the absence of the choker out of habit. The motion was small, almost imperceptible, but Gris caught it anyway. A brush of fingertips against bare skin, followed by a sharp inhale as if the emptiness there stung, he doubled forward slightly, shoulders drawing in tighter, breath hitching before he forced it quiet again.
For a moment, Gris wondered if he should abandon the act, sit up, reach for him but Enjin’s posture – the rigid line of his spine, the deliberate choice of positioning himself away – made the choice for him. So he sat there, listening to choked sniffles and shaky mutters while his own fingers trembled with urge.
Enjin sat like that for what felt like a long time, fighting something silent and internal, breathing through whatever storm had driven him awake before dawn. Eventually he straightened, a slow, quivering unfurling of muscle and will. His hands dropped to his thighs. His feet hit the floor. He stood without a sound, only pausing once at the doorway as if he were checking to see if Gris had stirred.
Gris didn’t move.
Enjin lingered there a breath longer; head bowed, shoulders rigid. Then he stepped out, soft-footed and quiet, the door clicking shut behind him with a gentleness Gris only associated with the younger Givers.
Only then did Gris exhale, long and steady, staring at the empty space Enjin had left behind, heart aching with the weight of everything unspoken.
– – –
When he woke next, it was to the sound of hurried knocking.
Gris sat up, rubbing a hand over his face as he blinked the room back into focus. The light was higher now; late morning, maybe creeping into early afternoon, thick brows furrowed in the realisation Follo would be particularly upset about his late arrival. Whoever was outside hadn’t moved away, if silhouette peeking out the bottom of the door was anything to go by. The hesitation seeped under through the gap like cold air. Wanting to revel in the warmth of thick bedding for a few moments longer, Gris sat and waited for another knock or a call out from the door. Suddenly, the door jerked violently with a quick thud and he was sure it was the result of it being kicked. Now he was feeling petty so he stayed sat.
Then came the soft, almost apologetic tap. Not even a full knock. Just the edge of knuckles brushing wood.
Gris’ chest tightened. He already knew who it was.
He pushed himself up, padded across the floor and opened the door with a bit too much excitement.
Enjin stood there stiffly, albeit a bit bewildered at the speed the door was wrenched open, with tense posture and expecting golden eyes that kept darting around. His gaze didn’t quite meet Gris’; they hovered somewhere around his shoulder, restless and unfocused. The Supporter noticed his hair looked abnormally flat – he concluded that Enjin must have forwent his usual handfuls of hair gel – which was odd considering the hour. His jaw was locked, expression unreadable but tight. He just stood there, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes sliding past Gris like he wanted this over with as quickly as possible. Words were lacking but the tension in the base of both their throats made the reason obvious.
He was here for the choker.
The device Gris had taken back last night. The only thing tying Enjin to the Cleaners’ constant stream of demands; the thing that tethered him to duties he never allowed himself to refuse; the thing that let the others call him out at any hour, for any reason, no matter how exhausted he was. Gris didn’t reach for it immediately. He watched him instead, taking in the tightness in Enjin’s shoulders, the distant look in his eyes, the way he kept shifting his weight like he wanted to bolt but also needed to stay. If this were any other day, Enjin would have shoved past with a cocky grin, flopped down on the man’s bed and yapped his ear off about whatever. Enjin finally lifted his look, just barely, long enough for Gris to see the look of distance behind it. It reminded Gris far too much of a wary stray.
Gris stepped back a little, giving him space to enter if he wanted. Enjin didn’t. His fingers twitched in his pocket, waiting.
Clearing his throat, the taller moved slowly, quietly, retrieving the choker from where he’d set it in a drawer under an assortment of hats. The object felt small in his hand. Too small for the way Enjin’s eyes flicked to it immediately, pupils tightening just the slightest. It lacked greed, and was so ingrained it bordered on reflex.
Gris held it out, palm open.
Enjin didn’t take it right away. His jaw worked once, tension rolling under the skin, but he still said nothing. Eventually, with a slow, careful movement, he reached out and closed his fingers around it. The device looked colder in his hand than it had on the dresser.
As soon as he had it, his body shifted; not closer, but away. A step back. A retreat. Not abrupt, not rude, but instinctive. Much like a Giver would with their Jinki. Gris always felt a little pang of jealousy at those looks, not having such a connection himself. He watched as Enjin turned it over in his palm, inked thumbs lightly rubbing into the cold material before fixing it around his throat with a click. He gave a small nod; just a gesture that said this is done. Then he turned slightly as if to leave, silently slipping the choker around his slender neck.
The soft click of the latch sounded far too loud.
Gris felt his stomach drop.
Enjin didn’t look at him again. He just turned and started down the hall, shoulders squared, face blank, posture forced into that familiar blend of blasé and exhaustion that passed for composure. Gris stayed in the doorway long after Enjin walked away, the faint echo of footsteps fading down the corridor; for a moment, he considered calling out: a name, a question, anything to fracture the distance that had formed so sharply between them, but the heaviness in Enjin’s posture had already answered every question Gris could have asked. So he stepped back inside, closed the door quietly behind him, and leaned his weight against it.
The room felt oddly cold without another body in it: the imprint on the sheets had gone cool, the air had lost that faint trace of tobacco and vetiver that clung to Enjin’s skin. Gris dragged a rough hand over his face, exhaling slowly, and crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. The silence pressed in thick and close, like fog pressing in his lungs. He lay back, staring at the ceiling again, eyes half-lidded, trying to will his mind into stillness before turning his head to the muted space that still held Enjin’s lean shape. Glancing up, he looked at the stained ceiling again like it might offer clarity, but all he could register was the faint indentation in the mattress beside him and the glacial draft where warmth had once been; he shifted his hand toward that spot, fingers brushing the cooled linen and the absence hit harder than expected. It wasn’t just that Enjin had left; it was the way he’d left — silently, carefully, like slipping out of a world he didn’t believe he was allowed to stay in. Gris swallowed, throat tight, and let out a slow breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. For a moment, he imagined vaulting up from his slump, calling out after the other man,meeting him again in the hall and letting every thought he had fall from his mouth like sweet vomit. But, eventually, the exhaustion he hadn’t shaken from earlier pulled him under. This time sleep wasn’t deep; it was restless, shallow, fractured. He drifted in and out, never fully sinking, never fully waking, caught in a loop of half-formed thoughts and the echo of Enjin’s hand brushing his throat where the choker wasn’t.
— — –
Hours passed like that.
When Gris finally woke again, the light had shifted, brighter now, afternoon bleeding into the room. His body felt heavier than before, stiff from tension he hadn’t acknowledged. He sat up slowly, blinked against the light, and rubbed at the back of his neck. Upon sitting himself up, the sound of recited knocking came through the cracks under the door; he groaned and slid off the bed, dragging himself the last few steps to the door while fingers still scrubbed uselessly at the grit in his eyes. He loosened his shoulders, rolled his neck once, and pulled the door open—
– right as a fist came flying forward, knuckles clipping him square in the nose.
He let out a short keen and snort of pain, hand shooting to his own face, kneading the spot now thrumming dully with pain.
‘’Gris–! Shit, I’m so sorry!’’ Follo practically exploded backward, nearly tripping over his own boots, hazel eyes wide in pure shock. ‘’I was just trying to knock again, didn’t think you’d open right then- sorry!’’
Gris blinked, jaw tensing as he tested the sting with two fingers. ‘’It’s fine, Follo.’’ The younger boy looked as if he was about to launch into a ramble of apologies, so Gris just pressed a hand on his shoulder and gave a typical sweet smile. ‘’Why are you here, anyway? Is something wrong?’’
‘’Oh.’’ Follo shifted, shoulders rising with a nervous breath before schooling his features. ‘’Right, there's a mission, and we’re needed. Now. Like… now-now.’’ He peered at Gris’ unkempt appearance. ‘’Um, not to rush you though but Enjin looked pretty serious about it.’’
Gris’ stomach pulled tight, but he kept his face passive. ‘’That’s fine, just give me a minute, alright?”
Follo nodded almost too quickly and stepped back to let him grab his gear. Gris moved with automatic efficiency: jacket, gloves, boots, and hat. Nothing complicated. His body still felt tired, heavy in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. When he stepped out into the hallway, Follo fell into step with him, still glancing at Gris’ nose like it might suddenly bloom purple.
Shortly, they reached the staging area to see Team Akuta was already present.
Rudo leaned against a crate, buzzing with energy as he tapped a boot against the metal and shooting irritated looks at the clock on the wall. Gris noticed him digging in his pockets and chucking a still-wrapped candy in his mouth. Zanka stood to the left of him with arms crossed, and odd brows set in a firm line, serious as ever, but not exactly tense. Just observant. Riyo was perched on a railing, swinging her legs while humming some tune under her breath as if this were a casual hangout instead of mission prep. She carded thin hands through Rudo’s hair despite his head tugging away incessantly.
And Enjin—
Enjin stood a few paces away from them, back turned, black nails pecking at his sleeve’s hem while he tightly held a mission outline paper in his hand with shoulders pulled taut and spine locked straight. His hair was now styled in its typical fashion; its upward look only enhanced the weary edges of his face. He didn’t turn at the Supporters' arrival, not even a flinch. Gris felt himself yearn for his usual dimpled grin and crescent, joyful eyes.
Riyo noticed first, fern eyes darting to the pair. “Oh! Sleeping Beauty finally arrives,” she grinned, hopping off the railing and making her way over, giving Gris an enthusiastic wave, “Morning, big guy!”
Gris nodded once in acknowledgment with a short smile, Follo waved with only half her giddy excitement.
Rudo huffed. “Finally. Zanka said you’d drag your feet.”
“I didn’t say that you scuzzball,” Zanka corrected, slamming a well aimed shot at Rudo’s ankle without looking away from the Supporters. “I just thought it was weird for you to be so late, that's all.’’ Gris felt a sweat at the back of his neck from the incriminating scrutiny from the teen. He shot a well-meaning grin at the teenagers, who returned to a light chatter, before looking over at the other man in the room: on the rigid set of his jaw as he continued pretending to scan over the paper in a poor attempt of feigning preoccupation.
Follo, naturally, tracked Gris’ gaze and raised a brow; his eyes meeting Riyo’s seemingly gleeming narrowed ones now beside him. Riyo then looked to Zanka who looked at her with a trivial expression before he turned his face to Rudo, the youngest boy only giving him an exaggeratingly weirded out look. This only earned him another hit to the ankle.
‘’Soo… Gris,’’ the redhead tugged Gris down by his sleeve, who jolted from inattentiveness, ‘’Trouble in paradise?’’ She whispered unsubtly behind her hand, a cheshire smile on her face. The Supporter sent her a flat look, one that clearly said drop it, but the reddish tinge on his cheeks betrayed him and Riyo only smiled wider.
Follo elbowed her lightly, hissing, ‘’Riyo–’’ but she waved him off easily.
Zanka, observing the whispered exchange, sighed in that long-suffering way he’d accustomed himself to at the hands of his teammates. “Riyo. Knock it off.’’
“Whaaat?,” she chirped, far too innocently. Then, lowering her voice again while still definitely being audible, “I’m just saying someone looks like he cried himself awake this morning and someone else looks like he feels really guilty about it.’’ She emphasised her point by flicking an accusatory finger to Enjin and then to Gris.
The Supporter stiffened, jaw ticking.
Rudo’s head snapped up. “Who cried?”
“Rudo,” Zanka warned, but it was too late — Riyo, who had now managed to quickly dart beside him, leaned sideways to whisper directly into the boy’s ear.
“I’ll tell you later…!”
Gris nearly groaned. This was spiraling.
He tore his gaze away from the three now quarreling teens, forcing his eyes anywhere but toward Enjin but they drifted anyway, drawn by habit or gravity or whatever force kept tugging the two of them into the same orbit no matter how much distance Enjin tried to wedge between them.
Enjin still hadn’t looked up. Not once. Not even when Zanka muttered something about repositioning or when Riyo snickered or when Rudo yelped from another ankle attack. He stayed locked in that rigid little posture; shoulders squared, golden eyes glued to the paper like if he stopped pretending to read it he might crumble on the spot. The tattoos down his neck looked darker today, sharper, curling with tension that had nowhere to go.
Gris swallowed hard.
Follo tapped him on the shoulder, ‘’Maybe you should go talk to him, Gris? I don’t know what happened between you two but you’ve always been close, haven't you guys?’’
Gris didn’t dignify that with an answer. He kept his expression as neutral as he could while Zanka’s eyes flicked between him and Enjin, colder but calculating in that quiet way of his. Follo shifted awkwardly, unsure if he should intervene or pretend he hadn’t been dragged into whatever this was.
The silence in the room started stretching thinner, and tighter, until even Rudo sensed it.
The youngest folded his arms and in his usual tactless fashion speaks up: ‘’’What’s with you two? Stop being weird.’’
Rudo’s complaint snapped through the room like a wire pulled too tight. Gris felt it hit him square in the chest—not because the kid was wrong, but because he was exactly right. The air around them had gone stiff enough to choke on. Even Enjin, usually the one to step in and shoo Rudo quiet with a sigh or a flick to the forehead, didn’t move. He only turned the page over, slow and mechanical, his jaw rigid with eyes fixed on nothing.
Riyo’s brows darted up. “Woah, Rudo, someone’s pissy! Did Dear take your sweets this morning or something?” She teased, poking and pulling at Rudo’s cheek and hair. He swatted her away.
“Riyo,” Zanka warned, though even though he had that faint look of curiosity he didn’t bother to hide, the boy was far too perceptive for Gris’ comfort.
Follo, ever the mediator, tries to redirect, “Uh… maybe we should just…focus on the briefing?” His voice wavered, and the apology was halfway loaded into his throat already.
Gris swallowed, forcing his face into something easy and typical; like he didn’t spend the early morning pretending not to hear Enjin falling apart in his room. “Let’s just get started,” he said, tone light but unwilling.
Enjin finally looked up.
Not at Gris. Not at any of them, really. His gaze swept across the room with a detached flicker before dropping back to the papers. He didn’t correct Rudo, or bother with a half-assed lecture, not even making a piss-poor jab about Gris’ abhorrent snores, or even throw his usual dimpled smirk and say something insensitive to cheer up the sodden spirits. He simply swung Umbreaker over a hunched shoulder and made his way to the truck without a word, settling himself into the driver's seat with a hearty slam of the door. The Cleaners gave each other worried looks, a minor sense of doom of Enjin’s detestable driving skills. Zanka gave a huff and began a gloomy trek to the truck; Rudo followed suit with a usual grumpy expression; Riyo tagged behind, already swirling her scissors around her pointer; Follo gave Gris a final concerned look before nudging his head to the group.
Gris nodded. His throat felt tight, like someone had tied something around it and pulled. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was the memory of Enjin hunched over in the half-light, whispering to no one. Maybe it was the way Enjin refused to even glance at him now.
The others climbed into the back in their usual disorder: Rudo first, crashing into a seat with all the grace of a collapsing shed. Riyo next, sighing theatrically as she shoved Rudo’s stubby legs off “her spot.” Zanka last, moving with quiet thoughtfulness, still tracking Enjin through the windshield like a hawk.
Follo wedged himself at the end between Zanka and the door.
Gris found himself lingering by the shut passenger door. His eyes traced the rigid shapes of Enjin’s profile, gaze falling to the newly lit cigarette poised between lips – ones that he remembered as being plush and sweet. The contrast stung. Last night they’d been soft against his own; now they were tight, hard-set, shaped around nicotine instead of him.
He didn’t know why he expected anything different. He didn’t know why the sight of Enjin smoking, not out of boredom or typical habit but as a crux to keep his mouth shut, made something in his chest pull taut. He wanted to reach out. Not even to touch, only just to get close enough to breathe in the sharp scent of tobacco and faint perfume and the warmth that always clung to Enjin’s skin. But he stayed where he was, fingers curling around the door handle, grounding himself in the cold bite of metal.
Enjin finally spoke around the cigarette, the words leaking through a plume of pale smoke:
‘’Get in.’’
His voice sounded empty. A hollow note in a man who usually spoke with weight with quiet laughter tucked beneath his breath, or irritation buoyed by fondness, or dry patience worn thin by the antics of the kids he claimed weren’t his. This wasn’t that. It wasn’t anything Gris recognised.
He opened the door and slipped inside.
Enjin’s scent closed around him immediately, warmth and familiarity in a way that made Gris’ throat tighten and seize up. It was almost embarrassing how just a bit of silence made such a formidable man cower. But the other blond himself remained still, staring ahead, one hand draped loosely over the wheel, the other resting on the open window frame as smoke curled lazily into the breeze. No greeting. No snark. No thin-lipped smirk that teased at the corner of a dimple. Just a quietude that made sweat sheen on everyone else’s necks. Enjin didn’t look at him, but Gris could see the shift in his jaw: the way it clenched for a split second before relaxing again, as though Enjin was wrestling irritation or discomfort or regret, or maybe all three.
Before Gris could even reach over to fully close the door, a boot pressed on the accelerator, jerking the truck forward so abruptly his whole body lurched. His elbow cracked against the dashboard with a sharp sting.
‘’Shit–’’ he hissed, eyes darting to Enjin’s trained expression. An apology was left unsaid.
Riyo’s shoe hit the headrest of the Giver’s seat, ‘’Enjin! Jeez, give us a warning next time!’’ She griped, boot still wedged against the torn leather.
‘’The hell crawled up your damn ass, turdface?’’ Rudo fussed, hand rubbing where Zanka had smacked him in the eye accidentally.
That earned a meagre reaction. Enjin exhaled smoke through his nose, slow and sharp, the muscles in his forearm flexing around the wheel. Gris rubbed the tender spot on his elbow, the ache grounding but humiliating. He swallowed down the urge to snap something back — an apology from Enjin would feel like a miracle, but pushing him now would only shove him further away. So he settled deeper into the seat, trying to ignore the silence humming with unfinished conversations and half-buried wounds.
Follo leaned forward between the seats, whispering, “Are… you two okay?”
The two blond men didn’t honour him with a response.
– – –
The westward sector held a permanent miasma of battery acid and fermenting plastic; it carried a humming, rattling vibration that made the faint hairs on Riyo’s arms stand up.
‘’Beasty is close,’’ she murmured, fingers tracing the edges of her Jinki. Flocking on her left were Zanka and Rudo, the latter buzzing with poorly contained energy.
Zanka narrowed his sights as a car-sized mound of compacted garbage shuddered ahead, rising like a breathing lung beneath the trash. The blond put an arm out in front of him on instinct, as if he could hold the kid back with one limb, a fairly pointless gesture considering the younger boy was already cracking his knuckles like he’d been waiting all day for this.
Gris didn’t get more than a second to brace himself before the heap erupted.
Metal shards clattered across the concrete. Rotted plastic peeled away in thick sheets. And with a guttural screech that grated like grinding gears, the Trash Beast pulled itself free, snapping together in jagged layers of debris, dripping sludge, and rusted steel. A glowing dot rolled forward, landing on the Cleaners with a ruined growl.
Boots touched the ground and something in the air shifted. Not dramatically; not with a crack of thunder. Just a subtle, chilling drop in temperature, like the moment before a storm decides where to strike. Enjin hummed as he hopped down from the truck, a newly-lit cigarette perched between down-turned lips, his voice was flat and uninflected, he failed to take his usual, trained stance and missed his rhythmed breathing that suggested technique.
He took to simply launching himself forward.
Umbreaker collided with the beast in a deafening shock that seemed to reverberate through the whole sector, the clang of metal-on-metal rattling Gris’ bones even from a distance. Enjin moved with a ferocity that didn’t feel tactical, each swing wild but precise, vicious yet deeply controlled, the kind of violence shaped by nights with no sleep and thoughts he refused to say aloud. Under undignified assault, the creature’s hinges shrilled.
“Uh…” Riyo’s voice wavered as she scrambled to follow, her green eyes wide and barely able to track Enjin’s alacritous movements. “I don't think he’s supposed to do that.” She tried to give a humorous tone, but it fell short under worry.
Zanka’s reply was clipped. “That would be a no.”
‘’The hell’s he doing?’’ Rudo’s head cocked. He saw the way Enjin ripped a jagged slab of metal off the beast’s shoulder like it was loose bark, and the way he blasted it aside without so much as a grunt. The part darted towards the shocked onlookers, narrowly missing Follo who yelped. “That turdface isn’t even doing the seventh stance!”
Follo flinched as sparks cascaded from another collision. “I’ve never seen him go this hard, Gris.” He whispered to the other man. Gris could only stare ahead, eyes fixed on the blur that was Enjin.
“Whatever the hell he’s doin’, it’s not strategy. He’s gonna do somethin’ stupid.’’ Zanka shouted over the clangs. He was quiet for a moment before leaning his body to Rudo, ‘’If I see you do some dumb shit like this-’’
Rudo let out a growled squawk, jutting a gloved finger out to the scene, ‘’Shut up! I ain’t that fuckin stupid!’’
Ignoring their petty antics, Gris took a step forward, boots grinding into the cracked sands. His breath seized itself in his chest, each inhale catching painfully as he watched the blond veer from barely-coordinated strikes to reckless battering; each movement became more glaringly frantic and sharp, holding a notion of desperation. The Trash Beast lunged again, a sweeping arc of ruined metal limbs that sent a spray of rust into the musty air. Enjin didn’t dodge in a way that Gris recognised, missing a pivot or a slide, instead twisting with a kind of brute impatience, barely avoiding the blow and retaliating with a downward swing that left a shallow crater. Riyo’s features creased into a wince and Zanka sucked in a sharp breath as Enjin charged again with Umbreaker churned with warping air.
Rudo’s piercing shout broke him from his daze, directing his attention to the Trash Beast as it suddenly bucked upward, heaving its bulk with a ratting roar. It swung a mangled arm straight towards Enjin’s unguarded side. The Giver had overcommitted with his previous strike, chest heaving and eyes burning gold with that same wild shine. For a sickening second, Gris saw it play out with horrifying clarity: the beast’s arm slamming into him, metal tearing through bone and flesh, the man dropping like a broken marionette–
‘’Enjin!’’ Gris’ voice ripped from his throat, feet already pounding the ground.
Riyo gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Zanka cursed violently. Rudo lunged forward but he was too far. Follo stumbled back with a strangled yelp as debris rained down.
The beast’s limb came crashing down like a suffocating wave.
And Gris did the only thing his body would allow: he threw himself between them.
Heat seared across his upper arm—white-hot, immediate, burning through fabric and skin in a single blistering streak. The impact rattled his teeth, knocking the breath out of him as he caught the brunt of the swing and shoved Enjin backward with what meager strength he had left. The world seemed to pitch as smoke filled his lungs and pain ripped up to his shoulder like thwarting lightning.
Enjin stumbled, eyes blown wide in shock as Gris dropped to one knee.
For the first time since dawn, Enjin actually looked at him.
Really looked.
“Gris—?” His voice cracked, raw and unsteady. The snarl that had twisted his features melted into something stricken, unguarded, terrified. His lips and eyes quivered much like a distressed child, mouth struggling to croak out his next line, “What the hell are you—”
He was easily cut off by a roar from the beast, and the sounds of metal chunks shifting. Gris could only hear the faint yell of Zanka barking out orders, weary eyes still staring into Enjin’s blank, aghast ones. Team Akuta sprang into motion but all Gris could hear was the blood rushing in his ears, the sting of burning flesh pulsating with his heart beat, and Enjin’s ragged breathing right in front of him. He wanted to reach out: smooth Enjin’s furrowed brows under his thumb and scrape at the back of his head the way he knew the other man liked, but even breathing felt turbulent so he could only give a poor excuse of a comforting smile.
It was when an inked hand began to inch to his face that he felt his eyes roll back and his body slump into red fabric.
– – –
When Gris awoke the second time that day, it was to the steady and irritating insistence of light.
It pressed against the insides of his eyelids, pale and clinical, nothing like the dim warmth of his own room, or the calming amber glow of early morning. He tried to roll away from it on instinct, and was immediately punished with a dull throb that flared down his arm and across the plane of his shoulder. His breath hitched, shallow and reflexive, before he managed to coax it aback into something more linear. The air smelled clean in that antiseptic way that never quite erased the underlying scent of metal and ozone. Somewhere nearby, something hummed softly, rhythmic and alive. Gris opened his eyes at last, blinking until the ceiling stopped swimming above him.
White. Too white. He let out a groan.
‘’Oh–! You’re, um, awake?’’ A chirp came from his left beyond the cubicle curtain.
The voice was quiet and wavering. Gris turned his head slowly to find Eishia peeking through the cream fabric, before slinking through with her hands clasped nervously in front of her chest. Her nervous eyes searched Gris’ figure, scanning him for any side effects or underlying pain.
‘’Sorry if I woke you up,’’ she blurted immediately, before tensing. ‘’I mean, not sorry you’re awake, that’s good, that’s really good… I wasn’t sure if you’d wake up so soon, or maybe I messed something up, or-’’
“Eishia. I’m fine, thanks to you. You’re a total lifesaver.’’ Gris interrupted with a raspy, dry throat and a typical warm smile. Eishia clamped her mouth shut with a reddening face, before nodding rapidly and fingers toying with the end of her dress. The room laid in an easy silence before Gris let out a cough, startling the Giver. ‘’Actually, could I get a cup of water?’’
Eishia gave a confirming yelp, fetching the water from beyond the curtain and presenting it to Gris’ waiting palm. Gris drank it quietly, eyes flitting around the room and down to his bandaged body, before settling on Eishia again, who jolted.
‘’I-Is something wrong?’’ She stammered.
Gris lightly waved a hand, letting his head sink back into the pillow with half-lidded eyes. His arm was wrapped in layers of precise, clean bandaging, faintly warm to touch, the skin beneath giving a present throb. It wasn’t unbearable, but manageable – a reminder that he was still alive.
‘’How bad is it?’’ He asked quietly.
Eishia hesitated, fingers tightening together. ‘’It– it looks worse than it is,’’ she said quickly, ‘’Um, there were mostly surface burns, so I just healed them, um… your clavicle and lower arm were practically shattered, so just be careful with those.’’
Gris huffed out a weak breath that might have been a laugh. ‘’That’s good.’’
That earned him a startled blink, then a tiny, relieved smile. She shuffled closer, adjusting the equipment beside his bed with careful, precise movements, like she was afraid of jostling him or doing something wrong simply by being near.
‘’Um, I heard you saved Enjin,’’ she whispered suddenly, voice soft.
Gris didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted to the far wall, unfocused, thoughts slipping sideways despite his best efforts.
Saved him.
The image replayed unbidden: Enjin’s eyes blown wide, all fury stripped bare into something raw and terrified. The way his voice had cracked around Gris’ name. The way his hand had reached out—
Gris swallowed.
‘’It’s nothing. He would have done the same,’’ he murmured, though he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it at that moment – even the most assured people had moments of doubt – but it wasn’t because Enjin didn’t care. But because Enjin, when it came down to it, never seemed to think his own life was worth saving.
Eishia nodded, though her brows pinched together faintly. ‘’Still,’’ she hummed. ‘’You didn’t hesitate...’’
Neither had Enjin, earlier. Not when charging headlong into something that could tear him apart.
Gris closed his eyes.
The medical bay wasn’t empty. He could hear muted voices further back: Riyo’s animated whisper drifting in and out, Zanka’s low, steady tone responding, Follo’s anxious pacing betraying itself in soft footsteps, Rudo munching on what he assumed was sweets. They were here. Nearby. Keeping watch in their own ways.
One presence was conspicuously missing.
The absence sat heavy in Gris’ chest, more uncomfortable than the burn ever could be.
He wondered where Enjin was now. Whether he’d stayed long enough to make sure Gris was breathing before forcing himself to leave. Whether he was pacing somewhere with blood still on his hands, replaying the moment over and over, punishing himself. Whether he’d lit another cigarette with shaking fingers and stared at nothing at all.
Gris hated that he could picture it so clearly.
“He hasn’t—” The words slipped out before he could stop them. He cleared his throat. “Enjin hasn’t been by, has he?”
Eishia’s shoulders slumped a fraction. She shook her head gently. “No. He… he left after you were stabilised. He looked—” She faltered, chewing her lip. “He looked really upset. I thought maybe he’d come back later, but…”
Gris nodded slowly. Of course he did. Enjin always retreated when things got too close to the bone.
Part of him understood it. Too well.
Another part of him ached with the want of it anyway: with the desire to have Enjin sitting at his bedside with sunlight filtering golden hair making him look angelic, and grumbling while he pretended not to worry despite those pretty eyes of his that would give him away entirely. To feel the familiar weight of his presence, and a new feeling that was inked fingers interlocked with his own.
Instead, there was only the natural hum of the building and the gentle warmth of healing anima still lingering in his skin.
Gris stared up at the ceiling again, jaw tightening.
He’d thrown himself in front of that blow without thinking. Not out of heroism. Not out of duty. Just instinct. Just the unbearable idea of losing Enjin before he ever figured out how to say what sat lodged in his chest.
And now Enjin was gone, and Gris was here, and the distance between them felt wider than ever.
Still.
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself.
This wasn’t the end of the conversation. It couldn’t be. He’d wake up. He’d heal. He’d find Enjin.
Next time, he promised himself, he wouldn’t pretend to sleep. He wouldn’t let silence do the talking.
– – –
It was four days later when Eishia gave him a final check-up and, after much fretting and apologising for things Gris insisted were not her fault, declared him fit for missions again.
“You should still avoid overexertion,” she said, hands clasped tight around her clipboard. “And— um— if anything hurts in a way that feels wrong, please come back immediately. Or even if it doesn’t feel wrong. Just— come back anyway…Ah! Not that I'm forcing you, but–!”
‘’I will,’’ Gris promised, and meant it.
He left the medical wing with that strange sense of relief that came bundled with dread. Being cleared meant returning to normal, and normal meant Enjin. Or whatever shape Enjin was in now.
The awkwardness hit him properly at lunch.
The mess hall was loud in the way it always was around midday: clattering plates, overlapping voices, Rudo’s embarrassed shrieks from Guita’s pestering, and Bro trying to entice a grumpy looking Dear into eating some vegetables. Gris queued with Follo, shoulder to shoulder, listening to him ramble irritatingly about supply rotations and something Semiu had said earlier that morning. Gris nodded at the right moments, filled his portions, and turned—
Straight into Enjin.
They stopped short of colliding, close enough that Gris caught the sharp scent of smoke and perfume faintly beneath it. Enjin looked thinner somehow, shadows deeper under his eyes, hair down and messier than usual. His gaze flicked to Gris’ bandaged arm and then away again, jaw tightening.
“Hey,” Gris said, because not saying it felt worse.
Enjin nodded once. “You’re cleared.”
“Yeah.”
A pause stretched between them, taut and brittle. Gris became acutely aware of the way everyone else seemed to quiet just a fraction, curiosity sharpening the air: Riyo, already seated at the far table, leaned forward with interest she didn’t bother hiding; Zanka watched over the rim of his tea, eyes narrowed in that assessing way of his; and Rudo squinted between them, clearly trying to work out what he’d missed, while shovelling confectionaries in his mouth.
Enjin shifted in place for a moment. ‘’That’s good,’’ he said, awfully clipped. ‘’Better not be stupid next time, huh?’’ His grin looked wiry. Gris still found his heart stirred with warmth at the sight of his dimples though.
Gris’ mouth twitched despite himself. ‘’I’ll do my best, but maybe don’t go head first into a fight by yourself next time?’’ He gave a saccharine smile.
That earned him a brief glance—sharp, conflicted, gone too fast to dissect. Enjin stepped past him, slippers heavy against the floor, and made it all of three steps before Riyo called out brightly, “Hey, Enjin! Sit with us!”
He didn’t even slow, “Not hungry.” He finished with a lazy wave.
The door swung shut behind him with a dull, final thud.
Rudo stared after him, a cake slice halfway to his mouth. “What the hell was that?”
Zanka sighed. “Eat yer damn food.”
Gris sat down heavily beside Follo, appetite evaporating. He pushed foodstuff around his tray and tried not to think about the way Enjin hadn’t once asked how he felt. Tried not to think about how he’d looked at Gris’ arm like it was a personal indictment.
The rest of the meal passed in fits and starts, conversation tripping over itself. Riyo kept glancing at Gris like she wanted to say something and thought better of it. Zanka eventually changed the subject to an upcoming patrol schedule with deliberate force. Gris nodded, answered when spoken to, smiled when appropriate.
Inside, everything felt off-kilter.
Later that afternoon, he found himself residing in the receptionist area with Semiu – who was looking shamelessly at pin-ups of other women – hands wrapped around a lukewarm cup of tea he hadn’t touched.
Semiu studied him for a moment before sighing and resting her chin on folded hands. ‘’What’s got you so bothered?’’
Gris glanced at her. ‘’Nothing.’’
‘’Mhmmm.’’ She hummed, nail tracing photographed curves. ‘’You know, I saw Enjin earlier today.’’
His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, not looking away and listening with a keen ear. ‘’Yeah?’’ He replied, trying to keep his tone even.
Semiu nodded, unfazed, still flicking through the pin-ups with idle interest. ‘’Mhm. Came through ‘bout an hour ago, looked real out of it. Doesn’t look like he’s had somethin’ to eat or sleep at all.’’ She glanced up at Gris, eyes sharper than her languid posture suggested. ‘’Didn’t say anythin’, either. Didn’t try to peep my magazine too, which is the most alarming part.’’
Gris huffed softly despite himself. “That tracks.”
Silence settled between them again, companionable but weighted. Somewhere behind the desk, a fan clicked as it oscillated, the sound repetitive enough to almost lull him. Semiu set the pin-ups aside and leaned back in her chair, studying her white nails instead of him.
‘’You know, you’re allowed to be upset, Gris,’’ she said after a moment. ‘’Even if you don’t think you are.’’
Gris gave a hearty sigh. ‘’I’m not upset.’’
She turned her head, one brow lifting. “You’re injured, benched for days, nearly watched the idiot you care about get himself killed, and now he’s acting like you stole his cigarettes. If you weren’t upset, I’d be worried.”
That landed a little too close to the bone. Gris stared back down at his cup. The tea had gone completely cold.
“I just… don’t know where I stand,” he admitted quietly. “It feels like I crossed a line by stepping in.’’
Semiu’s expression softened. “You saved his life.”
“That’s not always the same thing,” Gris muttered.
She considered that, lips pursed. “No,” she conceded. “It isn’t. Especially with someone like Enjin. That guy doesn’t like being reminded that he’s human. Or fragile. Or dependent on anyone else.”
Gris swallowed. Images flashed unbidden: Enjin’s eyes blown wide in shock, the way his voice had cracked on Gris’ name. The inked hand that reached out too late.
“I didn’t do it to be a hero,” Gris murmured. “I just… I couldn’t let him—”
‘’I get that, Gris,’’ She interrupted gently. ‘’That guy does too, that's the issue, though.’’
Gris could only let out a slow breath, broad shoulders sagging. ‘’So what am I supposed to do, then?’’
She smiled, small and knowing. “The thing you’re already doin’. Give him space. Be there anyway. You’re real good at that.’’ They sat in silence for a while longer. Eventually, Semiu stretched, cracking her neck. “If it helps, he asked about you. When y’all first got back.”
Gris’ head snapped up. ‘’He did?’’
‘’Mhm. Asked how you were and all that. Tried acting like he didn’t care, but y’know how he is.’’
Something warm and painful bloomed in the Supporter’s chest. ‘’What’d you say?’’
‘’That you’d live,’’ she replied lightly. ‘’And that he kept sulkin’, I’d kick him in the dick.’’
Gris chuckled, the sound rough. “Thanks, Semiu.”
“Anytime,” Semiu hummed, reaching for her pin-ups again. “Now go. I wanna finish my stash before tonight.”
Gris stood, leaving the untouched tea behind. As he walked away, the off-kilter feeling didn’t vanish—but it shifted, just slightly. Less like standing on unstable ground, and more like waiting at the edge of something that hadn’t decided what it wanted to be yet.
– – –
That underlying feeling of instability followed him into the late hours of the night, clinging stubbornly no matter how many times he shifted position or pressed his face into the cool side of the pillow. Sleep refused to settle. Every time his thoughts began to loosen, they slid back to the same place: the sight of Enjin’s stunned expression in the middle of the battlefield, the way his voice had broken, the empty space beside him afterward. The room felt too quiet, too still, like it was waiting for someone that wasn’t coming.
Eventually, Gris gave up pretending he was going to rest. He stared at the ceiling for a while longer, then swung his legs over the side of the bed with a quiet sigh. The floor was cold against his bare feet as he pulled on a loose shirt and padded out into the hall. The base was mostly asleep at this hour; the lights dimmed to a low, amber glow, footsteps swallowed by tile and distance. He moved on muscle memory alone, toward the main common area and the kitchen annex tucked just off it. The hum of the coffee machine was grounding in its familiarity. Gris leaned against the counter as it sputtered to life, rubbing absently at the faint ache still lingering beneath the healed skin of his side. The smell of bitter grounds filled the air, warm and sharp, and for a moment it was almost enough to steady him. Almost. He exhaled slowly, eyes closing just for a second.
That was when the door behind him slid open with far too much force.
Gris stiffened instinctively, shoulders tightening before he could stop himself. He didn’t turn right away. The sound that followed wasn’t subtle: uneven footsteps, the clumsy sound of a body slamming into a wall and a low, breathy laugh that didn’t belong to anyone sober.
“…shit,” a voice slurred quietly, followed by the scrape of boots against the floor.
Gris’ chest tightened.
He turned just in time to see Enjin stagger fully into the light.
He was swaying on his feet, posture loose to the point of collapse.He looked like shit. Not put together in the way he usually was, not even in his usual brand of dishevelled confidence. His jacket hanging off one shoulder, shirt crooked, and collar askew enough to reveal a dark, unmistakable mark blooming along his neck. Others brushed the edge of his jaw, the length of his neck and down to his patterned sternum; faint but visible. His cheeks were flushed, eyes droopy in an intoxicated daze with pupils blown wide, and lips looking pinker than normal. His hair was messier than usual; flattened in places like fingers had been threaded through it more than once, and there was a loose, unfocused glaze to his eyes that made his gaze lag a second behind where it should have been.
He smelled like smoke and cheap alcohol and something sweeter underneath it all, clinging to him like a foreign scent.
The man’s gaze slid uselessly past Gris before finally snagging on him with a delayed sort of recognition.
‘’Oh,’’ Enjin said, blinking slowly. ‘’Gris! Hi.’’
Gris’ jaw clenched.
Enjin laughed again, soft and breathless, and immediately swayed too far forward, catching himself on the edge of the table with a sloppy thud. The smell hit Gris all at once: alcohol, smoke, sweat, and something sweet and cloying beneath it that did not belong to the base. His stomach turned.
‘’Enjin. Sit down, you shouldn’t be up right now.’’ Gris chided flatly.
Enjin squinted at him, head tipping to one side like he was trying to parse the words through cotton. “M’standing,” he insisted, then immediately contradicted himself by slipping sideways, barely saved by Gris lunging forward and grabbing his arm. The contact sent a jolt through Gris’ chest. Enjin’s skin was warm, too warm, feverish with intoxication, muscles lax under Gris’ grip in a way that felt deeply wrong. For a moment, Enjin leaned into him without thinking, all his weight tipping forward, forehead nearly dropping against Gris’ shoulder.
“Careful,” Gris muttered, tightening his hold.
Enjin hummed vaguely. “You always say that.” His words were slurred and sloppy.
Gris’ anger flared hot and sharp, painful in its intensity. “You’re drunk,” he said, unnecessarily.
“Yeah,” Enjin agreed easily. “I know.”
The bluntness of it stole the breath from Gris’ lungs.
He took Enjin in properly then, eyes tracing the marks on his skin he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge before. Dark bruises blooming along his neck, a faint bite mark at the line of his jaw, lipstick smudged at the corner of his mouth, and the slight print of thick fingers around his throat. Evidence, careless and ugly. Something twisted hard in Gris’ chest, equal parts fury and hurt and a terrible, aching worry that sat heavy behind his ribs.
Enjin followed his gaze sluggishly, then snorted. “Relax… ‘M fine. Wanted it.’’
‘’You smell terrible.’’
That earned a lopsided grin. ‘’Yeah? You should see the other guys… and girl…I think there was one.’’ He frowned in thought.
Gris only gave a critical stare.
Suddenly, Enjin’s grin faltered, his expression slipping briefly into something else. He swayed again, hand coming up to press against his mouth as his face went pale. Gris barely had time to react before Enjin gagged, retching violently.
“Shit—” Gris hauled him toward the sink just in time.
Enjin vomited harshly, body folding in on itself as he gripped the counter, shoulders shaking with the effort. Gris braced him without thinking, one hand firm at his back, the other holding his hair away from his face. He felt Enjin shudder under his touch, felt the way his breath hitched between heaved whimpers, pathetic and uncontrolled. The smell was awful, sour and sharp, but Gris didn’t pull away.
When it finally passed, Enjin sagged, head hanging low. He coughed weakly, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve like a child.
Gris stared at him for a long moment, anger burning bright behind his eyes, then exhaled through his nose. “Okay,” he said quietly. “That’s enough.”
Enjin blinked up at him, unfocused. “Enough what?”
Gris tightened his grip on the other’s arm. “We’re getting you cleaned up.”
The younger man gave a frown. ‘’M’fine, Gris.’’
‘’Just be quiet, Enjin. You’ve been through enough tonight.’’ He finished by pressing a warm hand on Enjin’s shoulder, steering him to the bathing area.
The walk down the hall was slow and clumsy, Enjin’s weight leaning heavier into Gris with every step. The other man considered picking him up, but figured the movement would lead to more vomit. Enjin mumbled nonsense under his breath, occasionally apologising without context, occasionally laughing at things Gris couldn’t hear. So he said nothing, instead he focused on keeping them both upright, on the steady rhythm of his own breathing, on not thinking too hard about how easily Enjin fit against him like this.
The bathroom lights flicked on, harsh and white. Gris guided Enjin to sit on the edge of the tub, kneeling in front of him to unlace his boots. Enjin watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, expression slack with exhaustion and drink.
‘’Y’dont have to…’’ Enjin murmured, looking tired now.
Gris didn’t look up. ‘’I know. I wanted to though.’’
The boots came off, then the jacket, then the ruined shirt, each movement slow and deliberate. Gris tried not to linger, but his eyes betrayed him, tracing the familiar lines of Enjin’s tattoos as they were revealed inch by inch. Black ink etched across skin he knew well, patterns warping and deliberate with twinges of red. He’d seen them in daylight, in motion, in moments of rest. Seeing them like this, slack and vulnerable, felt different. Intimate in a way that made his throat tighten.
Enjin shivered faintly as the cooler air hit his hot skin.
‘’Cold?’’ Gris questioned. Enjin gave a languid shake of his head. Gris turned the water on, testing the temperature before guiding Enjin carefully into the tub. Enjin hissed softly as he sat, muscles protesting, then relaxed as the warm water rose around him. He leaned back against the dated porcelain, eyes fluttering shut with a soft sigh.
Gris knelt beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves. He worked quietly, methodically, soaking a cloth and wiping vomit from Enjin’s skin, from his arms, from the smear along his jaw. Enjin didn’t resist. He barely moved at all, only occasionally twitching when Gris brushed over something sensitive.
“You’re gonna pass out if you keep closing your eyes,” Gris warned.
“M’not,” Enjin slurred. “Just… resting.”
Gris snorted. “Yeah. Sure.”
He poured water gently over Enjin’s hair, fingers working shampoo through the tangled mess with surprising tenderness. Enjin hummed softly, head tilting back, throat exposed. Gris’ hands stilled for half a second before he forced himself to continue, eyes fixed stubbornly on the task.
‘’Enjin.’’ A hum. ‘’You’re gonna get yourself killed one day.’’
The other man didn’t answer at first. When he did, his voice was barely above a whisper. ‘’Whatever.’’
He rinsed the shampoo out slowly, carefully, watching the water run clear. “You scared them,” he sighed. “You scared me.”
Enjin shifted, restless. His eyes opened a crack, unfocused but earnest. “Didn’t mean to.” Small tears sprung.
“I know,” Gris responded, softer now, rubbing the saltiness away.
Silence settled between them, broken only by the sound of water and Enjin’s uneven breathing. Gris cleaned the rest of him with careful hands, avoiding nothing but never lingering longer than necessary. Still, every brush of skin sent a quiet ache through him, every familiar line of ink a reminder of how deeply he knew this body, and how little right he had to it.
When Enjin started to slump forward, chin dropping toward his chest, Gris caught him, steadying him with an arm around his shoulders.
“Hey,” he murmured. “Stay with me.”
Enjin nodded weakly, forehead resting against Gris’ shoulder for just a moment too long. Gris froze, heart pounding, before gently easing him back.
Eventually, he turned the water off and wrapped a towel around Enjin, guiding him out of the tub with care. The man leaned heavily against him, eyes barely open, exhaustion finally overtaking the alcohol.
“Sorry,” Enjin mumbled again, voice thick and small.
Gris closed his eyes briefly, pressing his forehead to Enjin’s temple. “I know,” he mused. “Get some sleep.”
The words were meant to be final; gentle but definitive as he intended. However, Enjin’s stubbornness knew no bounds, even when intoxicated, so he made no effort to move.
He stood there wrapped in the towel, damp hair clinging to his temples, weight sagging subtly forward like his body hadn’t quite caught up to the idea that the worst of the night was over. He gave Enjin underwear that he quickly fetched beforehand. Gris felt eyes on him, lingering for just a second too long, the way his breath stayed uneven against Gris’ collarbone. When Gris eased back, expecting him to straighten, Enjin swayed instead, marked fingers tightening reflexively in the fabric of Gris’ shirt.
‘’Can you wait a sec?’’
Gris gave a questioning hum.
Enjin’s head dipped again, forehead brushing Gris’ shoulder where it had rested before, hesitant but unmistakably deliberate this time – his hands hovered uselessly at Enjin’s sides, unsure whether to steady him or pull away.
‘’Uh.’’ Enjin swallowed, voice crooked. ‘’Do you wanna sleep with me?’’
The taller choked out a cough, ‘’Excuse me?’’
Enjin flushed, ‘’Shit- not like that. I mean, like, in my bed. Actual sleeping.’’ He waved a hand, fanning himself.
Gris exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes closing for half a heartbeat as he wrestled with the familiar conflict. Want versus restraint. Care versus caution. He could feel Enjin trembling now, not from the cold or the alcohol, but the effort of holding himself together long enough to ask for this. Gris could feel the small, stubborn movement of Enjin knocking his forehead lightly against his collarbone.
‘’Enjin,’’ he started slowly, ‘’You’re not thinking straight.’’
“I know,” Enjin admitted immediately. His grip tightened just a little, knuckles brushing Gris’ chest through the thin fabric of his shirt. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
That did it.
Gris’ resolve cracked with a soft, inaudible sound.
“Alright,” he murmured at last. Blue eyes trailed down to Enjin’s shaky legs. ‘’Do…Do you want me to carry you there?’’ His words were met with a short silence, before he felt the tell-tale contact of a nod. Enjin was by no means a small man, being almost as tall as Gris himself, but the difference in body mass was overwhelmingly obvious; where one had plush muscle, the other had firm, corded evidence of underlying strength. Thus, with ease, Gris scooped up the man, feeling long legs loosely wrap around his middle and a chin rest in the nick of his neck. He adjusted his grip instinctively: one arm braced beneath Enjin’s knees, the other firm across his back. Enjin weighed less than he looked, all long limbs and exhaustion, his body pliant in a way that made Gris’ chest tighten. He moved carefully, mindful of the unsteadiness still clinging to him, taking slow, measured steps down the quiet hallway.
Enjin’s breath was warm where it brushed the side of Gris’ neck. He shifted faintly, chin pressing more securely into that hollow, arms sliding a little tighter around Gris’ shoulders as if the motion happened before thought could intervene. Gris felt it immediately, the way Enjin settled, trusting without reservation, and something in him softened dangerously.
“You’re okay,” Gris murmured under his breath, more for himself than for Enjin. His voice vibrated faintly against Enjin’s chest.
Enjin hummed in response, a low, almost content sound, eyes slipping shut as the steady rhythm of Gris’ steps lulled him. His grip loosened and tightened again, absentminded, fingers curling into the fabric at Gris’ back like an anchor. Gris could feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing, uneven but easing, and focused on that instead of the way Enjin fit against him like this had always been inevitable.
The room came into view, the door already ajar from before. Gris nudged it open with his foot and stepped inside, the dim light casting soft shadows across the walls. He crossed to the bed and lowered Enjin carefully, easing him down like something precious. Enjin protested faintly at the loss of height, hands lingering at Gris’ shoulders before slipping away, but he didn’t fight it.
Gris stayed close, one hand steady at Enjin’s side until he was sure he wouldn’t tip over. He looked up at him then, golden eyes heavy-lidded but clear enough to hold something earnest.
“Didn’t drop me,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting just barely and a dimple formed consequently.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Gris replied quietly, giving his cheek a poke.
He helped Enjin settle properly, tugging the blankets up around him, movements slow and deliberate. Enjin watched him the whole time, gaze tracking each motion. When Gris finally straightened, Enjin reached out weakly and caught his wrist. The touch was light, uncertain, but it stopped him all the same.
“You said you’d stay,” Enjin grumbled, barely audible; blond lashes kept fluttering closed.
Gris hesitated only a moment before sitting down beside him, the other man haphazardly leaning his head on a strong thigh; he relaxed instantly with fingers now looped into the Supporter’s.
Gris let himself breathe, and wormed a hand into golden locks. He let out a slight chuckle at Enjin’s rolled back, whitened eyes, the sight no longer as unsettling as it had been the first time. For a moment, he wondered if he’d see this more often, in a warm, orange glow of dawn rather than the melancholic blues of night.
Soon, he felt his own eyes slip shut to the rhythm of Enjin’s breathing.
