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When Enjin opened the door, the first thing that greeted him was the smell.
It wasn't the usual stale, musty air of the shared housing areas in the Cleaners’ headquarters. Instead, it was warm and rich, something savory simmering, wrapping around him with a comfort he couldn’t quite name.
He wasn’t used to being welcomed by a proper meal after a long mission. But perhaps this was what people meant when they spoke of home sweet home.
He stepped inside, set his boots neatly on the shelf by the door, and followed the scent toward the kitchen. Zanka was already there, seated at the dining table, his chin resting lightly on his hands as if he had been waiting. Two large bowls sat in front of him.
At the sound of footsteps, Zanka looked up. His expression barely changed. He had never been the type to show his emotions openly. Still, Enjin wasn’t expecting any enthusiastic greeting from him. Instead, he caught the small details he had learned to notice: the faint flush blooming across Zanka’s cheeks, the way he straightened a little too quickly, as if bracing himself.
“You’re back,” Zanka said.
“I am.” Enjin smiled. “And something smells incredible.”
The color on Zanka’s face deepened. He stood and moved toward the stove, his steps quicker now, almost eager. With careful hands, he lifted the ladle and poured the broth into the bowls, already topped with halved eggs, thin slices of meat, seaweed, a bit of corn, and chopped green onions. Each movement was precise, deliberate, and quietly practiced.
“I tried to make some ramen,” he said. “I’m not sure if it suits your taste, but…”
Enjin had heard of ramen before, of course. He had passed through Kamuatari several times, though not enough to try all kinds of food. Even so, he had always admired the culture Zanka came from. Everything carried a sense of discipline, craftsmanship, and respect for tradition. And now, he had someone who carried all of that into this place.
“Let’s try it,” Enjin said as he sat down. “It looks amazing. Where did you learn to make it?”
Zanka froze for half a second at the praise. Then he nodded and returned to his seat, his expression carefully composed.
“All members of the Nijiku family are taught these things,” he said after a moment, clearly trying to keep his tone indifferent. “Cooking is considered basic. The same as martial arts or swordsmanship.”
“But that’s not basic at all,” Enjin said. “You’re good at so many things, Zanka. You’ll have to teach me sometime.”
Zanka hesitated again at the praise, then glanced at the utensils on the table.
“Maybe we should start with these first,” he said, lightly pushing the chopsticks toward Enjin. “They’re called chopsticks. You kind of need them for ramen.”
Enjin smiled. “I was wondering.”
Zanka picked up his own chopsticks and, a little self conscious, showed him how to hold them. He moved slowly for Enjin to watch, lifting a neat bundle of noodles and letting them drip back into the bowl before taking a small bite himself.
“Like this,” he said quietly.
Enjin watched closely, then tried to copy him. It took a few attempts before he grew familiar with holding the chopsticks. The noodles even slipped once, falling back into the bowl, before he finally managed to bring them to his mouth. So it would take him a long time to eat ramen as elegantly as Zanka, or just never, Enjin thought. But for a brief second, he could have sworn Zanka was about to laugh at his clumsiness. The corner of Zanka’s mouth twitched upward before his left hand came up to cover it, his expression settling back into neutrality, as if nothing had happened
Kids should be allowed to show their excitement more openly, shouldn’t they.
Though, he did not comment and simply tasted the noodles and paused, blinking.
The flavor was unfamiliar, yet rich and layered, as if it had been simmering for a long time, every seasoning placed with quiet intention. It was far better than he had expected.
Zanka glanced at him, clearly waiting for a reaction.
“…Wow,” Enjin said softly. “This is really, really good.”
“If you want…” Zanka said after a moment, still visibly processing the praise. He adjusted his grip on his chopsticks before continuing. “I can make manju too. Though I’m not sure we have the right ingredients here.”
Enjin hummed quietly in response, as he ate and also watched Zanka eat quietly, too slowly, each swallow still difficult, as if he were counting every bite.
The first day Zanka had come to live with him, Enjin had bought burgers on the way back. Zanka had sat at the table for nearly an hour, staring at the food without touching it. Silent. Empty eyed. At the time, Enjin had wondered if the food simply did not suit him, too plain, or too different from what he was used to.
Later, he would understand it had never been about the food.
“You don’t have to rush,” Enjin said gently after finishing his bowl and setting the chopsticks down. “Eat as much as you can.”
Zanka glanced up at him, startled.
“You worked hard on this,” Enjin continued. “It’d be a shame if I were the only one who finished it.”
That did it.
Zanka hesitated, then slowly lifted his chopsticks again. His shoulders relaxed, just a fraction.
Enjin rested his hands on the table, watching quietly. When a strand of Zanka’s hair slipped forward, threatening to dip into the broth, Enjin reached out and tucked it behind his ear.
Zanka stiffened at the touch. His rhythm faltered, and the tips of his ears flushed red.
Enjin realized something else, too. The hair brushing against his fingers was longer than before. The thought came unbidden: Zanka was growing. Beautifully so, without effort. No makeup, no perfume, no piercings or dyed hair. Just natural, refined, elegant in a way that did not need embellishment.
“Zanka,” Enjin said casually. “Do you like earrings?”
Zanka blinked. “Huh? Why?”
Enjin shrugged. “I just thought you might suit a pair. Maybe something long. Blue, perhaps.”
Zanka’s gaze drifted upward, lingering a moment too long on Enjin’s own earrings. When Enjin was about to look back at him, Zanka quickly looked away.
“I think,” he said softly, “they might suit me.”
Enjin smiled, choosing not to comment on the reason he suspected lay behind that answer.
“I’ll get you a pair someday.”
“That’s not necessary,” Zanka said quickly. “You’ve already done enough for me. I can buy them myself. Once I start missions.”
“You’re still young,” Enjin replied lightly, “and a little too independent for a kid. Let me take care of you, at least a little.”
Zanka didn’t respond, but he finished the bowl.
As soon as he set his chopsticks down, he stood, clearly intending to clean up.
“Hey,” Enjin said. “You cooked. I’ll do the dishes.”
Zanka hesitated, then nodded. He always listened obediently to what Enjin said, even when his expression made it clear he was not entirely pleased.
In the kitchen, Enjin washed while Zanka stood beside him, rinsing each bowl and placing it back on the shelf. When Zanka had first come to live with him, he needed to stand on a chair just to reach it. Now he could do it on his own.
Kids did really grow up fast, Enjin thought for himself.
He watched Zanka move, quiet and careful, and felt a steady, unfamiliar certainty settle in his chest. He wanted to see this child grow fully, to bloom in his own time. He believed in him.
Then Enjin’s eyes picked up on something else. The way Zanka lifted the bowls was slightly awkward, his wrist turning at a strange angle.
“You’re still in pain,” Enjin said.
Zanka tensed and tugged at his long sleeve, trying to hide the bandage on his wrist. “It’s better.”
“You told me it didn’t hurt anymore,” Enjin said, calm but steady. “But an injury like that doesn’t heal in a week.”
Zanka’s expression faltered, confusion and anxiety rising together. Like a child caught doing something wrong, which was clearly the case. “I wasn’t lying,” he said quickly. “I just thought I could handle it…”
“I’m not angry,” Enjin said immediately, his voice softening. “I just don’t want you to push yourself like that. You could reopen the wound.”
Zanka nodded but didn’t respond.
As Enjin finished the last of the dishes and turned to clean the sink, his mind turning over the thought again. How had this child managed to cook such complicated meals with his injuries, all alone before Enjin came home? He had really pushed himself too hard. Maybe it was the result of all those long days living under his family’s high expectations.
Enjin remembered that just a week ago, he had come home late and found Zanka in his bedroom, a knife on the floor and blood running down his palm. His hands had shaken so much while he wrapped the wound, and the panic did not ease until he reached Eishia’s room.
He wasn’t sure if he should show her. She was only Zanka’s age, and he worried she might panic too if she woke up and saw the scene. But she was the only healer on the team, the only medical person he could think of, and probably the only one he could reach at that moment. Somehow, when it came to doing her job, she stayed calm, very different from her usual shy self. Enjin felt a small relief when she confirmed it was not a suicide attempt.
It was self-harm, caused by stress that had built up over a long time and by Zanka not knowing how to express it. She gave him some medicine and told Enjin to make sure he took it on time.
That night, after everything was cleaned up and Enjin had changed the bandage on Zanka’s wrist and reminded him to take his medicine, Zanka curled up on the sofa. A blanket draped over his shoulders, he leaned against the corner of the room, a comic open in his hands and a bear plushie hugged to his chest, both gifts from Enjin. It was as if he was trying to create a sense of safety for himself. His eyes were focused, and though he wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t tense either.
Enjin remembered when Zanka first moved in. He had brought only a few clothes and a pile of books from home, all dense, difficult texts - the kind even an adult like Enjin struggled to understand. It had bothered him, seeing a child burdened with so much. Zanka was talented, knowledgeable, independent, almost perfect, but at what cost?
That was why Enjin had decided to pull him out of it, buying some teenage comics and a few toys, small things to let him just be a kid.
Though so, Enjin slowly sat down beside him, trying not to interrupt Zanka’s reading flow, but close enough that Zanka flinched for a moment. Zanka looked like he forced himself so hard to continue to focus on the story, trying to hide his hesitation at the closeness.
“So… is it a good story?” Enjin asked softly.
Zanka’s eyes flicked up. He chewed the inside of his cheek, fingers gripping the comic as if analyzing it under a microscope. “It’s… acceptable,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “The plot has a few inconsistencies, and the ending was-”
Enjin chuckled, leaned closer, and draped an arm gently around Zanka’s shoulders, eyes peering at the comic. “Stop analyzing it. You like it, don’t you? And look,” he said, pointing, “this character is clearly you, so powerful and so cool.”
Heat rose to Zanka’s cheeks. Enjin was always close, always praising him so casually, yet somehow he still got affected every time. He shifted slightly, hugging the plushie a little tighter, trying to hide the small smile tugging at his lips again, but Enjin already saw it anyway.
“I… appreciate it,” he admitted quietly, looking away as if afraid Enjin might see his expression. “It’s… what you bought for me anyway.”
Enjin smirked. “So you do like it. That’s all that matters.”
Later, when they went to bed, Enjin lay behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him close. He pulled the blanket up to cover them, then his hand slid to Zanka’s bandaged wrist, fingers curling around it instinctively.
It wasn’t always like this. Sometimes Zanka pulled away, making it clear he didn’t want to be touched. Enjin respected that.
Tonight, Zanka didn’t move. But his shoulders slightly trembled.
Enjin felt it immediately, the quiet sobs barely audible in the dark. Zanka was crying. Without thinking, he tightened his hold.
Only then did Zanka realize: Enjin was scared. Not angry. Not disappointed.
Despite how cheerful and light Enjin appeared on the outside, deep down he was always afraid that Zanka might cut himself again.
Guilt surged through him, sharp and suffocating. He bit down on his lower lip, hard, grounding himself in the sting.
“Zanka,” Enjin murmured. “Your mouth.”
Zanka flinched, realizing that Enjin had leaned forward to look. Blood smeared red against pale skin.
Enjin was on his feet in an instant, switching on the light and grabbing towels and antiseptic. He worked mindfully, though his hands trembled more than he wanted them to.
“You really have a lot of ways to hurt yourself,” he said quietly as he wiped the blood from Zanka’s lips. There was no accusation in his voice, only exhaustion.
“I didn’t mean to,” Zanka whispered. “I didn’t even notice until you said something.”
The antiseptic burned. Zanka squeezed his eyes shut but didn’t pull away. The sting was sharp, but the warmth of Enjin’s hands stayed. Traces of tears clung under his eyes, shimmering in the bedroom light.
“I’m sorry…” Zanka said suddenly, hesitant. “About my wrist. I’m sorry I lied.”
Enjin paused, listening.
“It still hurts when I do things,” Zanka continued, his voice unsteady. “It hurts a lot.” He swallowed. “But if I just sit still all the time, it feels like I can’t breathe.”
“I know,” Enjin said quietly. “That’s why I told you not to push yourself, and to tell me whenever something hurts. That’s all I ask.”
Zanka nodded.
“Done,” Enjin said as he closed the lid of the antiseptic bottle. Then he glanced at Zanka’s mouth, brow lifting slightly. “Still… I don’t think I could bite my own lip until it bleeds. You’re really something.”
Zanka blinked. “That’s not a compliment, right…”
“No,” Enjin said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That’s me saying you’re under way too much pressure.”
When the lights were turned off again, Enjin lay down behind him. This time, his hold was looser, more cautious. Not restraining him, not letting go. Just enough to say he was still there.
If he could, Enjin thought, he would smooth away every pain this child carried, fix every scar on his arm, even heal the fractures in his heart. But he couldn’t. All he could do was stay.
He wanted more time with Zanka, because their future still waited ahead. Days for laughter, for meals shared, for learning, for fixing mistakes, for growing together. Days until Zanka could finally show him he could be something even more than a genius.
And whatever challenges lay ahead, whatever darkness might come, Enjin would face them with him. For tonight, and for every night after, he would hold him close and let him know he was not alone.
Enjin exhaled softly, resting his cheek against the top of Zanka’s head. For now, that was enough.
He stayed awake a little longer, listening, making sure Zanka had fallen asleep.
And when sleep finally took them both, the night remained quiet, holding them safe.