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There was something about being touched that Zanka had always been particular about, there were certain places he just didn’t like such as the small of his back, his throat, his elbows, his shoulders. It wasn’t so much a fear as it was an aversion. People could and did touch him in those spots and he wouldn’t flinch, wouldn’t make a face, or say anything at all, he’d just brush it off until he was alone and could scrub away the weight that remained from the pressure however fleeting it was.
It was an unavoidable part of his old austere life, being measured for uniforms, numbers jotted on a notepad as he stood straight and allowed the tailors to wind tape around him. Waist, chest, shoulder, sleeve length, inseam. He was no stranger to the process having grown up in such a prominent family within the Kamituri district, his family had kimonos for every city event and holiday custom made. He would stand stock still, comply with every instruction without a word of protest under his father’s watchful eye, he had a reputation to uphold after all.
When he defected and left the Hell Guards a part of him expected to rid himself of the rigidity of tailoring, but that was a moot point. While the Cleaners were lucky to have August, other organizations like the Raiders looked like they’d added on pieces of their trademark purple quilts to existing outfits rather than fully designed uniforms, it also meant the teenager was constantly working on new designs that required updated measurements. Despite having all of the cleaners and supporters measurements stored away on a notepad, it was more often than not hidden under piles of fabric and linings. Instead of doing the rational thing and simply organizing his workspace, August would just carry a tape measure in his pocket and lunge at whoever he needed whenever he needed a specific measurement. Once Delmon had been in the middle of the entryway, right in front of Semiu’s desk when August caught him to measure his neck because he could never remember the exact number and wouldn’t dare risk throwing off the entire composition if he was off by even a centimeter.
Zanka was spared the mortification by making it a point to go to August's studio every few weeks so that the boy couldn’t get the jump on him. He had his standard measurements memorized, but August always needed something strange like his wrist or the length from his shoulder to ear. It was enough that it made him uncomfortable, he didn’t need the additional embarrassment of stripping to his underclothes in front of an audience as Delmon had been forced to do. The brush of the blonde's hand against his waist as the tape was tightened for accuracy had Zanka’s skin burning, but at least he could turn his face away and grimace without anyone noticing, August too absorbed by his task and ramblings to see it.
There had never been a reason for it, unlike his mother who actually did have flareups where her skin hurt if anything grazed it, fingers, fabric, countertops, she’d hiss under her breath and apply ointments to numb the pain. A soreness that would come and go on random patches of skin without reason, splotchy and red, yet his was constant and only when other people touched him in select spots. His mother had given him her doctor’s recommendations and prescriptions; salt baths and creams, but none of it did anything. The burn lingered, soaking in epsom salt water provided no relief, only scrubbing his skin until it was raw and rosy made the burn go away.
It wasn’t the healthiest way to deal with it, but he’d never been one to shy away from the unorthodox. He wore long sleeves and pants at all times, kept as much of his skin covered to avoid accidental touches that sent him reeling. His hands, palms and fingers were fine. Riyo would fist bump him, Enjin would help him up, no pain, no burn, a safe zone.
He yearned for gentle touches, firm pushes against his flesh that didn’t hurt but he couldn’t bring himself to test it out. Eishia’s delicate fingers that fluttered over his ribs as she redid the bandages hurt more than the scabbed wounds. Guita’s claws shoved his arm away during dinner to protect her dessert damn near left scorch marks in their wake. No one else could see it, there was no rash, no redness, no bumps or abrasions to indicate an injury.
“Psychosomatic,” Alice yelled when Zanka finally mustered up the courage to ask her about it, “it’s in your head.”
Stressed induced, anxiety manifesting, a defense mechanism, every explanation washed over him like a cool tidal wave. Dragged him out to a sea of isolation, a creation of his subconscious. His body’s way of protecting him from… what? It had been there since he was a child, so far back he couldn't even remember when it began. This wasn’t something he could battle, an opponent to take down, a skill to learn and best. His own mind had failed him.
With that knowledge, it became second nature to keep his guard up, walls carefully constructed to keep his mind and body safe. If there was nothing he could do about it, then he wouldn't. Additional layers were added to his uniform, he stayed away from group celebration and overly touchy locals. He kept his distance in every way that he could.
His team seemed to pick up on it, Enjin would keep his distance and only touch where Zanka reciprocated. They’d clasp hands, over layers of cloth he’d clap a hand on Zanka’s shoulder for a job well done. Firm and quick, never lasting more than a second. Riyo had poked and prodded at him their first few months working together, her fingers digging into his sides to get him to keel. It was friendly, something he’d seen close friends and siblings do back at home that he’d never experienced until meeting her. Somehow she knew where not to touch him, poked at his chest and fingers to catch his attention. It still hurt, when their touches strayed and he could feel the mental blisters beginning to form.
The first time he’d ever been touched without it aching in some way was by a new supporter who’d placed his gloved hand on the small of his back to help steady Zanka while walking across uneven terrain. He’d been lost in thought, strategizing for the upcoming trash beasts when a pile of rubble he’d stepped on shifted. At the time he hadn't even noticed, the lack of consequence from the firm press slipped by as they completed their mission. It was when he was alone that night stripping off his uniform that he noticed the scuff of dirt, the memory of the supporter’s gentle guidance slammed to the forefront.
Follo Tunito had managed to touch him without any misery, Zanka felt almost giddy at the realization. He wanted more, wanted to test just how far Follo could touch before… what the fuck was he thinking. There was no way it was anything more than a fluke, the extra layer of his undershirt doing its job. He shook away the notion, determined to avoid Follo’s touch altogether. Unwilling to be let down.
It was an objective doomed for failure, the overeager teen was seemingly a magnet for affection. He was always hanging off of Gris or playing with the kids of Team Child. He strained as Guita hung off of his arm and Dear Santa checked his pockets for sweets. Tomme would nudge her shoulder against his as they walked, Riyo had poked his stomach to make him laugh. It was so foreign to him, how easily he accepted it all, even the noogie he received from Enjin after he stole the last biscuit at breakfast. He fit in, plain and simple. Follo had managed to befriend everyone so quickly, it filled Zanka with a nasty emotion he refused to name.
Objectively he knew he could reach out and touch Follo the same as the others, but the fear of reciprocation, of Follo slinging an arm around his shoulders, had his hackles raising. What if it hurt? What if it really was a fluke and Follo hurt him? That wasn’t a risk he was willing to take, preferring to live with the fact that it was his choice to not initiate rather than his body taking away his chance.
As with all things, fate was determined to foil his plans. He’d taken a bad beating, a trash beast that had lunged from its hiding place and stomped down on his leg, shattering it. The pain was searing, pieces of bone peeked through his pants as blood began to pool around him. Enjin distracted the beast and used Umbreaker to lure it farther from Zanka and the town. He tried to even his breathing, eyes blurring, hands shaking as he fumbled to make a tourniquet with a ripped piece of his pants. He couldn't focus with the sound of metal shredding around him, thunderous crashes of trash plummeting to the earth disorienting him when a figure appeared before him. So out of it, he let the blurry figure take control. He let his eyes slip closed as gentle hands tied the fabric tight, slipped beneath him and supported his weight. One hand hooked under his knees, the other pressed flat against his ribs under his arm.
Between lack of blood and exhaustion Zanka couldn't keep his body going, he blacked out, unconscious to the panicked voice calling to him. When he awoke he found himself staring at the roof of the van as Gris sped toward town, dazed he tried to sit up before being shushed, a gentle touch swiped across his forehead pushing his bangs back. He was strewn across the backseat with his head on Follo’s lap, concern etched on the older boy's features as he stared down at Zanka.
“Are you alright?” Follo asked, his hand combing through Zanka’s sweat matted hair. When his sister had played with his hair as a child, kept long by her insistence, it always hurt when she ran her comb along his scalp. Tenderheaded, she’d tease because no matter how delicate her touch the lines of pain followed.
“I ain't dead yet.” He mumbled as he stared at Follo. It didn't make any sense, he should be writhing from every point of contact yet all he found was a soothing warmth. A comfort that seeped into his bones and made him drowsy.
“Don’t go falling asleep on me.” Follo whispered, his nails raking against Zanka’s temple. It felt so good, his eyelashes fluttered as golden eyes widened.
“Quit yer worryin’ I’m fine.” And for once he meant it. He let Follo play with his hair, listened to him talk about some book Tomme was reading and felt the most at ease that he’d ever been. When they made it back to base he was hurried off to the infirmary, Eishia’s worried fretting triggering a headache as her hands painfully pressed against his shin. A rude awakening to how relaxed he’d been in Follo’s embrace. He flushed at the thought, it wasn't like that. Follo was being a good supporter by performing first aid and keeping him awake to prevent deterioration of his condition but he couldn't help that he wanted more.
Eishia had managed to reset his leg in a matter of hours with no residual damage or scarring. Follo’s initial contribution had definitely helped speed along the process, yet he was nowhere to be found as Zanka wandered the halls. Aibo kept him upright, he was exhausted from the fight and electrocution. He wanted to sleep, could have very well stayed in the medical wing as Eishia instructed, but he couldn't. A nagging prickle in his nerves sent him searching for Follo. He wasn’t sure if it was to simply thank him for his good deed, or… he wouldn't let himself wish for more. He wasn't even sure what more meant to him as he turned the corner and found himself face to face with Follo.
“Hey Zanka, how’re you-”
“Will you sleep with me?”
Zanka blurted his question at the same time as Follo, his face reddening at the realization of what he’d said. A look of shock and confusion spread across Follo’s face as the words sunk in.
“I didn’t- look I just-” Embarrassment increased with every stutter, his grip on Aibo tightening unconsciously. He couldn't believe how stupid he was, he should have stayed in the infirmary and coaxed some sleeping pills out of Eishia. Then he wouldn't be in this mess.
“Dude it's fine, you meant like a sleepover right?” Ever helpful Follo, his dismissal and very plausible explanation would have been perfect if not for his face being the same shade as a pomegranate. They stared at each other in silence, tension so thick in the air he was suffocating on it.
Words failed him, so Zanka did the only rational thing he could think of. He ran, or rather he tried to. Follo’s lightning fast grip wrapped around his wrist like a vice, keeping Zanka in place. He stared in awe at their connection, warmth blooming under his skin and up his arm, blissfully free from pain.
“Come on.” Ever gentle, Follo led Zanka to his room. Up the stairs, across corridors, through his bedroom door, he didn’t let go. His hand slid, hold loosening just enough to clasp his hand with Zanka’s, their fingers interwoven as their arms swayed between them. An odd feeling overtook Zanka as he stepped into the quaint bedroom, a buzzing in the pit of his stomach that had his lips curling, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep his expression in check as Follo finally released him and Zanka found he already missed it, missed him despite being mere inches apart.
“So uh…” Follo scratched the back of his neck, eyes averted to the ceiling as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. That eased Zanka’s nerves, Follo was just as nervous, out of his depth just the same. He set Aibo aside, gently lent her against the wall beside the door so he could keep her in sight.
“Big or little?” Follo squeaked out, still staring off.
“What?” Zanka didn’t understand, watched as blood pooled under the thin skin of Follo’s cheeks, like a watercolor flower blooming to life.
“Spoon.”
“I’m not following.” With a garbled noise, Follo pressed the heel of his palm to his lips, fingers curled in like he was going to bite his nails. Unsure, Zanka walked over to the bed. It was standard issue, the same metal frame and mattress in his own bedroom, only it had a baby blue blanket folded over the middle like a sash. Plaid bedding, a matching set of sheets and pillowcase comprised of a soft cotton weave and little lace adornments on the edges. He ran the tips of his fingers along the edge, the frilly lace dancing under his touch.
“My grandma made it.” Follo explained, his voice a little shaky as he moved closer. Their shoulders brushed as Follo took his place next to Zanka, he picked up the corner of the sheet and pulled it back gesturing for Zanka to lay down. “She was the town quilter, but her real love was making lace. She had this green tatting shuttle, it’s clicking would put me to sleep as a baby. So she would make lace while I slept to add to my sheets.”
Zanka shed his outer coat, hooked it on the corner of the bed post and shuffled onto the bed under the sheet as Follo spoke. He was left in his sleep shirt and pants, arms exposed. The sheet billowed as Follo joined him, fluttered against his exposed arms like a gentle breeze. They were squeezed in next to each other, both laid on their backs as the sheet settled on top of them. It was awkward to say the least and Zanka was beginning to regret his request.
“Can I touch you?” Follo asked, his head turned to the side to look at Zanka. Gold captured blue, held him hostage as he debated it. He wanted it so badly, craved Follo’s gentle touch more than anything in that moment. He wanted to feel the impression of Follo’s fingers digging into his skin. Zanka nodded, reasoning and explanations caught in his throat as Follo rolled onto his side.
Cautiously, as if handling a frightened cat, Follo maneuvered Zanka to copy his position. Laying on his side facing the wall, he felt a bit more at ease. There were pictures just above him, along the length of the bed. Little snippets of Follo’s childhood, pictures of family and friends in various situations caught in candid shots smiling and laughing.
Absorbed by a particular image of a woman with dark hair and eyes, grinning despite tears running down her cheeks with tiny socks dangling from her fingers, Zanka didn’t initially notice Follo shifting behind him. Rustling as he shuffled in closer, pressed himself against Zanka, his chest to his back, legs intertwined as he got comfortable. Unconsciously, Zanka pressed back into Follo, until every nook and cranny was filled. It was warm, the arm that slipped over and around his waist, shaken fingers that skimmed the hem of his shirt.
Zanka held his breath as Follo’s fingers dipped below his shirt, trailed along his stomach and flattened out against his chest, his heart damn near hammered out of his rib cage. Yet nothing hurt. The pain that lit his skin ablaze was absent, in its wake was only comfort. The tense guard of his body eased, he allowed himself to sink further into Follo’s tender touch.
Eyes slipping closed, Zanka lolled his head to the side as Follo’s hand continued its ascent, dragging his shirt up slightly as he cupped his palm against Zanka’s throat. His wrist and forearm splayed across the front of his chest, he lay at Follo’s mercy, warm fingertips dug gently against his artery. Even pressure along the front of his throat, oh so warm and relaxing.
Zanka hates the cold, has ever since he was a little boy. He did what he could to prevent it. Wearing layer upon layer of clothing, turtlenecks beneath jackets, long sleeves under his shirts, he preferred to be warm in the desert. With Follo wrapped around him, he felt like a small animal hibernating for the winter. He listened to Follo’s peaceful breathing, felt the push of his chest with every inhale against his back and the wispy exhale tickling against the nape of his neck. He fell into the rhythm, steady under Follo’s care, lulled into the serene caress of sleep.
He woke slowly, desperately clinging to sleep, he whined softly as warm rays danced across his skin. His alarm hadn’t gone off, he had time to sleep in and so he kept his eyes closed and tried to summon back his dream. Something fantastical about creatures and witches, he was so close, awaiting arms of slumber reaching out for him, when something moved beneath him. He blinked awake, squinting against the morning light as his eyes adjusted to see he was not in his bed. This wasn’t his room. Memories of the night prior flooded into his mind with his consciousness, embarrassment and shame fighting for dominance.
“Mornin’” Follo mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. His breath was hot against Zanka’s neck, lips grazing his nape. Follo’s arm was still tucked under Zanka’s shirt, resting across his stomach and pinned between his waist and the mattress. He began to tense, unsure of how to navigate the situation.
“Good morning.” Zanka croaked, debating the time it would take him to jump out of the bed, collect Aibo, and dash to his room. He doubted Follo was awake enough to stop him this time, but a nagging feeling kept him from actually moving. He didn’t want to leave.
“Sleep ok?” Follo continued, his other arm slinking beneath Zanka to wrap firmly around his waist, locking him in place. He pondered that as Follo blearily rubbed his face against Zanka’s shoulder like a dog. It was cute, the soft noises Follo let out as he shifted and stretched behind Zanka, legs unfurling, the bed shaking lightly as he tensed, yet he never let go of Zanka’s waist. A child with his favorite plush toy, comforted by their presence.
“Honestly that was the best sleep I’ve had in a while.” He admitted honestly, for the first time in who knows how long, he slept soundly. He didn’t wake up exhausted, didn’t take hours of tossing and turning to fall asleep just to be awoken by every little noise.
“I’m glad. You looked spent yesterday, I know Eishia's healing can be-“ cut off by a yawn, Follo snuggled in closer, his mouth ghosting Zanka’s ear, “taxing.”
“What about you?” Zanka attempted to look over his shoulder, his nose knocked into Follo’s chin, but neither boy moved. Follo’s eyes were shut, a small smile gracing his lips as he hummed, the sound reverberating through his chest. Dark lashes fluttered open, golden irises alight with mirth revealed the glee Follo felt.
“I slept really well.” He admitted, “Though my arm is asleep and I’m dreading the pins and needles to follow.”
“Shit- you shoulda said something.” Before Zanka could scramble away, push himself out of Follo’s comforting embrace and help massage the horrid static feeling out, Follo laughed and pulled him impossibly closer. Even crushing his ribs, air forcefully expelled from his lungs, Zanka wasn’t in pain. Elated, he joined in Follo’s laughter albeit softer.
They laid there, under the plaid sheets and light blue blanket as the sun made its ascent, talking about any and everything that came to mind. At one point Zanka reached up and traced the figures in the photographs above the bed, Follo providing context.
“That’s my mom.” He explained as Zanka touched the photo that had captivated him the night prior. The woman is pretty, her hair done up in a bun with dark tendrils escaping to frame her face. Her eyes looked nearly black, squinted happily as she smiled.
“That’s how she broke the news to my dad, that she was pregnant with me.” Follo, for the first time since they’d laid down, let go of Zanka and reached beyond him to the photograph. Tan fingers grazed his, little electric shocks buzzed pleasantly through his skin, tapped the socks his mother was holding. “There’s a picture of me at home wearing these socks, my grandma made them.”
“Same one who made the lace?” Zanka asked, trying to picture it. Despite a lot of his clothing being tailor made, nothing was made by his family. No hand me downs from his siblings or cousins, everything fresh and brand new for him.
“The very same. Dads an only child, so she was super excited and worked with Mama to surprise him.” He could feel the smile against his skin, lips pressed against his neck. Zanka felt the same fluttering in his stomach, Follo sharing not only his bed but all the little bits of his history made him feel so giddy.
Suddenly a pop song, one by that artist Enjin liked whose name Zanka could never remember, blared through the room.
“Well. Time to get up.” Follo sighed, although he made no attempt to move as the song continued. Zanka could feel the hum of Follo singing along and if the music wasn’t so loud he would’ve fallen right back asleep. The song looped, the same catchy beat beginning to annoy Zanka.
“Alright.” Zanka pushed himself up, a whine leaving Follo’s lips as he fell back against the bed. Zanka stared down at him, the boy's arms still clasped around his waist as he curled behind Zanka in a desperate attempt to keep him in place.
“I ain’t listening to this again, Follo. Lemme up.” Zanka drawled, enjoying Follo’s reaction. He crawled over Follo, ignored the hands grabbing at the back of his shirt and crossed the bedroom. Slamming the button of the alarm, the room was blissfully silent. He stretched out his stagnant limbs, up on his tip toes with his arms above his head.
“You look like a cat.” Follo called from the bed, still mourning the loss of Zanka’s warmth.
“You look like a-” Zanka quipped, turning to look over his shoulder and was hit with the sight of Follo laid out; his arms tucked behind his head, one leg hung over the edge of the bed swinging back and forth as his heel tapped against the bed frame. He looked-
“Like a…” Follo smirked, clearly enjoying whatever look was plastered on Zanka’s face.
“Like a hamster.”
“What? No I don’t!” Follo shot up, hands on his knees as he stared at Zanka in disbelief. “I’m like, at least a hound. A hamster?”
“What’s wrong with hamsters?” Zanka deadpanned, drawing it out. He stalked towards Follo, playing the part of a feline hunting its prey.
“They’re… I dunno. Cute? Defenseless?” Follo swallowed, hands tensing.
“Mm.” Zanka hummed, coming to a stop in between Follo’s legs. He trailed his fingers up, along the line of Follo’s arm and to his shoulder, he shoved lightly, pushing the older teen onto his back with a yelp. “Cute ‘n defenseless.”
Emotions plastered so easily across Follo’s face with the way he flushed a pretty pink, golden eyes that betrayed his every thought as Zanka stared down at him. Laughter bubbled out of him, a restrained chuckle that earned him long legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him forward until he fell onto Follo, his restraint breaking as he all but cackled in his face.
“I’ll show you defenseless.” Follo dug his fingers into Zanka’s sides, tickling him. Zanka gasped, unable to stop the assault he laughed and squirmed under Follo’s touch. He tipped to the side, pulling Follo with him until the older boy was straddling him, legs trapped under Zanka’s back. It bordered on painful, but not his touch.
“Fine! I give!” Zanka yelled, lungs aching with effort. In an instant Follo raised his hands, broad smile spread across his lips as he eyed Zanka.
“Better?” A halo of sunlight illuminated his dark hair, little blue highlights Zanka had never noticed before. Golden eyes glittered, formed into little crescents that looked so much like his mother in the photograph.
“Huh?”
“I dunno, you seemed really,” Follo’s smile faltered, “guarded lately.”
What was there to say? That he’d lived on eggshells his entire life and once he caught a glimpse of normalcy he was scared to ruin it? To be caught hoping for something beyond his reach, too weak to grasp it in his hands? Now he had it and could be touched by Follo without writhing in his skin, no need to claw at phantom soreness that plagued his youth.
“Yea. I’d say I’m doing better.” Zanka acquiesced, casting aside his demons for the moment. “Don't tell any of those scuzzballs about this okay? I don't need them harping on me.”
“It can be our little secret Zan-Zan” Follo teased leaning in, hips digging into Zanka’s waist, the pressure reassuring, “Same time tonight?”
“Yours or mine?” Zanka negotiated, cocking his head to the side. The flirtation was new, though far from unexpected after their night together and Zanka found himself wanting to press Follo further, egg on the older boy to see when he’d break.
“Wherever you’ll be the most comfortable.” Follo smiled so serenely, his sincerity seeped into his tone.
“Here.” More an exhale than a whisper, Zanka gave in. His hands trailed along Follo’s thighs, pressed firmly at the juncture of his hips. Given permission, Zanka claimed everything Follo gave him. Reluctantly he allowed Follo to slide off his lap, playing with the lace on the edge of the bedding as the teen ducked into the adjacent en suite, water pummeling against the porcelain of his sink as he went about his morning routines.
Well rested and brimming with joy, Zanka stretched out on the bed, hands knocked into the wall, his feet caught the edge of his bedframe. He groaned low in his throat, years of uncertainty and tension fading away. Aware that it was likely just with Follo, Zanka would still have to keep his guard up, still protect the sensitive sections of his skin from the press of others, but with Follo he could let his guard down. Finally able to rest easy in the reprieve of this room.