Chapter Text
From: [email protected]
Subject: Financial Separation
Father has requested you cut your credit cards in half. Please send photo evidence after you do so.
Thank you,
Kyouka Nijiku
Zanka stares down at his phone, eyes scanning the words on his screen once more. And then again, and then one final time.
He slowly puts it facedown on the couch next to him, mostly so he won’t throw it at the wall. This is absolute bullshit.
The disowning? Yeah, not great, but Zanka knew what he was getting into when he dropped out of university. The deactivation of all bank accounts associated with him? Yeah, Zanka gets that too—his tuition was nothing more than a business expense, after all. Studying sports medicine at some random college in The Ground isn’t good for the Nijiku name, or whatever.
That fucking email, though? A humiliation ritual. The cards aren’t even connected to anything anymore, and Zanka couldn’t use them even if he tried.
He knows what his father is doing, and tries his best to ignore it. Dragging things out won’t work on him anymore. He’s five hundred miles away from the Nijiku estate, turning over a fresh new leaf in a city where he has friends. Where he’s going to pursue something he’s passionate about. Where the most his family can do to reach him is send an email.
For the first time in probably forever, Zanka is free.
He should be happy about that. Over the moon, in fact, but Zanka can’t help the way his fists clench, the way he keeps glancing back at his phone like he wants to murder it. The irritation still boils hot inside him, unwanted but still there all the same.
Tamping down his anger has always been hard for him. Zanka needs to get himself together.
His phone buzzes again. When he flips it over to look at it, a notification from Riyo fills the screen, and Zanka taps on it. It expands, leaving the email from Kyouka out of sight(out of mind, too, Zanka tells himself, but that’s never really true, is it?).
Riyo (11:07)
hows the apartment??!?!?
Me (11:07)
Good, I’m settling in alright.
Really big though. Might turn that extra bedroom into an office maybe
Riyo (11:07)
OFFICE
youre so lame omg
but yeah its a steal right
Me (11:08)
Yeah. Thanks for setting me up
I really couldn’t have done all this without you. Thank you
Riyo (11:08)
AWWWW ZANKA BOOOOO
DONT MAKE ME CRU
id do it a thousand times over u deserve to live ur lifeeeeee
i love you so much fuck ur stupid dad and Hellguard corp they can rot
Me (11:09)
Love you too
Riyo (11:09)
ZANKAAAAAAAA
<3333333
Me (11:09)
Okay no more sweet stuff. I’m nauseous
Riyo (11:10)
ok timmy tuffknuckles
Wiat omg
August is hosting a mixer tn you HAVEEEE to come
we can celebrate ur liberation omg omg pls come
wait you have no choice im making u
pulling up to ur apartment at 6 tyvm see you soon
Zanka doesn’t bother arguing. Whenever Riyo says he’s going out, he’s going out, no ifs, ands, or buts. It’s kind of annoying, but Zanka knows she’s just trying to get him out of his own head most of the time. Besides, Zanka does kind of need that right now, and he doesn’t have much to do today anyways. A party can’t hurt.
In the hours before Riyo comes, Zanka gets the last of his stuff unpacked: all of the whittling tools he brought from home, the wooden sculptures that he couldn’t seem to part with, and Aibō with her case.
She was the first thing he’d ever (successfully) made when he picked up the hobby at thirteen, carved from a large oak branch he found in the woods behind the Nijiku estate after his parents kicked him out for a week. Her wood is smooth and worn from years of use, bandages wrapped around the points where Zanka’s hands lay to help with the grip. Though her shape means Zanka’s never fought with her in an official bōjutsu match, he’s never practiced with anything else.
She can’t stay hidden in such a plain case. He should mount her on the wall—in glass, maybe. That’d be nice.
For now, though, she stays safe under his bed, and the sculptures get lined up on the bookcase in his room. The roll of tools are deposited into the drawer attached to his desk, and then Zanka is officially all moved in.
He kills time by getting his computer organized for the coming week. After that, he throws on a random hoodie and a pair of jeans, then sits around on his phone, waiting for Riyo to break down his door and demand he change into something sluttier.
Bang. “GOOD MORNING!”
“Hi, Riyo.” He looks up from his phone to where she’s posed up at the door, and he can’t help but smile. “It’s six in the evenin’. Don’t put a dent in my wall, thanks.”
“Oh my god, shut up, you know you’re happy to see me.”
Zanka groans at that, but gives her a hug when she skips over anyway. She smells like a salon: fruity conditioner and the warm scent of blow-dried hair. Zanka’s guess is she just came from doing a demo on someone. “Maybe a little.”
“Yeah. I know. I’m amazing.” Riyo flops down on the couch next to him, scooting up so their shoulders touch. “Is this what you’re wearing?”
There it is. “Yeah.”
“Any chance I could—“
“No.” Usually, Riyo loves playing dress-up with Zanka as the mannequin, and he normally won’t complain, but he’s…in a mood right now. He’d rather just get pizza and go. ”Sorry.”
When Zanka gets like this, Riyo also has an uncanny ability for sussing it out. She clocks Zanka stewing in his anger immediately, pouting and putting her head on Zanka’s shoulder. Her hair tickles his cheek a bit, but he doesn’t mind. “Aw, what’s wrong?”
“Nothin’.” Zanka shakes his head. “It’s stupid,” he says, because it is. No one in their right mind should be this upset over an email.
“If it’s bothering you, it’s not stupid.”
Zanka can’t count the number of times Riyo’s repeated that phrase to him. He knows she’s probably right, but it never seems to stick. Downplaying things is one of his specialties, unfortunately.
He sighs, opening his phone and scrolling through the app library just to have something to do with his hands. “Not much to tell. My family’s a buncha’ assholes, what's new?”
Riyo huffs. “Dicks. Wanna rant about it over pizza?”
“…Yeah. Okay.”
Riyo drags Zanka out of his apartment by the wrist, taking them to the pizza place right on the street corner where she orders them both pepperoni slices and garlic knots. Zanka tries to pay, but she swats his hand away, pulling out some assorted bills and sliding them to the teenage worker behind the counter.
They eat outside at a tiny table stationed under the shop’s awning. Zanka explains the whole credit-card-email thing in between bites of the literal balls of grease they’re eating, and it gets him upset all over again; Riyo has to step on his foot lightly to keep his knee from bouncing too aggressively against the bottom of the table. Through all of Zanka’s raving, she listens, and she nods, and she understands, and it’s little moments like these that Zanka wonders where he’d be without her.
In jail for aggravated assault, probably. Riyo keeps him in check.
August’s house is a ten minute drive from the pizza place, and Riyo calls them an uberto hop into to get there. Zanka’s still…not in the greatest of moods, but Riyo talking about all the clients she practices on at the salon helps calm him. He doesn’t really respond, but he knows Riyo knows he’s listening even as he stares out of the window at the buildings zooming by.
Zanka really shouldn’t let things like this get to him. It spoils the mood.
The party sucks.
Which, no it doesn’t, Zanka is just being a dick.
The house is packed, August’s living room filled with drunk college students and the floor covered in solo cups with their contents either spilled or chugged. The bass of whatever music August is mixing at the DJ table bumps a steady rhythm through the whole house, reverberating off of the walls and supressing the sheer volume of the people inside. Zanka feels the beat thud inside his head, a feeling that he can’t decide if he likes or not yet.
He’s standing in a corner somewhere since all the couches are full of people making (or greening) out, nursing a drink that’s about ninety percent tequila thanks to Riyo. She left him about an hour ago to go score with a cheerleader, but every ten or so minutes she comes by, swapping out his cup for some different concoction with the declaration that he needs to loosen up.
And Zanka does. Kind of. Observing the people dancing and talking puts him a little more at ease, the perpetual noise drowning out most of the negative thoughts in his head. It does help that he’s about six drinks in; everything’s taking a backseat right now.
So, he just kind of leans against the wall, watching the bodies packed like sardines in August’s living room. Occasionally, he’ll bump shoulders with someone simply because there isn’t enough space for that not to happen, but he just moves with it, trying not to spill the rest of his drink. It’s nice, going with the flow, until Zanka’s poor bodily temperature regulation ruins it and he is suddenly extremely hot.
Draining the last of whatever poison is in the solo cup Riyo gave him, he tries to wiggle his way to the backdoor, getting relentlessly shouldered and elbowed as he does so. Unfortunately, Zanka didn’t have the foresight to put on an undershirt, so he’s stuck sweating in his hoodie while no amount of ‘excuse me’s or ‘can i get by’s help him get outside faster. His cup gets lost at some point, and his shoes get stepped on no less than seventeen times as he crams himself between the small gaps in the crowd.
Once Zanka finally stumbles outside, he's sweaty, drunk, and hot, a combination that only serves to heighten the irritation he feels creeping up on him. The cool September breeze cools him off a bit though, and he draws in the fresh air with a deep breath before surveying the yard.
Similar to his pseudo-mansion, August’s backyard is pretty big. The expanse of his lawn bleeds all the way into a forest, freshly cut grass interrupted in places by a pool, a patio, and a conversation pit. It’s much less crowded out here, people gathered into little groups here and there instead of stacked on top of each other. Someone’s playing rap music from a shitty bluetooth speaker.
Much nicer, Zanka thinks blearily. He pinches at the neck of his sweater and flaps it a few times to fan himself, looking around for someone he can bum a cigarette off of. Even though Zanka hasn’t seen Enjin in years, the smoking habit he picked up from him refuses to leave.
Riyo was Enjin’s legal ward, starting when she was thirteen—which still puzzles Zanka to this day, because according to Riyo now, he’s not a day over twenty-eight. In their teen years, every time Zanka asked Riyo how old Enjin was, she just kind of shrugged noncommittally and they moved on. Zanka didn't care enough then to do the math, nor does he now.
Every time Zanka saw Enjin, he had a lit cigarette perched between his lips. His hugs always carried the scent of pine, tobacco, and safety, and when a sixteen-year-old Riyo suggested they light up a pack she stole from him, the smoke smelled like home.
For Riyo, that was the only time. For Zanka, not so much.
He’s not an addict, by any means. He doesn’t even do it regularly. it’s more like a one-off thing every few weeks, when the opportunity presents itself–which, tonight, it doesn’t. Actually, talking to anyone before Zanka’s body decides to stop telling him it’s boiling seems like a monumental task.
He wanders over to one of August's huge potted plants, taking a seat on the lip while running his hands through his damp hair. He closes his eyes for a second, just to center himself, but they shoot back open when he feels something cold press against his thigh.
“Th’fuck?” Zanka mutters under his breath, now face to face with some random guy, beer in hand, crouching next to him.
The first thing Zanka notices about him is his hair: long, thick wicks that go down to his waist, adorned with gold cuffs and charms every so often. The metal shines nicely against his bronze skin, and Zanka thinks briefly that it’s a shame the rest of the jewelry he can see(which is a lot—dude’s got his face and ears pierced to the nines)is silver.
“Hi,” Zanka croaks at the guy–Dreads, he decides to dub him in his mind (for obvious reasons)–trying not to sound too put-out. He hopes it works.
“Hey.” Dreads’ smile reminds him a bit of a Cheshire cat’s. He taps what Zanka now realizes is another can of beer against his leg. “You look like you’re gonna fuckin’ explode.”
Right. His face must be all kinds of red. “Wow. Thanks.”
When Zanka takes it, he doesn’t crack it open just yet, wrapping his hands around the slightly wet metal and letting the cold seep into his palms. He rubs the condensation forming on the surface on the back of his neck, which doesn’t help a whole lot.
“I never seen you around here before,” Dreads tells him, like that’s odd. There are hundreds of people here tonight, let alone the amount of students on campus at Ground University. It’s college. Not everyone’s gonna know everyone. “You a freshman?”
Zanka shakes his head, looking down at his shoes. “Nah.”
“Sophomore?”
“Yeah.”
“Transfer?”
So many questions. “…Yeah.”
“What college?”
Too many questions. “Uh—“
“Where you from?” Dreads cuts him off before he gets a chance to respond, and Zanka side eyes him a bit. Undeterred, Dreads waits expectantly for an answer—which is when Zanka notices his eye color. His irises are bright, hot pink, almost iridescent in the night. Weird.
After waiting for a few seconds to see if he’ll be interrupted again, Zanka answers tentatively, “Up North.”
“In the suburbs?”
“Farther.”
“Damn, so you got money.” Dreads pauses for a second, then tilts his head to the side in thought. “Then what the hell are you doin’ all the way down here?”
This is not a question that Zanka wants to answer. He feels his own eye twitch in irritation. “Goin’ to school.”
“In The Ground? What, blew your trust fund on sumn’ else already?”
Dreads probably doesn’t mean it in any specific type of way. It’s not his fault—Zanka knows he doesn’t mean it like that, because he doesn’t know anything, but damn, does it piss him off. “Listen, man—“
“Wait, what’d you say your name was again?”
“I—“ Zanka sighs. He’s trying really hard to be polite right now. “I ain’t even tell you yet.”
Dreads blinks at him, all curious and shit like Zanka’s something to be studied. “Tell me, then.”
“Zanka. Nijiku.” Zanka looks down at the can he was given, fiddling with the tab just to have something to do with his hands. There’s a dent near the top already where he gripped it too hard, thin metal crinkled around the pad of his thumb.
Dreads clocks the name. Immediately. Of course he does. Zanka feels like offing himself when he hears that sharp intake of breath he’s grown to associate with people recognizing his family right off the bat.
“Nijiku? Like, Hell Guard Nijiku?”
No, the other Nijiku family, Zanka is tempted to say. Common misconception. He wonders if Dreads would believe that. “Yeah.”
Dreads laughs a little. Whether it’s out of disbelief or humor, Zanka doesn’t know. “Oh, you are so fucking far out of this school’s tax bracket—”
God dammit. “I really don’t wanna talk—“
“You must’ve done somethin’ terrible to end up here, then.” Dreads scoots a little closer to him, clearly intrigued. The motion causes all the jewelry he’s wearing to clink together in some places. He’s so jingly. “Come on, you can tell me,” he cajoles, tone light but somehow strangely demeaning.
Zanka does not want to have this fucking conversation right now, least of all with someone he barely knows. “Can we–”
“Pinky promise, I’m not no snitch–”
“That don’t matter, I just–”
“Stop holdin’ out on me, man–”
“--Leave it alone!” Zanka’s voice is louder than he intends it to be. “Shit. S’none of your damn business.”
And then Dreads stares at him like he’s struck gold. A slow, saccharine smile starts to split the bottom half of his face as he croons, “Ah… Rich boy’s got some spunk.”
“Alright.” Zanka’s done with this shit. He stands abruptly, ignoring the headrush it gives him in favor of trying to walk to a different spot on August’s lawn. He needs to escape whatever the fuck’s going on right now. To his chagrin, Dreads stands up with him, sliding right into his path.
Dreads has got a couple inches on him, just enough that Zanka has to look up to talk to him because of how close they are. “Move,” He growls, but he just gets a raised eyebrow in return.
“Why, you mad?”
“Yeah, ‘cause you keep pressin’ me. Move.” He steps to the side, but Dreads just copies him, blocking his way once again.
“I see why you got booted down here, now.” Dreads crosses his arms and leers, like this is a joke, “Family couldn’t tolerate that fuckin’ attitude, huh?”
Oh, hell no. “Are you tryin’ to start somethin’?” Zanka seethes. He drops his beer, hands balling into fists by his sides as he tries valiantly not to do something he’ll regret. Zanka is hot, and also way too drunk to be dealing with this right now. “‘Cause if you ain’t, shut up about shit you don’t know nothin’ about.”
“Oh, you got a mouth on you,” Dreads mocks him, jutting out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “What, you gonna call daddy to come beat me up?”
Zanka feels the anger bubble up inside him at the comment, hot and cloying as it courses through his veins—and decides he needs to go home, right now, or someone’s getting punched. “Fuck you. I’m leavin’.” Then he turns on his heel to march to the back door of August’s house.
“Yeah, call your limo, pretty boy!”
Okay. That’s enough.
Zanka turns back around, cocks his arm back, and decks the guy in the face. The alcohol makes Zanka’s body slow and uncoordinated, and instead of hitting its mark on Dreads’ cheekbone, his fist just glances off the side of his jaw. Still, seeing Dreads’ head snap to the side at the force of the hit makes Zanka feel much better than he did five seconds ago. He stumbles a bit, and Zanka shakes out his hand, relishing the triumphant ache in his knuckles.
Everything feels right for all of two seconds, until Dreads recovers and immediately tackles him to the ground, his arms slinging around Zanka’s torso to send them both tumbling onto the grass. Zanka’s world spins as the floor falls out from under him, everything blending into a blur of dark colors as he goes down hard—and there’s no time for him to catch his breath before Dreads is trying to climb on top of him.
Everything is still blurry, and people around them are yelling, but Zanka manages to get his bearings enough to roll to the side. He wheezes, frantically trying to pull in the air that Dreads knocked out of him.
While he tries—and fails—to catch his breath, a hand clamps hard around his ankle, and Zanka has a brief moment to be alarmed before it yanks, pulling him roughly across the lawn and consequently giving him a mouthful of grass (fuck, his sweater is going to be so dirty). Zanka turns around until his back is on the ground, putting his arms up on instinct to guard his face, and a flash of silver enters his vision before blunt pain radiates through the length of his forearm.
“Agh!” What the fuck. That punch hurt way more than it should’ve.
Through the gaps in his defense, Zanka sees Dreads pulling back to wind up for another hit, face twisted into a vicious smile as he pulls Zanka closer by the hand on his leg. Before he can get one in though, Zanka shoots his other leg out to catch him just beneath the ribs. The kick lands hard enough that Dreads lets out a pained grunt, doubling over and loosening his grip on Zanka’s ankle, and Zanka wriggles his leg out the rest of the way before kicking him again in the same spot.
This time, it sends Dreads sprawling to the side, his hair flipping into his face as he rolls onto his back. Zanka takes the opportunity to scramble up and seat himself on top of him, trapping Dreads down to the ground. His hands come up, and Zanka can see his nails are long, painted some dark color and sharpened to points threatening enough that Zanka doesn’t want them anywhere near his face. Dreads tries to claw at him with them, but Zanka just grabs his wrists and leans as far out of reach as he possibly can.
“You fuckin’—“ Zanka pins his hands down hard to the grass. “Stop it!”
And then Dreads starts laughing at him. Like this is funny.
“What?” Zanka asks, chest heaving with anger. “Fuck’s so funny? Huh?”
“Sorry, I didn’t know Mr. Trust Fund had hands like that,” Dreads responds, and then laughs harder: stupid, breathless little giggles that jostle Zanka from his place on top of him.
Zanka lets go of one of his hands to punch him right below his ribs again, and the giggling tapers off into an ugly sound as Dreads’ face scrunches up in pain. He thrashes, hips bucking up to try and dislodge him, but Zanka just rams his fist into the same spot, again and again, until he finally goes limp.
Zanka leans in close, and Dreads’ wide pink eyes track him the whole way down. “This ain’t a game,” he hisses, baring his teeth at the man below him. “Don’t ever say shit like that about me again, or I will lay you out—”
Dreads cuts him off with an amused huff, and Zanka can smell the weed on his breath—which makes sense, because this dude has gotta be high out of his fucking mind to be laughing like that. “You in classes for this? Your daddy pay someone to teach you—”
“Fuck you!” Zanka punches him in the same spot, again, and Dreads almost screams, the sound coming out like it’s been forcefully ripped up his throat. He’s not laughing anymore, and that smug look is gone from his face, his head lolling to the side limply.
Dreads’ eyes almost flutter shut, like he’s about to pass out. And that should be enough.
Zanka won, and Dreads is clearly done talking shit—Zanka’s pretty sure he couldn’t string a sentence together right now if he tried. But for some reason, it’s not. Zanka grabs him by the chin, wrenching his face back up; there’s something inside him that wants this man to see him, acknowledge him, to wallow in the loss as much as Zanka basks in the rough feeling of victory. “Look at me, you bitch—“
“Zanka!”
Zanka recognizes that voice. Riyo.
Just like that, everything around Zanka abruptly comes flooding back in: there’s a crowd gathered around him and Dreads, people clamoring and screaming while phone flashlights dance in and out of Zanka’s line of sight. Before he knows it, Zanka is getting hauled up by his armpits off of the guy and being tugged out of the fray.
He realizes that it’s Riyo who’s pulling him away, and his feet finally get with the program as he stumbles his way upright with her support. She’s talking his ear off, voice high and indignant, and what she’s saying is probably important but Zanka can’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears.
He looks back through the gap in the crowd, and Dreads is still starfished on the lawn,
the erratic rise and fall of his chest visible even from where Zanka’s standing. Someone leans down to check on him, but he waves them off. Then, his body begins to shake. With laughter.
Zanka’s vision swims. He shrugs Riyo’s hand off his shoulder.
She grabs him again, shaking him slightly, “Zanka, what the fuck? I turn around for, like, maybe ten seconds—“
“Don’t touch me.” He doesn’t really mean to snap at her, and he knows he’s being a dick, but the adrenaline is still coursing fresh through his veins—the sudden sobriety fucks with his head and makes it come out that way anyway. She lets him go, and Zanka storms the rest of the way inside by himself.