Archive of Our Own ^beta

Riyou’s been giving him a look lately. Eyebrows morphed into an s-curve and lips pursed into a thin line. Blatant judgement smeared across her wonky expression.

Follo liked to pretend he didn't know what the shifty eyes and arched brows were referring to. Pretended they didn't always get shot his way after interactions with a certain blue-eyed boy who seemed to orbit him as of late. Feigned ignorance as to why she could possibly be scrutinizing him. Follo had nothing to hide. He’d never done anything wrong or worthy of suspicion in his life.

Rule one of the Cleaners: never admit anything personal to Riyou, no matter how many scathing looks she sent your way. He's watched far too many innocent souls fall victim to her trap countless times. That girl was like an encyclopedia of embarrassing anecdotes, which she would gladly whip out at the most inconvenient of times. To humble you, to admonish you, to blackmail you into doing her chores. The moment you confessed some vital piece of information to her, she’d store it away to weaponize later.

Follo had yet to be caught in her scheme, and he wasn't planning to change that fact. Therefore, he had absolutely no clue what she could be looking at him like that for. In fact, he must be imagining things, and Riyou wasn't looking at him funny at all. Riyou wasn't looking at him to begin with. She wasn’t even there. He’d never met a girl named Riyou, actually. Who’s that?

Fake it till you make it, right?

And maybe the pretending was a little for himself, too, because the Zanka-shaped issue—not an issue in Riyou’s presence—had been growing unstable as of recent. The type of instability accompanied by stomach butterflies and rushing heartbeats. Just a little bit, though. Nothing too concerning, or anything.

And again, as far as he was concerned, when speaking to others (Riyou) the issue ceased to exist.

Follo was so fucked.

Follo had a lot of issues. Inferiority complex shaped issues, mostly, but a few others too. Most bothersome to him right now were the Zanka-shaped issues working their hardest to tie his stomach into knots.

Since the very first day he'd witnessed his brilliance in combat, Zanka captivated Follo’s attention. In the beginning, he classified it as simple admiration. An innocent fascination built out of respect for such a skilled, brave, and hard-working person. He admitted, somewhere in the recesses of his brain, tucked away where he could ignore it, that he found Zanka pretty. Beautiful, in both his striking appearance and bold personality.

And who could really blame him for being a bit attracted to one of his peers? He was still a teenager, after all.

Follo had known he was gay since before he even became aware of the word to describe it. The bittersweet outlines of a crush were familiar to him; the fluttering in his stomach and the constant needs and wants and yearning unearthed by traitorous feelings. When he looked at Zanka, on that first day and in the following weeks, none of those obvious signs revealed themselves to him, allowing Follo to settle into a false sense of security. A reality where a crush didn’t exist. Zanka remained an incredible person to him, even as he was humanized through their interactions, and Follo’s opinion of him may have increased but the desire for a connection beyond friendship didn’t. He figured it would stay that way.

Then he went and awakened as a giver, and everything Follo understood about himself and the world seemed to invert and regurgitate itself into unreadable sludge. Painted his world in colours he’d been unable to perceive before. And the instability he grappled with wasn’t reserved for just his identity as a new giver; he couldn’t stop thinking about Zanka.

That was over a month ago now, and Follo continued to find the issue of his jumbled feelings towards Zanka growing more complex as time passed. Never simpler, never easier to navigate.

But Follo knew what a crush felt like. And he could think of no other explanation for the way his chest squeezed every time the two of them met eyes. But the term he used to classify his feelings didn’t matter, because he didn’t plan to acknowledge in any meaningful way. Not to himself, not to Zanka, and especially not to anyone who would mention it to Riyou.

The feelings (not a crush) in itself were technically not an issue. Follo was experienced at waving away tricky emotions to handle at a later date, usually with minimal consequences—not counting the Rudo incident. He could daydream about tangling his fingers in ash-toned and brunette hair and maintain his usual, casual vibes during their interactions like normal. Because feelings were just feelings and they didn’t control his life.

The real issue at hand was how close he and Zanka were getting.

He didn't understand how their tenuous relationship (he didn't know what to call it—friends felt too casual, best friends too childish, and they definitely weren't more than friends) ended up evolving, but he could pinpoint the exact moment when the shift first started.

As a new giver, Follo got to train with Zanka, got to spar against him. He'd never been so excited over the prospect of getting beaten up before. Follo got to be the recipient of the burning passion and mock-fury in his focused gaze. Meeting his eyes felt as though he’d been pinned by the laser-sight on a sniper, a hunter revealing himself to his prey. Follo got to experience the intensity behind the swings he’d seen send other Cleaners flying in the past; got to be sent flying on his back himself. Got to let pain and heat singe through his back and his core, laid flat on his ass staring up at the sky. A sky soon punctured by the smirking face of his attacker, an open hand offering to assist him onto his feet again. And Follo would take it, every single time, calloused fingers wrapping around his own.

After the first two sessions, Follo would usher himself away with a beet-red face he blamed on the adrenaline and the pain. He'd rush off to his room, dunk his face in cold water, and replay the moments in his head over and over and over, again and again, until the giddy fuzz in his brain dissipated into a thin fog.

It had been a real issue at the time. He’d thought it was the worst of them.

And then the now-issue barrelled in to sweep him off his feet.

During the third session, just as Follo was getting ready to turn and scramble away, Zanka froze him in place with a slight glare.

“You treatin’ yer hands right?” he asked, leaving Follo dumbfounded.

“What?”

“Your hands,” he enunciated, some good-natured snark in his voice. “What’re ya’ doin’ to take care of ‘em?”

Follo had never considered the idea of his hands needing special care before. No one had brought it to his attention as a supporter, and he'd never overheard anything remotely similar discussed by other givers.

“Is that, uh, a thing I'm supposed to do?” he asked, glancing to the side in preemptive guilt. What he had to be guilty over, he’d yet to be made aware of. The unfortunate reality was this: if Zanka (or any of the givers, for that matter) presented expectations to him, no matter how negligible in importance they were, he would internalize the feeling of failure and inadequacy rising inside him. A nasty habit he was genuinely trying to get rid of, thanks to many long talks with Gris, but old habits died hard, and Follo couldn’t help stop the incessant shrieking of his inferiority complex.

Zanka sighed, head lolling back in exaggerated annoyance. “Yer one of those kind, huh. Should've known.”

Follo didn't know what those kind referred to, but before he had a chance to ask, Zanka had grabbed one of his hands and flipped it around so his knuckles faced the ground. He traced one of the lines down his palm with two fingers and that was the first time Follo realized how soft his skin was. A revelation that would haunt him for the foreseeable future—the rest of his life, probably.

“For givers like us, our hands are important. Without them, we can't use our vital instruments.” Zanka held Follo’s hand still in his grasp while he flipped over one of his own palms, holding it in the air next to his. “Ya’ gotta treat them with care, make sure they're in good form. Enjin n’ crew love to ignore it, but guess what?”

Follo was so distracted admiring the way his navy gloves cut a sharp curve out of his palm, he almost forgot to reply. He managed a mangled, inquisitive noise, and hoped the cause for his distraction wasn't terribly obvious.

“I'm the instructor for a reason,” he sounded smug, entirely confident, and Follo feared he might be smitten enough to believe him if he’d told him the sphere was actually a cube. “If ya’ wanna master your instrument, ya gotta think about the little details like this.”

And yes, Follo did want to master his vital instrument. He dreamed of being a giver for so long—a dream sparked by the stunning boy in front of him. If Zanka gave him advice, instructed him on an hour-long hand-care routine, he'd do his damnedest to follow it.

“Come with me,” he'd said.

The moment he fell in line after Zanka, trailing behind him as he led his way to the bathroom, he knew something was different. He’d pulled out a wicker basket full of skincare products to lecture Follo on, gave a serious demonstration of hand and wrist stretches to perform, and told him he should look into a wrist brace to wear at night. He commanded him to repeat the routine after every training session and mission, and to pay close attention to how his hands and wrists felt.

Follo, in an attempt to sustain his easy-going persona in the wake of earth-shattering nerves and flustered feelings he didn't want to address, had put on a kind smile and asked if Zanka wanted to join him for lunch.

And then he said yes.

Everything snowballed from there.

The next day, when Follo was catching his breath in the dirt courtyard, Zanka had given him a hesitant, questioning glance. Expecting something. Something from Follo. What, he couldn't be sure, but Follo took a chance and steeled his nerves to shoot the boy a grin. Shooing away the hiss of anxiety in his gut, he’d pushed off the ground and wandered over to him.

“Hand care, then lunch?” he'd offered, hoping the boy associated the high-pitched lilt in his voice with inquiry rather than nervousness.

Pleasant and soft like a warm spring day, a gentle curve formed on Zanka's lips. He turned fast, as though to hide his smile. Not fast enough; Follo had burned the visual into his brain, and it too would haunt him for ages.

Follo followed him, and that was the final nail in the coffin he didn't know he was building. A coffin formed by a shared self-care routine and lunch, the lid falling shut to lock them into a permanent routine for all future training days.

And somehow the routine had morphed into Follo and Zanka seeking out each other’s company every single afternoon, because their tolerance for each other’s presence reached higher than the border, and Follo thought he could sit around and watch paint dry for eight hours if he got to do it sitting next to Zanka.

Which led to the core of the issue—because while he could handle the fleeting touches and playful remarks, leaping into something more, as tempting as it sounded, felt like he was asking himself to jump into a bottomless pit. But hell, he craved more like crazy. And every time Zanka smiled or blushed or leaned into his space, Follo found himself inching a little closer to that crazy. One step closer to diving off the deep end.

A million unlabeled paths unfurled before him, but he suspected, even lacking direction, all roads would lead him back to Zanka.

The issue was issue-ing.

Two issues, actually, because the universe refused to give Follo a break, and two was obviously better than one.

Issue one: Zanka. Standard problems, though heightened into new territory at the moment. The boy had plopped his head into Follo’s lap, using his thighs as a pillow, eyes trained on the movie they were watching. The rest of his figure stretched out across the length of the couch, one ankle caught on the armrest while the other dangled off the edge. Follo had grown devastatingly familiar with the sight of his tousled hair and rumpled pajamas, yet it still triggered the churning in his gut that stung like yearning.

Issue two: Riyou. Also standard problems, but the key difference here was that usually Riyou gave him that particular funny look when he and Zanka were just hanging out. No abnormal activity, because they kept their clingy behaviour concealed behind closed doors. Now, having Zanka literally draped in his lap all relaxed and pliant like a cat, there was no way in hell she wasn’t going to say some nonsense.

If only Follo had refused Zanka when he asked him to join him in the common room. Both of them seemed determined to avoid prying eyes before, so he’s not sure why Zanka wanted to hang around here or why Follo even agreed. The room had been empty and, like a damn fool, Follo had thought to himself, this will be fine. Surely no meddling redheads would find their way in here and start looming around him as though they’re a hungry shark.

Oh, to be blissfully ignorant. At least he had a beautiful boy in his lap to comfort him as he moped.

He’d been casting sneaky glances at Zanka for the past twenty-some-odd minutes they’d sat here, taking in the slope of his nose and his cheeks and his jaw, of his long curling lashes and the roundness of his lips. It took a shameful amount of effort to tear his gaze away each time. Staring for too long might make Zanka uncomfortable if he noticed. Follo would much rather slam his hammer onto his foot than risk upsetting Zanka.

And, of course, with a certain scheming teenage girl in the room, he was trying not to be too obvious in his pathetic adoration.

She’d opened the door and paraded straight into the room. His head had swivelled up to stare at her, straining his jaw to prevent it from dropping. If Zanka was startled by her intrusion, he didn’t notice. He was too busy feeling mortified from the slow up-down Riyou scanned their closeness with. Her brow arched at a comical, arduous pace, forcing Follo to watch as her face morphed into that awful, suspicious taunt she loved to toss at him. After being caught in a deadlock for nearly ten whole seconds, she smiled, greeted Zanka and him, and moved into the space to start thumbing at the bookshelf.

The girl had lingered since then, humming on occasion as she looked at the rows of books. Every now and then, Follo would chance a peak in her direction, and not once did she fail to turn at the exact same time to give him the look. As though she could sense his movements. He felt like a caged animal, her presence burning a hole in the back of his head.

Follo might have to fight her the way he fought Rudo.

The weight on his legs shifted, and Follo turned to Zanka once more, wondering if he experienced the same form of torment from Riyou. Perhaps he’d grown accustomed to it from so many years working together. Maybe Follo just needed to build up a tolerance to her antics.

Whatever. Zanka acted as a sight for sore eyes anyway. The light from the TV cast a cool glow onto his skin, ice-blue shining in his hair. It was a blessing and a curse to hold him so close; his fingers so close to the silky strands framing his face. He wanted to reach out and brush them out of his face, feel the softness beneath his fingers, trace a thumb along his temples.

Not for the first time, Follo wished he had the skills necessary to draw. To capture the stunning portrait of the person who kept robbing him of air.

In the corner, Riyou giggled at something, and Follo’s face twitched. A mixture of irritation and worry.

Zanka must have spotted the movement from the corner of his eye, because his head lolled to the side to meet Follo’s eyes. The world faded into the background, a series of unimportant details in this moment. Zanka’s lips parted, and Follo copied the movement subconsciously. The boy’s eyes widened under his attention. Zanka sealed his lips shut, brows knitting together to form some form of silent complaint. He opened his mouth, as though to spit out a retort, to flaunt his uncaring demeanour in the presence of a spectator—because Follo knew he only accepted his affection in private. A fond smile tugged at his cheeks, and he saw whatever Zanka had planned to say vanish into thin air, replaced by an unreadable, bashful look. Pink-dusted cheeks burning up.

And Follo’s own face was burning too, but Zanka didn’t look away, so neither did he. Was he closer than he was before? The shimmering rectangles reflected in his eyes reminded him of the sun glinting off the sea. Follo swallowed. They were so close. Had he moved? His fingers twitched, inches from resting on Zanka’s scalp, and Follo inhaled autumn petrichor, and Follo thought he saw Zanka’s eyes flicker down on his face, and—

The door slammed. Follo snapped his torso upwards, plastering himself to the back of the couch. His throat felt dry. His lungs burned. He felt Zanka shift and roll back to face the TV, silent, and Follo didn’t dare be the first to speak. He nearly choked on his breath.

He refused to let his eyes wander to Zanka for the rest of the movie.

The memories of yesterday clung to him like static on a cold, dry day, a permanent tingling that prevented him from closing his eyes and letting sleep take him away to somewhere devoid of treacherous thoughts. The risk of wicked dreams remained present—the kind where blue eyes and two-toned hair cloud his vision, where tender hands trace along his skin and eyelashes flutter and cheeks tint pink and a pair of lips are so, so close to his own—but he considered those easier to handle. Dreams were just that; dreams. A figment of his imagination. Follo was intimately familiar with how bad his imagination craved Zanka. His imagination wasn’t reality, wasn’t made out of hopes and yearning based on real, tangible evidence of what could be, if he wasn’t such a coward. If Zanka liked him back in the same way.

A telltale knock at his window alerted him to Riyou’s presence. How she managed to clamber her way from her room, which was on the entire other side of the building, all the way to his, he didn't know. Visuals of her swinging around like a parkour video-game protagonist flashed in his brain, and honestly it seemed plausible for her. She was the cryptid of the Cleaners, in a sense. Always showing up when you least expected it, and with zero explanation.

Follo settled as naturally into his mattress as he could before the window clicked open, the grating slide of metal announcing her intrusion.

(He’s pretty sure the window was locked, but that would mean Riyou was capable of unlocking windows while hanging off the flat, exterior wall of a building, probably one-handed, and that was, frankly, a harrowing concept to think about, so he’d be choosing to believe the window wasn’t locked. Riyou was scary enough without the assistance of gravity-defying lock-picking powers.)

“Psst,” she whispers.

He hadn’t heard her approach—he never did when she snuck up on him. Follo kept his breathing steady, feigning sleep. The pitter-patter of his heart proclaimed mutiny as it leapt in his chest, trying to escape the confines of its ribcage-prison.

“I know you're awake,” she hissed in his ear, much closer sounding than before. Follo barely contained his instinct to flinch.

A part of him wanted to keep up the act, while the other wanted to get this whole interaction over with. He didn’t need to sit around and scratch his chin to know what she was going to bother him about. She was going to interrogate him seventeen different ways about Zanka, and Follo wasn’t having it. He’d interrogated himself seventeen different ways about Zanka already, and he hadn’t scrounged up an answer yet. If he didn’t know, she shouldn’t get to know either. Shouldn’t being the key word, because he knew, despite his best efforts, that she’d end up weaseling some tidbit of information out of him against his will tonight. So long as he could control what the piece was, it would be fine. Totally fine.

Accepting his fate, he figured he may as well play it off as casual as possible. The less she suspected him to be perturbed, the better. Follo faked a loud, dramatic snore, rolling over to face the wall. A sharp chorus of giggles resounded in his ears, and he struggled to contain a smile.

“C’mere, I brought you something.”

Follo sighed, rolling himself all the way back around to face her. He opened his eyes to search for her outline in the dark. The girl’s cheeky grin greeted him, and she unfurled a fist to drop a cherry flavoured hard candy on his pillow, right in front of his face.

A bribe; about as obvious as spilling red paint in the snow. Follo refused to latch onto the bait, but only fools said no to free candy, in his opinion, so he untwisted the wrapper and popped the sweet in his mouth.

“Thanks,” he said around the burst of cherry on his tongue.

“‘Course,” she said, and then her face turned sinister. “So, you and Zanka.”

Follo’s hummed, a tune of the most virtuous. “Yes, me and my friend Zanka.”

“You seem… close.” And there was that look again, with the curled brows and dubious frown. Or perhaps his mind played tricks on him, and no funny stares existed to begin with. Bathed in the shadows of the room, claims of plausible deniability worked wonders.

“Do we?”

After the event from the previous night, Follo had let his concerns run wild, winding paths across the surface of his brain, leaving footprints in the shape of fear across his grey matter. As much as he craved to interpret the flushed cheeks and roaming eyes as confirmation that yes, they were in fact about to kiss under the glow of a documentary (one Follo had paid so little attention to he failed to recall the topic of), knowing Zanka’s spiny exterior he worried cracks would begin to rupture their relationship.

(He’d debated the pros and cons of killing Riyou for her interruption a few times, but the sour truth was that hecouldn’t, because doing so would compromise his stance on there being no crush. So long as she was involved, Follo had no crush and last night was not a potentially-almost-kiss).

And then, earlier that evening, Zanka weaved through the crowds to claim his rightful station near Follo’s side at lunchtime. Grinned at him, all his teeth on display, and Follo realized he was a fool. A bumbling, lovestruck fool.

From the afternoon onwards, they'd stayed plastered to each other's sides. Dinner came and they hovered around each other then, too, buoyantly bickering over some meaningless topic Follo struggled to even remember. And when Zanka finished his food first he stayed seated, waiting there for Follo to finish his, and when they both got up to rinse their plates, elbows brushing, Zanka looked at him expectantly. Patience holding him close by, loyal as a dog, waiting for Follo to complete his task and lead the way. And the boy had followed him into the elevator, letting Follo push the button for his floor, making no move to push the one for his, and they didn't talk about yesterday. They’d never talked about any of the things between them.

Instead, Follo and Zanka had spent four hours tucked away in his room watching bad, low-budget movies until Zanka retired to his own room with a reluctant farewell and longing in his eyes.

Lost in reminiscing, Follo was startled back to reality by Riyou clearing her throat. ”Yes, close indeed. Almost… too close,” she said, leaning in closer, a devilish glint in her eyes. “When you two were hanging out last night, what were you doing?”

Not good.

Were he and Zanka doing anything particularly incriminating last night? Absolutely not. Watching movies was standard friend behaviour. But as per rule one of the Cleaners dictated, only fools admitted anything to Riyou, and if he didn’t choose his words carefully, he’d end up revealing some minute detail that’d end up unravelling his crush and laying his shameful truths bare in front of her.

He counted on the low light to hide the nervous twitch of his brow. “Oh, y'know. Hanging out. Watching movies. The way friends do.”

Follo didn't think the way his eyes lingered on Zanka's lips was very friend-like behaviour, but she didn't need to know that. He wouldn't have told her even if she didn't have the reputation of being a shit-stirring goblin. Follo’s gay thoughts were between him and the Watchman, thank you.

“The way friends do?”

“Have you never watched a movie with your friends?”

“I have watched plenty a movie with my friends, plural. Never for five hours straight, and not with just one person.”

Follo was pretty sure it had only been four hours, but now that he thinks about it, they did get through three entire movies last night. Had he really spent that long enamoured by Zanka’s company? How’d he not notice?

Well, he knew why, he just didn’t want to entertain any of those kinds of thoughts while being interrogated about his stupid little gay crush by the scariest girl he's ever met. A crush that didn’t exist, so long as she was present and asking about it. He’d never even heard of gay people before. Gay meant happy, and Follo was- well, if necessary, he might just blurt out that he’s depressed to throw her off his trail.

But would that be more suspicious? Fuck. Follo was starting to think he wasn’t cut out for this whole cunning deception thing.

“Your silence is telling, Follo,” she said, her tone laced with a sickly glee.

“Of what, exactly?”

“I know what you are.” Riyou wiggled her fingers on either side of her face in the same fashion as if she’d just told a ghost story. Follo snorted, despite him struggling to get a grip on his fraying, nonchalant facade.

“Is there a specific reason you’re so caught up on this?” Follo asked. A meek attempt at a deflection.

Riyou rolled her eyes. “Zanka will not shut up about you.”

Follo clenched his jaw and cracked the hard candy between his teeth, throat dry despite the distinct taste of cherry-sugar coating it.

That was… good? He thought? Riyou wouldn’t tell him that unless Zanka’s words were positive (she was scary, but she wasn’t mean), and judging from the theme of their conversation so far, the clues proved easy to slot together.

Zanka liked him. Like-liked him. And he spoke about how much he liked him to Riyou.

“He keeps going on and on about you and your hammer and your hair and your eyes and oh, Follo did this, Follo did that,” her voice dropped to a gruff imitation of Zanka near the end that sounded more like a chain-smoker than the boy. “It’s so obnoxious. You have to do something about it before I go insane.”

If Follo’s heart was trying to run away before, it was frantically trying to invent a teleportation device now, stampeding as fast as a stallion as he soaked in the new information.

While last night was certainly the most damning evidence he’d received so far, from the subtle yearning looks to the flushed smiles to the fond eyes, Follo had already known him and Zanka were creeping along a steady path into sappy, fluffy territory for a while. He’d been surprisingly content with the concept even without the distinct promise of reciprocated feelings in the future. Follo was just happy to steal more affection from him, see how far he could push before the younger boy got too flustered and pulled away. Once, Follo had worked up the courage to intertwine their fingers on the way to his room after lunch, and a blush spread so fast and so far down his neck and over his ears, Follo worried he might faint from the rush of blood and delirium.

And as much as Follo’s brain liked to convince him of the worst possible scenarios, it’d take a real dunce not to extrapolate the truth of what his reaction implied. And now that they’d had the, uh, incident from the night before, it was hard to come up with solid excuses for denial.

So, sure, Follo suspected Zanka liked him back, at least a little, but hearing Riyou pretty much confirm it? There was a non-zero chance he might go into cardiac arrest.

“He’s…” Follo swallowed, hard. He wasn’t even sure what to say.

“He’s gay? Yes. He’s in love with you? Also yes,” Riyou spoke so casually, like she hadn’t just upended Follo’s entire world. Scooped him out of the denial filled waters he lived in and tossed him onto dry land to choke on the reality that Zanka liked him and-

Hang on–did she say love?

“How do you know this?” His voice was foreign to his own ears, rattled and quivering.

“Because he’s basically my brother, and he’s terrible at hiding things from me. And I’m sick of listening to my basically-brother talk about how pretty you are, so get your shit together, m’kay?”

Riyou casted a blithesome look at him, shot him a thumbs up, and then she was prancing across the room back to the window and slipping off into the night. Leaving Follo alone to process and dissect everything she’d said, and try to get a handle on his damn emotions.

Tomorrow was going to be a very long, tiring day.

The heat from the high-noon sun won the race to wake Follo from his poor-quality slumber. His body welcomed him to the waking world through a sore neck and a throbbing ache in his temples. His first instincts told him to roll over and shut his eyes, to ignore the shape of Riyou in his recent memory.

Riyou. The talk. Zanka.

He’s in love with you.

Follo jerked out of bed, stumbling over the sheets wrapped around his ankles. Avoiding a fall flat on his face first thing in the morning, he scrambled into the bathroom, flipping on the lightswitch, and fisted his fingers in his hair. The Follo in the mirror looked like the type of shady guy hanging around a convenience store way past midnight that people definitely wanted to avoid. Matted hair and bloodshot eyes. His dark circles did a fine job reflecting his sour mood outward.

Wheezing out a sigh, Follo washed his face under the coldest temperature available and stepped out of the bathroom to catch the time. 12:41PM, the digital clock informed him. A good forty minutes past the usual lunch rush. Twenty minutes before Follo and Zanka typically convened for their shared meal.

Blood pounded in his ears. The familiar itch of anxiety settled beneath his skin, nestled deep enough to where his nails couldn’t scratch at it.

Follo didn’t have a plan. He’d spent what must’ve been six hours tossing and turning last night, contemplating how he should approach Zanka. If he should approach Zanka at all. Approaching Zanka about the crush meant the crush was real. It meant that Riyou’s suspicions were correct, and Follo would be admitting defeat to her. A defeat she’d dangle over his head till the day he died.

Buried beneath the denial and the fear and the desire, the truth of his hesitation existed in a far simpler state than any complicated, self-sabotaging ideals.

Follo didn’t know what to say.

Excelling in casual pleasantries came to him as easy as breathing. Covering up the tracks of his poor self esteem was just like sweeping away some stray piles of lint. Standard, friendly social interactions were a natural part of him, fitting comfortably around his shoulders. He could shoulder the uncomfortable apologies. He didn’t avoid the tough talks with Gris.

Confessing to Zanka wasn’t an everyday chat. It was nothing like difficult conversations and arguments and teary-eyed heart-to-hearts.

What he told him needed to be special. Or it needed to be surrounded by sentimental value.

A sudden epiphany popped into his mind. Actions speak louder than words, he remembered Gris saying once. If Follo couldn’t think of anything worth saying, maybe he just needed to think of something worth doing. Like treating Zanka to a nice lunch, and an afternoon date, and hoping his doting and thoughtful actions would get the point of ‘hey we should actually retry that near-kiss thing and be successful this time’ across.

He raced to his closet to get dressed into a nice outfit.

Follo had five minutes to spare as he raced out the half-open elevator doors, clipping his shoulder against them. Massive strides led him down to the entrance foyer of Headquarters, where a familiar head of blonde coils sat at her desk. Follo tripped over his own feet and slammed his hands into the desk to stop his rocketing momentum in front of her.

The woman’s stoic demeanor didn’t change. She merely flicked her eyes up at him from her magazine. “Yes, Follo?”

“Do you know of any-” he cut off with a wheeze. “Any, uh, places like the Wonderhouse around here?”

The Wonderhouse was an old, interactive arthouse from up in the North ward. Its name was known across the wards, being one of those rare tourist attractions that locals also frequented. A place he visited many times as a child, all the way through his teenage years, and never got sick of it thanks to the rotating exhibits.

Follo reminisced about the place with a tender nostalgia now, so far out of reach. He’d been with the cleaners for a few years, but hadn’t obtained the opportunity to explore the nearby cities. Too many busy jobs and not enough similar-aged peers he felt he could freely go on excursions with.

In a perfect world, he’d pull Zanka through the halls of the Wonderhouse and tell him all his embarrassing childhood stories there. A literal walk down memory lane, laying a trail of his past and his experiences bare for Zanka to pick up after him, if he wished to. Allowing him to hold the parts of Follo he struggled to share with anyone else.

It wouldn’t be possible now; the North ward too far, and a day trip too impractical. Which meant he needed help finding the next best thing, and Semiu seemed to be the most reliable source of knowledge around.

(Also the least likely to snitch.)

The woman’s face brightened a measly amount in interest. “Not exactly the same, but if you’re looking for a similar sort of experience, there may be a few. What’s it for?”

Follo stammered. He hadn’t thought up a good lie, yet.

“A birthday?” he tried.

Semiu gave him a dead-eyed, incredulous look. “It’s no one's birthday today. It won’t be tomorrow, or for the rest of the week. So why are you in such a rush?"

“Um. Training?”

“You don’t have training scheduled today, and what would training have to do with it?”

Follo did his best imitation of a perplexed fish, jaw opening and closing repeatedly, and shrugged. “Ah, y’know…” He really needed to practice the whole playing it cool thing.

Semiu clicked her tongue. “Just tell me who you’re trying to impress, Follo.”

Follo tossed his head into his hands. In his haste to formulate a plan, he’d forgotten about the awful, all-knowing aura she possessed, and how willing she was to weaponize it against others. Maybe it would’ve been better to go to Gris instead; he might have tried to give him a shovel talk when he realized his motivations, but at least he’d spare Follo the closest equivalent experience he’ll ever get to a cadet having their performance judged by their commander general.

“...Zanka.”

She hummed. “I see. I suppose I should’ve guessed that.” Follo grimaced, and thanked his former panic for covering his face so the woman didn’t see his plight. “If I had to guess, Zanka would most likely enjoy the Enchantarium Mechanical Gardens. It’s near Canvas Town.”

Setting down her magazine (Follo made a point not to notice the almost naked pinup models on the interior pages), she opened a drawer on her desk and thumbed through a few pamphlets, selecting a green-edged one and presenting it to him. He took it from her, swiping his fingers over the smooth, shiny paper. A stunning photograph of a metallic garden under the golden sun covered the front page.

“About a thirty minute drive. The location is on the backside,” she said, and then picked up her magazine to continue reading.

Follo smiled at her even though she couldn’t see. “Thank you so much, I really owe you one, Semiu.”

Next stop, find Zanka before Follo missed him.

Lounging at a slant, shoulder pressed into the wall to support his upper body, Zanka blocked the way to the dining hall. He had his back facing the entrance, head slowly turning left and right, as if searching for something in the room.

Follo smiled, his heartbeat fluttering in his chest.

Walking up behind the other boy, he leaned around him and tapped him on the shoulder. Zanka startled, shoulders lurching upwards. He spun to face Follo, and Follo had to lean back so they didn’t smack into each other.

“Woah, sorry.” Follo offered an apologetic grin. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Greedy eyes took in his navy button-up shirt and honey-brown joggers, the thick jacket hanging off of him. He narrowed his eyes at Follo, and it did little to help distract from the flush forming on his own face at being given a shameless once-over

“What’re you dressed up for?”

“Ah, actually, I was going to ask you,” Follo cut himself off, inhaling sharply. He cursed himself for failing to think this far ahead in his internal planning. “I know we, uh, usually just eat lunch here, but I was thinking of going elsewhere, and maybe you wanted to come with?”

Definitely not the most eloquent way to ask someone on a not-date.

Zanka gave another meticulous glance to his outfit, cleared his throat pointedly, and nodded. “Sure.” As he finished speaking he furrowed his brow in a glare, as though trying to distract from the rosy tint overtaking his cheeks. “As long as you’re paying.”

Follo chuckled. “Of course, my treat.” He pointedly did not notice the casual clothes Zanka wore, loose navy haori making an unintentional pairing next to Follo’s own indigo button-up. Like they’d coordinated outfits for this day; the way sappy, PDA-obsessed couples did.

He bit his tongue to prevent his face from betraying him and forming into an awful, giddy expression.

“Great,” Follo said, aware of how unreasonably breathless he sounded. He prayed he didn’t look like he’d run a marathon before he got here; he kind of had, from the speed at which he’d run from his room to Semiu’s desk to here. “Let’s go.”

Follo weaved his way though the halls to the garage doors, Zanka trailing after him.

“So, ya’ gonna tell what type of place you’re draggin’ me to?” Zanka asked.

“You like udon, right?” Follo spotted a spark of interest light up in Zanka, as if intrigued. He schooled his face quickly, but not before a trace of surprise graced his features.

“I guess,” Zanka muttered. Feigned indifference that failed to persuade Follo every time.

“I remembered you saying it once, I think.” Follo knew he’d said it once; he could recall the exact day after training he’d said it to him, a tidbit of information Follo made sure to tuck away for safe keeping. A choice proven useful for him today.

Entering the storeroom connecting to the garage, Follo picked up a spare set of keys from the many rings hanging off a rack before the door. He gave a quick glance at the number, then the chart of vehicles on the wall; confirming the one he’d selected keys for wasn’t booked out for later that day.

“You know how to drive?” Zanka asked.

“Yeah,” Follo laughed at his doubtful expression. “All supporters get taught when they’re old enough, just in case the other drivers get injured or something. I promise I know what I’m doing.”

Follo led him to one of the vehicles. He unlocked the passenger side door for Zanka, then circled around to the driver’s seat. Hopping into the jeep, Follo twisted the keys in the ignition, the engine sputtering awake. He glanced at Zanka as he released the emergency break, catching the boy studying his movements attentively. As their eyes met, Zanka snapped his head forward, his throat bobbing.

A sudden sense of confidence flooded Follo. Maybe he could do this after all.

Follo survived lunch with minimal issues (thinking about his all-consuming crush on Zanka) and mishaps (thinking about how badly he wanted to kiss Zanka). He spent a normal amount of time thinking about grabbing his hand over the centre console on the drive towards Canvas Town.

It took about three minutes for Zanka to finally question why they weren’t headed back.

“Are you kidnappin’ me?”

“I think you’re too old for it to count as kidnapping anymore,” Follo said.

“So you are kidnappin’ me.”

Follo laughed. “It’ll be fun, I promise,” he said, and shot a quick glance at Zanka. The boy slumped in his seat, acting annoyed by the change of plans.

“Jerk,” he said, though no real malice lived in his voice.

Follo steered left at a corner and crested over the top of a hill, and as they began their descent he spotted the brown mound of soil signifying their destination on the horizon.

Enchantarium Mechanical Gardens was tucked within the excavated walls of a manmade hollow. From the outside, it appeared to be a mound of compacted earth and debris packed into thin grooves, loosely resembling tree trunks. The road leading into the compound cut a shallow slope down into the hollow, and the moment Follo drove past the threshold into the dimly lit room, the two boys were assaulted by iridescent shades of green.

“Woah,” Follo said, slowing far more than necessary to take in their surroundings.

While the entrance led any unknowing passersby to assume the hill was just another dirt-covered town, the first passage acted like a gateway to a new dimension. A vast, dome-like room arched over the passageway, ceiling painted in abstract depictions of a jungle, reminiscent of Tori.

“What is this place?” Zanka wondered aloud.

“Enchantarium Mechanical Gardens. Semiu told me about it,” he said, not bothering to try and obscure the truth. “Apparently it’s some mix of an art gallery and museum. I thought it might be fun to go see it.”

Rolling past a strip of metal scraps stuck into the ground to look like plants, Follo backed the jeep into a parking space. Very few cars populated the lot, allowing him to pick a spot near the main entrance. He waited for Zanka to begin unbuckling before hopping out, locking his door before he shut it and tucking his keys into his jacket.

Falling in step beside each other, Follo returned to admiring the painted mural overhead. The expanse above was a blurry skyscape, as though painted with broad strokes from a spray canister. White cloudy shapes swirled through the blue, bending and forming an indirect guide towards the ticket booth. The two of them followed it to the main entryway, approaching a glass-guarded counter, the front of the desk plastered in so many stickers it was impossible to tell what the material underneath it was.

“Hello young fellows,” said a jovial man behind the counter. Through the scratched, foggy shield, Follo could see a pair of thick-rimmed, circular glasses above his curly moustache. “Two adult tickets, yes?”

Follo nodded. A small laminated plaque hung off to the side of the glass, listing each of the ticket prices. He’d read them already in the pamphlet Semiu gave him, so he was prepared when the man listed out the price, fishing around in his wallet for a stack of bills to hand him.

The man thanked him and turned away for a moment, allowing Follo to switch his attention back to Zanka while they waited for their tickets. The boy appeared to be scanning the information sheet above the price listings with interest.

Everything seemed to be going well so far. Fingers crossed, the ship containing their not-date would continue to stay smooth sailing, with waters remaining perfectly smooth as Zanka enjoyed his time here.

And somehow, Follo would defeat his nerves in combat and successfully address the elephant in the room.

“Here you go,” the attendant said, and Follo jumped a little, accepting the tickets with a sheepish smile and bow. Zanka snorted next to him. Follo tapped him on the ankle with his foot—far too gently to classify as a kick, though done with the same intent.

“You can enter through the doors on the right, and grab a map in the first room if you’d like. The gardens are a large loop, so everything will lead back to the start eventually if you choose to veer off-course.” The man offered a bright smile. “Enjoy yourselves!”

“Thank you,” Follo said to the attendant, handing one of the tickets to Zanka for safekeeping.

Follo pushed through the main door, a much taller version of saloon-style doors, into the first room. He held it open for Zanka, keeping a close eye on his enraptured expression.

The inside of the Mechanical Gardens began in a spacious, lobby-style room. Shaped into a shallow dome, every inch of the interior surfaces were covered in paint. An abstract mural depicting a rainbow landscape. Mountains made of simple, geometric waves were layered over by detailed illustrations of ferns and leaves, flower petals depicted with neon paint splattered in big globs over loosely drawn stems. Each element brought a different artistic style to the piece, creating a high-contrast piece, kept cohesive through its flowing composition and bright colour palette.

Follo’s head swiveled in each direction to take in the sight. Zanka stepped through the space, movements sluggish to appreciate the art.

“This must've taken forever to create,” Follo muttered. No one else was in the room with them, other attendees presumably all further inside. Granting them unspoken permission to analyze their surroundings at a leisurely pace.

Noticing a paper stand near the edge of the room, Follo walked over and picked up one of the maps off of it. Next to the stand, a small metal plaque proudly displayed a short text:

This room was made in a collaboration between each artist who participated in creating an exhibit in the Enchantarium Mechanical Gardens. It combines the imagination of each of our ideals together, in the same way nature comes together to create beauty even amongst trash. Here in the Enchantarium, visitors will find not only art and imagination, but landscapes inspired by records of ancient natural history.

Back in his youth, Follo remembered being fascinated by the scientific nature of the Wonderhouse. He had an appreciation for the arts elements too, but he never quite understood them. Places like Canvas Town, where creativity was protected and cherished, didn’t really exist on his radar. Even when he initially moved out to the East Ward and visited Canvas Town, he didn’t really get it.

After having dedicated himself to a vital instrument and cultivating it to awakening, though, he thought he might be understanding the mindset behind an artist.

“It’s incredible,” Zanka said, close to Follo’s ear. He turned his head and Zanka’s shoulders were hunched over to read the plaque as well. “I read the sign out front, and most of these people weren’t givers at all. Had to have taken years to make this.”

Follo blew air out of his parted lips, impressed—both with the Enchantarium itself and the fact that Semiu had knocked it out of the ball park with her suggestion. Follo didn’t think Zanka to be a particularly artsy person, but he could certainly appreciate the work ethic and dedication of an artist. And honestly, Follo had a hard time believing anyone could dislike places like this and the Wonderhouse.

He offered the map to Zanka. “Want to lead the way?” he asked.

Zanka took the map from him and unfolded the pamphlet once so he could see the full loop they’d be travelling. His pupils flitted across the page, lips parting to silently mouth the syllables of the places they’d be visiting.

It was at this point Follo realized an important factor he'd forgotten to consider: how difficult breathing became when he saw Zanka get fully absorbed in a topic. The steady focus he embodied, as if possessed by its will—the intensity left Follo in awe.

“Let's start from the left,” Zanka said after finishing his reading. Follo nodded, not quite meeting his eyes, and trailed a bit further behind him as he led the way through the left door into the Enchantarium, so he didn't get caught staring.

He was seriously counting on the place acting as a worthy distraction from his torturous thoughts.

They only needed to walk a few paces to reach the first exhibit. A smooth, cement pathway scuffed from use over the years guided them down the trail, matching the 2D illustration on the map. They passed through a beaded curtain, an erratic pattern of red and blue beads strung in place, and as Follo passed through he felt as though he'd entered a portal to a new dimension.

High ceilings drenched in cerulean created a summery backdrop for the six mechanical birds floating from strings in the air, three on either side of the thin walkway cutting through the exhibit. Black beads formed the eyes in the sides of their copper heads, orange near the beak and oxidized teal near the back of the head, stuck out on elongated necks. The wings were composed of feathers made of thin, copper strips, miniature triangles clipped out of the edges near each end to mimic the appearance of vane splits. The gears in the wings shrieked and whirred as they rotated the animatronic wings on a single axis, imitating flight. Raised up to knee-height and contained by a clear, plastic wall, piles of verdant glass shards laid a bed of imitation grass beneath the birds.

“No written records of the names of these types of birds exist, but old anthropological findings depict a common species of bird with teal heads and brown bodies who floated atop large bodies of water,” Zanka read from the plaque describing the scene.

Follo didn't know enough about birds to debate the likelihood of these birds having existed, but he did know they were fascinating to look at.

He tilted at the waist to whisper to Zanka. “You think the mechanism controlling the wings ever breaks?”

“I'd be shocked if they hadn't,” Zanka said.

Zanka stepped closer to the barrier to observe the winged sculptures. Follo followed him, stealing quick glimpses at his curious face. Each time it got increasingly more difficult to look away, his presence tugging at him like a magnetic force.

He had no idea how long he'd been staring, but it had to be longer than any social norms deemed acceptable, at least for friends. Two blue shapes separate from the artwork entered his vision, blinking at him. Follo startled, taking a timid step away from Zanka.

“C’mon,” Zanka said, and Follo nodded.

Keep it together, Follo, he repeated as a mantra in his head. The crush was a minor detail that didn't need to make an appearance until later. So long as he maintained his cool until the big moment, nothing could ruin his plans.

Follo cut off that train of thought before it could ram right into the station of endless possibility and panic.

They passed through two more exhibits, one full of trees covered in pink, plastic-bag petals Zanka recognized from old records in the Hell Guard, and another covered in twisting branches carved from marble, claiming to be inspired by an extinct tree species referred to as birch. Follo let Zanka read each plaque aloud to him, letting Follo indulge in the opportunity to hear his low, crooning narration for longer.

If his eyes also meandered over to Zanka to study his image in each room's lighting, to memorize the shape of him in each and every setting as though he were the art piece himself, no one had to know.

Follo really wished he’d brought a camera.

Through an open archway, brilliant magentas and purples greeted them. Follo stood back to watch Zanka enter first, his figure bathed in an iridescent glow, like a magical aura had been cast upon him. Zanka’s face brightened in amazement, and he snapped his head to Follo, waving him over in a frantic manner.

“Get in here,” Zanka hissed, voice low so as to not disturb the couple and their children roaming about ahead of them. Follo huffed a short laugh and approached him.

And his jaw dropped the moment he processed his surroundings.

The violet lighting has been produced by the reflections of the cut gemstones in the shape of massive floral sculptures. Devoid of curves, the flowers appeared to have been created by carefully slicing away chunks of mineral to form zigzagging stems. The largest flower was a five-petaled beast. It curled over the railing segmenting it from the walkway and loomed overhead. In the centre, the formation of amethyst chunks remained in its original, natural state, while the petals that outstretched from the middle were shaped by hundreds—probably thousands—of individually carved lines to form an angular curve outward.

He treaded over to stand beneath the bowing crystalline artistry. Curtained by the great structure, Follo admired it in earnest. The reflective, slightly transparent quality of the gemstone casted an illuminant violet light down on him, as though he’d entered the path of rays from a purple sun.

Zanka came up beside him, their arms brushing as he stationed himself by Follo’s side.

“You look like a walking grape,” Zanka said, yanking a boisterous laugh out of Follo. He knocked their shoulders together.

“You do too, you know.”

The actual overhead lighting had been tinted purple from the source, and in combination with the amethyst refracting beams in every direction, both their bodies were cocooned in a lavender sheen.

“I think I’m more purple cabbage. Much more sophisticated than a grape,” Zanka joked.

Follo shook his head, warm smile hurting his own cheeks. In matters of taste, Zanka was always right, and he’d be an outright liar and a moron to try and deny the claim. No matter the backdrop, Zanka managed to fit right in as the radiant centrepiece.

“I can’t believe I’d never heard about this place,” Follo muttered.

“Me neither,” Zanka said, his weight leaning more into Follo. “It’s like we're in a different world.”

Follo hummed his agreement. Here, surrounded by radiant lights and miraculous landscapes beyond his wildest imaginations, he could almost forget the existence of all his troubles; the trash beasts, the raiders, the meddlesome girl who wouldn’t stop sticking her nose in his business. Here, Zanka and him were just two people standing together, a budding connection between them. Here, Follo could imagine himself dragging Zanka close and confessing all his feelings; he could imagine those feelings being returned in earnest.

Follo shook his head. It wouldn’t do to get worked up over potential rejection and failure now. All he had to do was wait for the right opportunity to present itself to him, and not hesitate to seize the moment.

Easier said than done, but that was a problem for future Follo.

Moving forward, the path began to slope upwards as they entered a tunnel flooded by shadows, acting as a transition zone to the next exhibit. Housed inside, a collection of spindly, tall, fluorescent teal mushrooms illuminated their path. Some wore frills on their stalks like necklaces, while others showed off thick, smooth stems sans accessories. Dozens of fungi lined the slow ascent upwards, leading towards a white glow at the end of the tunnel.

In the moody atmosphere, dipped in the cyan phosphorescence, Zanka resembled a celestial body. Ethereal in nature; Follo’s very own polaris.

Heat burst forth in a rampant flush over Follo’s face. Follo bit his own tongue to stop himself from spluttering, shocked by his own inner monologue. He knew he was terribly head-over-heels for the boy, but seriously? Comparing him to the literal north star? This whole not-date thing was turning him into a fool. A blushing, stumbling, lovesick fool.

And when his brain asked himself, “was that really such a bad thing?”, Follo grasped for an excuse and only clutched the air.

He rushed forward and walked a few feet ahead of Zanka through the rest of the area. The blue lights might help hide his red face, but if he kept looking at Zanka while he was standing around like the moon reincarnated, he may very well go mad.

He clearly already was, judging by the crazy metaphors.

They emerged out of the tunnel onto a scuffed balcony overlooking a cardboard grotto. A beam of ivory light, the kind reminiscent of a winter’s day up north, descended from a central, circular light into the space below; as if a hole had been dug up through the ceiling to provide entrance for actual daylight. Forming a spotlight over an island made of ruddy clay, a single tin sapling, branches formed into spirals, lived in the centre. Watery waves formed by overlapping blue tarps lapped at the island’s shore. Bent pieces of scavenged cardboard covered in tape formed the cave walls, spray painted dark-grey tones with flecks of lighter greys splattered across in a stony fashion.

Zanka pulled ahead of Follo, leaning against the iron railing to peer down at the imitation spring. The gentle, frosted glow from the off-white lighting cowled him, creating a snowy halo. Follo stopped in his tracks, frozen by his infatuation, and the quiet hiss of urgency whispered in the back of his head.

Now. He had to say it now.

He scrounged through the heart-shaped boxes in his head for words to tell this brilliant soul how much he meant to him. How his life would be dreary and devoid of real substance if it weren’t for him. Dozens of sappy anecdotes and shy compliments overflowed from the boxes seams, but none of them felt like enough.

Zanka peered back at Follo, a dainty smile and joy-crinkled eyes revealed to him. The expression swung a sword through any remaining shields of doubt Follo still carried, slicing them clean in half. He allowed them to fall between his fingers and crumble away, steeling himself.

Forget the sweet-nothings; he already knew the punchline, he might as well jump to it.

“Can I–”

As the words started to leave his mouth, the world seemed to evaporate into dust, a cavernous void swallowing him whole as they stood in the scrap-craft grotto. Whether or not they had any spectators, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care. Right now, Zanka remained the only permanent fixture in his reality. And though his face ran hot and his heart ran fast and his lungs struggled to keep up with his demands for air, he continued.

“Can I kiss you?”

Zanka’s eyes widened, mouth dropping open and eyebrows pivoting to an upward slant. For what seemed to be an egregiously long expanse of time, Zanka remained unmoving, staring wide-eyed at Follo in shock thick enough to grasp.

Fuck. Fuck. Zanka didn’t know this was a date—Follo hadn’t told him. Which was the point, but now that he’s floundering in front of the boy’s dumbstruck expression, it occurred to him Zanka might have taken the day at face value. Never giving a brief consideration to any of Follo’s underlying intentions. The other boy might’ve thought they were on a friendly outing, because that’s what they were—friends. But apparently Follo embodied the spirit of his hammer even with it absent, and he just had to rush in and pulverize the friendly atmosphere they’d been existing in.

“Sorry- I don’t know what, er, why I–If you want, you can forget about–”

Crossing the distance between them in quick strides, Zanka fisted a hand into the collar of his shirt and yanked him forward. Follo stumbled over his own feet. He tried to shift backwards, but Zanka held him tight and tugged him closer and then–

Oh.

Up close, a beautiful red blossomed over Zanka’s skin, his features scrunched in frazzled annoyance. Undeniably flustered.

“Shut up,” he snapped.

Follo barely got a chance to close his eyes in time for Zanka’s mouth to meet his own. Every sensation seemed dull in comparison to the supple pressure of the kiss, lips sliding together to form a perfect seal. As though the pairs were molded to fit together; fated to join each other. And with a pleasant rush dancing through his veins and a fuzzy glee in his mind from the fact he was kissing Zanka, Follo truly believed this was how they were always meant to be.

Follo settled his hands on the small of Zanka’s back. He kept his touch light, still uncertain despite Zanka’s tight grip on his shirt. When they parted for air, Follo hovered close, greedy to be in Zanka’s space. To examine his dazed countenance, to feel his panting breath graze his skin.

Zanka’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Follo studied the movement without shame. As embarrassing as it was, hiding his ardent stares no longer served much of a purpose.

“So this was a date,” Zanka said.

A nervous laugh tumbled its way out of Follo’s mouth, surprising himself. “I, uh, sort of?” he offered.

Zanka huffed, the hand in Follo’s shirt relaxing to rest against his shirt collar. “Dork. You could've asked me like a normal person,” quieter, he added, “I would've said yes.”

“You wouldn't have run away?”

“No, dumbass. I think you're projecting.”

Follo pouted at him. Zanka rolled his eyes, but leaned forward to press a quick peck to his lips. He slid both hands around Follo’s neck.

“That feels like an unfair way to win an argument,” Follo mumbled.

“Would ya’ rather I stop?”

Follo blinked. “Uh, no?”

Zanka cackled at his sulky tone. Follo’s heart hadn’t received the memo the confession was over yet, and continued to pick up speed.

“But did you like it?” Follo asked. “I wanted to… I didn’t really know what to say, and we already hang out all the time, so doing something seemed like…” Follo pursed his lips, looking for the words.

Zanka flicked his chin, causing Follo to yank his head back like a turtle entering its shell. “You coulda asked me a little sooner, but yeah.” Fondness softened Zanka’s expression. “You gotta stop overthinking things. It was perfect.”

Follo dragged Zanka in closer for another kiss, smiling against his mouth. Zanka twisted a hand around to shove Follo away, eyebrows furrowed.

“I still need to read the damn plaque for this one, asshole.”

And there was his typical Zanka, saying one too many sincere words and having to revert back to his humble abode of stubborn insults and denial. As if baring his heart to the world for too long would cause the Watchman to anger and he’d be struck down where he stood.

Follo adored him; he wouldn’t dare change a single thing about his querulous persona.

There was a Zanka-shaped hovel in his chest overflowing with affection, and finally he had a place to direct it.

Follo walked over to the edge of the railing beside Zanka and linked their hands together. Squeezing his palm in his grasp, Follo let Zanka finish reading and then lead the way to the next exhibit, resolving to keep their hands interlocked for the rest of their visit.

Back at the Cleaners Headquarters, Zanka dragged Follo in for another kiss before they left the jeep. Follo stared after him like a lovestruck fool as he opened the door and got out; Follo supposed he was okay with playing the swooning romantic interest, at this point. Head in the clouds, his feet carried him after Zanka towards the door. He felt the way an excited puppy must while following its owner in the hopes of being fed another treat.

Thank the stars Zanka was just as much of a fool as he was; the boy nearly tripped over his own feet when he looked back and witnessed Follo’s dopey smile. Any form of teasing he could throw at Zanka would fall flat, since he was just as guilty of having all his common sense inhibited by a silly, reciprocated crush himself. Didn’t stop him from giggling, though. Zanka waited for him to get close enough and then whacked him in retaliation, a playful swat against his arm. Follo only laughed harder, and Zanka shoved him before he locked their elbows together as they headed inside.

The two got halfway down the hallway when impending doom appeared at the end of the corridor. His mortal enemy had arrived, a girl who shared the name of the literal grim reaper; Riyou.

“Hey boys,” she said, waltzing up to them. “Where ya’ been?”

“Lunch,” Follo said, trying to keep his voice casual. He felt Zanka tense beside him, and was oddly relieved to know he wasn’t the only one fearing for his dignity right now.

“Oh, just the two of you?” Her face morphed into that damn look again. “Alone?”

Follo opened his mouth to reply and–

“I’m going to kill you,” Zanka hissed at her. He unraveled himself from Follo as the girl shrieked, spinning on her heels to bolt down the hallway. Zanka barreled down the hall after her, spitting profanities at his prey as he went.

A crackling noise came from Follo’s choker.

“Hey, Follo, heard you got back! How’d the date go?” Gris’ voice warbled through the device.

Follo sighed. “Good, thanks,” he replied, despite his better judgement.

So much for keeping things under wraps. Apparently Riyou had done them the service of spreading the news. He didn’t know how she found out, and frankly, he didn’t want to know. He would consider this a beacon in the dark, because he had a feeling far worse things were coming his way.

Follo suspected he would be receiving four different shovel talks minimum. Enjin would be the most crude; Gris would try to keep his speech disturbingly PG; Semiu would hand him medical brochures; Bro would tell him all about the birds and the bees. Maybe if he was lucky, Tomme would step in and corral everyone into streamlining their information so he didn’t have to deal with them rehashing uncomfortable facts he didn’t want to hear in the first place—he could only dream.

The real question on his mind was who all she’d told, because there was also the non-zero chance she would tell everyone they had an announcement and then leave him and Zanka to stumble their way through informing everyone they were dating.

He wasn’t really worried about getting any bad reactions—the Cleaners were all very supportive folks—though it’d certainly be awkward. But Rudo… Did Rudo even know what a gay person was? Did Follo have to come out to him, explain queerness, and break the news he was dating a member of Team Akuta all at once? The kid looked up to Zanka so much, trying to explain the whole situation to him felt like a nightmare.

Follo thought a headache might be creeping along his brow.

Well, at the very least, he had a wonderful boyfriend as a consolation prize for the storm he was about to be forced into the eye of.